The Ukraine war (recent events and analysis)

It's difficult to see through the propaganda, on both sides. I remember one analyst (among the myriad armchair 'generals' that have sprung to life since the start of this conflict, just like the myriad 'experts' on virology and epidemiology [commentators] that seemed to spring up at the start of the neo-plague pandemic) did actually say something quite important: that no one really knows what's going on on the ground in Ukraine. Even journalists on the front line only get a glimpse, quite often of the aftermath of the conflict, and very few of them actually speak Ukrainian. In any case, news trickles through. I have been following the events closely, and there are a couple of points which are noteworthy of comment.

Just over four days ago, it was alleged that a Russian driving a tank ran over his commander after the Russians took heavy losses. Equally, the source was anecdotal, a FaceBook post, and partisan, from the Ukrainian side.

Today it is reported that Russian generals are too afraid to tell their commander in chief about just how the war is actually going. It is thought that the President of Russia is surrounded by 'yes men'. Equally, again, the source is a bunch of Western analysts, so one wonders just how they might know this, or whether or not it is speculation instead of solid intelligence.

There was also speculation about the general in charge of the invasion, Russia's Minister for Defence. He wasn't seen in public since March the 11th, but recently resurfaced last Tuesday (March the 29th). It is now alleged that he may be holed up in a bunker some 1,000 miles from Moscow, according to flight records.

All this conjures up imagery about how difficult it may be to be a general in the Russian army (not that these invaders deserve much pity). Imagine, for a moment, this might be how it went down.

Russian General [iPhone reads 'Incoming call from Vlad the Invader'].

Vlad: General, what is the situation?

General [tries to remove his legs from underneath the tank]: Fine, fine. The invasion is going according to plan.

Vlad: I told you never to say that.

General: Say what, Premiere?

Vlad: It is a 'special military operation', not an invasion.

You get the drift.

In all seriousness though, these are very tricky times. The whole thing is a tinderbox in a dry wood forest, a delicate tightrope walk of a situation. There is the threat of nuclear war, if not Cold War II then World War III.

If we look at recent events in history, it wasn't until the 1st of May 2003 that the Allies led by the U.S. declared victory in the war in Afghanistan. This is after the invasion began on the 8th of October, 2001, a period of one year and seven months. It should be remembered, though, that the 9th of December, 2001 was when Khandahar fell, so that debacle took only two months.

It took Hitler just over one month to annex Poland (from the 1st of September to the 6th of October, 1939).

The Ukrainian war has only been going on for about 5 weeks now, from the 24th of February to today, the 30th of March. The strategic circumstances, landscapes (both the geo-political landscape and the actual terrain) are very different in this conflict to the Afghan War, if not Hitler's invasion of Poland - though much has changed since 1939.

My prediction at the start of this war turned out to be flat wrong (it is best if one acknowledge's one's own mistakes, and is honest with oneself), that the cities would be captured then a guerilla war would be fought in the countryside. This may yet still happen, but the Ukrainians are putting up pretty fierce resistance, thankfully. The Russians have many important advantages and outweigh the Ukrainians in many areas: air superiority, missiles, sheer amount of fuel, troops and military hardware. Yet the Russians didn't count on one thing: the willingness of a people of a country to defend their homeland. It's perhaps cliché, but I recall a favourite movie of mine (Robin Hood) when Kevin Costner says, "One free man defending his home is worth ten hired soldiers."

Learning ancient Greek, the return of the Covid Kid and also Rainbowland

Dear Diary,

I was in that... place, with those... people again. It is a dreary drudge, but one that I must endure (this is not Elizabethan England, evidently). There is, however, one member of staff that is more amicable than the rest. She's new, comes from Columbia and her English isn't great. However, understanding both Latin and French means we can communicate reasonably well. I gave her a Spanish-English dictionary today, a pocket Collins (the old fashioned ones with the proper pronunciation in). Dictionaries are far superior to online translators, such as Google Translate, because instead of only giving one rigid definition, they allow the student to understand more definitions, and in context. She was grateful. The fact that she is extremely pretty and in her mid-thirties is by the by, for the lady is spoken for, therefore there will be no courtship.

Today I began the dreary drudge of learning bloody ancient Greek again. I hate it, as much as I love it, and it is certainly not easy. It is easy (which may appear like a paradox) but only difficult to begin with. I can't stand the bloody breathings and accents in it, but it is for my own good. Should I master this language, who knows where I might end up? I could perhaps make shift manager at McDonald's (this is not Renaissance Italy, evidently).

My dear daughter got in touch again today, which is wonderful. We only spoke briefly after I returned from work, but I managed to glean enough information to discover that she has Leo in her Ascendant (I already knew that we have precisely the same Sun and Moon signs, Gemini and Capricorn, respectively). Even so, rather than analyse her graphology or cast her horoscope in an attempt to glean something of her personality, I said - truthfully - that it would be far better to simply get to know one another. It's been nearly 20 years since she was born, and so we have much to catch up on. I would very much like to help her with her writing career, but before I can do that, I need to figure out how to format eBooks in HTML (a bloody pain in the bloody backside). It's not mission impossible, hardly a taxing language like Machine Code or Assembly. Once I have done that, I would very much like to help her go through the process, and get a few books up there. Who knows, this time next decade, we might not have to slave away doing unskilled labour for minimum wage.

This evening I am watching a movie called Tommorowland. I've seen it before, and it contains more truth than people know. Without wanting to say too much, being in the privileged position of being editor at the Firm (a school of hermetic philosophers), what I can tell you is that this place, or places like it, not only have always existed (as is evidenced in Plato's Phaedo and various other classical texts on philosophy), but still do exist. I could tell you more, but I wouldn't want to bore you.

Max.

The Covid Kid (an outbreak of Omicron 2B)

Dear Diary,

Yesterday at that... place the manager (the younger of the two brutes) said that he had tested positive for Covid-19 recently. They mess around (when it's quiet) at work, so I thought he may have been joking. He's quite macho and serious much of the time, and so I ask him for a hug now and again (if only to mollify his violent tendencies and get him more in touch with his feminine side). The loud kid (an awful employee, lazy, dictatorial, never has a kind word to say about anyone) at work had a mask on today (he never wears a mask - I am the only one [in store] that always wears one). I asked him why, and he said he had to, because he had tested positive for Covid-19. He normally shouts, a lot. Today he was silent the entire time, or when he did speak, spoke in a reasonably sane way and at a moderate volume (quite unlike his usual self). He also coughed sometimes, and kept blowing his nose. He did not look well, though to be fair, he put on a brave face. The girl working next to him was fine, but then she began to become unwell, and threw up in the toilet. The main boss (the larger of the two brutes) also remarked that he too had tested positive for Covid-19 recently.

As the boss said, according to the law, it is perfectly fine to keep working if one has tested positive for Covid-19. (I am unsure of the current legislation according to either the Public Health Act or the Covid-19 statute, whatever its name is). Maybe it is okay, maybe it's not.

It's the usual dilemma. Does the store close for that evening? Do you only put on skeletal staff until it's blown over? Or do you just carry on as per normal. Most of the population, certainly many of those most at risk have been fully vaccinated by now, so it does not appear to be an issue (even if there still exists a significant risk to the clients, what with no-one wearing a mask except the Covid Kid and I).

Even if the news is dominated by the invasion of Ukraine at the moment, and such things as Partygate or Covid do not receive the attention they were receiving, the pandemic has not simply gone away. I distinctly recall one most illustrious minister allegedly stating that he 'would rather see the bodies pile high than take the nation into another lock-down.' This statement proves that it's all about the economy. Wealth is more important to the administration than health. Yet what are the risks? Is it okay? On the face of it, no one has died at the store. The closest we got to that was the big boss being admitted to hospital, on oxygen, and that was a long time ago now. Equally, did I feel comfortable working right next to three people that had tested positive, one obviously rather ill (the Covid Kid), and that one had made the person working next to him throw up? Is it worth minimum wage, even?...

All this is probably a blessing in disguise. Firstly, immunity wains, so having our anti-bodies boosted is probably not a bad thing. Only one of the three suffered any kind of ill effects, and no one has died or been admitted to hospital (recently, at least). Secondly, the whole experience provides an impetus for me to get my bloody books published, as soon as possible. I still have three books to edit for the old ball and chain, which I really should get around to soon, but turning on the old computer is such a drag. I love this new machine, even if it doesn't have Word on it.

I have to become solvent, sharpish, and work from home. There can be no price put on the sanctity of human life, or even life in general. I cannot rely upon the British academic establishment to offer me any work (yeah, sure! *cough*). They couldn't organise a piss up in a brewery!

I'm on my own, and am basically unemployable. I don't drive. I have some noticable character flaws. Yet my strengths far outweigh my weaknesses. I should imagine that it won't be long now (perhaps only months) until I am able to get the hell out of that... place. I've already put the hard work in. It wouldn't take much to get the books published (it just means doing boring bloody HTML). I have to be honest, I would sooner be translating British history, or writing plays about Great Britain's history, but that's just a hobby (this is, after all, not Elizabethan England, but Dark Age Britain - such things are worthless in this day and age. It is not the Renaissance, evidently). I should like to translate classical texts, or better still, Scivias by Hildegard von Bingen, but these have already all been translated. Therefore, I am focusing on gaps in the market. It's pretty cool actually. Okay, so they are pretty... esoteric texts (books on astrology, magic and runelore), but they are gaps which no one has filled. There is little point in translating something which has already been translated when one works among Covid ridden children, being told what to do by uneducated kids and foreign thugs. I am not necessarily materialistic, quite the opposite, but who doesn't like being comfortable? If it's the choice between going into that... place, being called names by those ignorant plebs, and working at home doing something I love (translating, writing plays), it's a no-brainer.

Necessity: the mother of invention.

Max.

Artwork (for my play), the best artist I could find

Dear Diary,

When you're at school, in art class, there's always one kid that is way better than anyone else. In short, there is only one real artist, which is naturally gifted. Others require training and practice to become artists, and they may, over time, become good, but never (or, very rarely) great. At primary school, it was Bushy, who was the guy I hired to do the artwork for my first book the Corpus Hermeticum and Asclepius. At secondary school it was Clare. Her sketches, paintings and sculptures far outweighed anyone else's in the class.

I could have chosen Bushy again, or even Jay (a childhood friend of the family that I hired to do the artwork for my recently translated History of the Britons), but I chose Clare. Why? Because she is a lady, and much like Troades by Seneca or Euripides (or even Sophocles' Electra) it is a female play. The action centres around Boadicea (a lady, obviously) and Callizena (another female, a Druidess). There were so few male roles that I recently had to put in a 'token male' just to make it not seem like an all woman cast (for the Britons, that is, the Roman side consists of all men).

In truth, it doesn't actually matter what the gender of the artist is, as this has no bearing on the standard of artwork they do. However, because it is a predominantly female play, our noble protagonist is female, I thought it only right to bring in a female artist to do the book's cover. It wouldn't very well do to have a man's name listed as the artist that did the artwork for such a feminine project.

Clare just got back to me, and she's game! This is a result! I am most pleased. She will receive precisely the same amount as the other artists I have hired asked for: whatever they feel is a reasonable and fair price.

I should get working on it, but it is - more or less - finished already. If anything I should cut lines out (it now numbers over 1,200 - my self imposed limit). I am, however, taking Quintilian's advice, and laying it aside for a while now that it is finished, before returning and revising it.

In other news, I am waiting for some little things to arrive which I just ordered for my daughter (an old book and some trinket or bauble). I am hoping we can smooth things over, or at least, once I am out of this financial rut (slavery) through publication, I can spare some time to visit her.

Max.

Apuleius (the subject of my master's degree dissertation)

Dear Diary,

I chose a peculiar subject for my master's degree dissertation, encompassing hermetic philosophy, ancient secret societies and magico-religious rituals summoning spirits. I made quite a big mistake. In browsing for books on the subject, I happened across one book which weighed in at the hefty price of £170. Instead, I opted to buy a number of long since out of print Oxford Reds (that is, University level detailed commentaries from the University of Oxford - a university not exactly unknown to the world...). However, I recently bought that book, at a bargain (£100, first edition), and just re-reading it a moment ago, it has dawned on me what a gross error of judgement it was for me to not have bought it at the time I was studying towards my final dissertation. Equally, no one wears glasses of 20/20 hindsight, and in retrospect, it was better that I bought the extremely precious (irreplaceable) Oxford Reds, because at least then I have them in my collection. Had I bought Apuleius instead, I may not have had access to the likes of Virgil, Quintilian or Euripides, in Oxford University's finest editions.

Even so, this particular book is an absolutely fascinating read. There are three inscriptions I was previously unaware of from Apuleius' birthplace, moreover, a law in Justinian I was also unaware of at the time. Little things like Marcus Fronto coming from the same place (a near contemporary of Apuleius, tutor and indeed intimate companion of the great [pagan] emperor and philosopher Marcus Aurelius Antoninus). I should have clocked these things. There are also testomonia I was unaware of. I thought to myself, "I have the Latin text, which is all I need. I also have the Budé edition [which is an excellent edition, by the way: the University of Paris] so what need have I of another translation?" I had already translated the work (Apuleius' De deo Socratis), therefore did not need some other scholars' conjectural interpretations. However, I passed over one important point: these are my betters. These scholars have been reading Apuleius even before I had begun studying at University some dozen years ago now. Even Dr. Paula James (fellow of the magnificent Open University) had written an excellent work on the subject. It was through the voice of Paula (and also Chris Emlyn-Jones) that I first learnt the sacred and ancient Latin language. Yet that is all by the by. Are they better? That remains to be seen.

For example, I have spent a very long time learning about Apuleius, poring over all his works in their original language. I have access to articles which are way beyond anything the Open University had to offer on their limited database (which is actually quite extensive, by comparison, though a shadow of its former self by the way - when I first began studying there). Moreover, I have bought a great many books on the subject, required reading for a master's degree dissertation. I, am a scholar of the future, whereas they, are the scholars of the past.

Yet we all share one thing in common: a love for classical studies, especially Latin, and most especially Apuleius. His Defence Against Magic is an absolutely goddamn fascinating read, and I mean 'it doesn't get any better than that' kind of fascinating. For example, the trial (almost certainly in 158 or 159 C.E. at Oea, North Africa - the only one of Apuleius' works which can be dated with any certainty) is extremely nuanced. It is not, actually, all about magic. Vincent Hunink (a magnificent scholar, by the way) argues that the trial of witchcraft may have only been an afterthought of the charges brought against Apuleius, and that it was more to do with money. This is certainly a motive, as much was at stake. Imagine. You're a die hard classicist, obsessed with magico-religious philosophy, but also a keen student of the law. This speech has absolutely everything: invective, dirt digging, sophistry, elusive facts, tenuous evidence, almost impossible points to defend (which Apuleius adroitly side-steps) and there is one thing most of all. This something is what I first thought (and first impressions are important) when I first read the speech in 2017 (having just bought the hot off the press translation by Jones [Loeb]). This point is something which Hunink emphasises: How much did Apuleius actually know about magic? He seems to know a great deal, very much so. Does this mean he was guilty? Perhaps not. Association does not necessarily imply causation (okay, he had written a book on demonology, which may well incriminate him somewhat...) because it is the pretext which is most important here, the motive and that motive, is money (and a large amount of money, at that). Naturally Pudentilla's brothers would have been pissed off (they would lose everything, and it would all go to Apuleius instead). I absolutely love this work, so much so that I dedicated my master's degree dissertation to its author (though I did, in fact, focus on the book on spirits [daimones] instead of the trial).

My point is, that as the late great savant Didier Deman once said to me, "Maxwell, it is not the learning which is important, it is what you do with that learning, applying it to something practical and useful which is more important." Never have truer words been spoken. Okay, so the British academic establishment are like Vladimir Putin (i.e. their word is absolutely worthless, and they have no honour whatsoever), yet I can use what these dishonourable group of academics have taught me to apply it to something practical and useful instead. It is not the M.A. which is important (look where that got me: washing up at the kitchen sink! And that's okay too: this is not Renaissance Italy, evidently. It's Dark Age Britain), but the publication which is more important. So what if I missed a couple of inscriptions and a line in Justinian's law code during my M.A. dissertation? (It's not like the markers would even notice that...) What is more important is that I consolidate what I have learnt, draw it together, note anything I may have missed, and publish the best translation possible. At present, the only two translations of this work are available for £170 (Oxford) or £25 (Loeb). I will charge £10. As Denzel Washington said in the movie American Gangster, "I'm a Renaissance man." Blue magic: it's a trademark. It guarantees a quality product at a price which blows any competition straight out of the water. Besides, what people want is a good, clear, readable translation, not the facing Latin text (which they cannot understand) or a bunch of citations they'll never follow up (because they either cannot afford to buy so many books, or, more likely, are not bothered to). I will succeed, because it's what I do. It's my business.

Max.

Another day, reading, writing (and also working)

Dear Diary,

I was in that... place, yet again. The young chap (the one pegged for promotion) stormed out this evening. That's because, well, that's what happens when you promote a young seventeen year old boy over those more experienced and well educated. Naturally, the young lady (also only 17) will probably be promoted instead, but only because her sister is banging the boss (that is the younger of the two thugs).

However, before I went into that... place, with those... people (my 'learned' colleagues) I had lunch at the local, reading and writing outside in the sunshine. One person there did take an interest, and I explained that I was writing a play (Boadicea), which is written along classical lines and influenced more by Christopher Marlowe than William Shakespeare. If nothing else, it was nice for someone to take an interest. Moreover, someone that has actually read Marlowe.

I should imagine that such a work will be little recognised in its own day. This is not Elizabethan England, evidently. Yet there is one crumb of comfort. I could have written a load of prosaic nonsense, some sub-standard novel, or perhaps devoted my life to making silly games which are soon made obsolete in only a few years, long since forgotten. Literature, great literature, weathers the storm of time. It is like the classical culture itself: eternal.

Were Marlowe here today, he would surely be working in McDonald's or on the end of a dole queue. This is not Renaissance Italy, evidently.

Max.

Prospects

Dear Diary,

What with the war in the east, the plague still lingering, fuel and grain going up, the rich getting richer and the poor getting poorer, I shouldn't complain too much about working as an unskilled labourer in the same job I did as an undergraduate, as a post graduate, and now as a so-called 'master'. This is the darkest age Britain has ever seen since the mid sixth century. It is not Renaissance Italy, evidently. Yet there is this young lad at work, and yesterday he didn't show up. He's the 17 year old pegged to be the new shift manager. Because, well, that's what happens when you promote a 17 year old over the most experienced, most well educated, most well suited people. Much like Britain itself, the place is run by clowns and brutes.

Anyway, I have been working on Boadicea still (not that such talents are of any use much less appreciated on any level whatsoever in this country, and that's okay too: were Shakespeare around today he be on Universal Credit or working in McDonald's as an unskilled labourer. This is not Elizabethan England, evidently). I cannot help but feel that I have wasted my entire life. My estranged daughter hasn't been in touch, which is concerning. I managed to get my mother's day card off today, so that was something at least. Now all I need to do is get back to work (even though I have just got back from work), because, well, that is my so-called 'life'. This is Friday night. I should be out somewhere, having fun, playing music in a band or just socialising. I am, in fact, shattered, because I work hard. I think that a nice cup of tea (green: no milk no sugar) and a stale bread sandwich (just bread, half stale) are in order. It doesn't get any better than that. No sir. Not France, nor Italy, nor Spain, nor Germany can match such culinary delights and elegant sophistication.

Max.

Shinanigans

Dear Diary,

So, instead of meeting some friends this week, I visited a work colleague. It could... have gone better. I should known better than to try and drink this hardened Londoner under the table. By hour one I was over the bowl, bubbling, chundering as though for fair England at the Olympics. Then, once I had come round, not an hour later I was there again, 'bowled over'.

He watches this conspiracy theorist woman on the Tube. I cannot say I have any interest in her. She is fair, granted, but unlike reading grey literature, dry excavation reports or academic articles upon the subject (or better still, either closely reading ancient manuscripts or papyri or handling artefacts themselves) most of what she says is hyperbole, tendentious, conjectural. It's anecdotal, unsubstantiated, mere supposition. Still, you can't blame the guy. This gal could read out the entries in the phone book and still put on a good show. It's a little like me listening to the BBC's absolutely gorgeous Yalda Hakim discussing [her] current affairs in detail: she is both informative and aesthetically pleasing.

Since then I have been working on compiling my notes for my translation of Nennius' History of the Britons (a dull and thankless task), and, more importantly, putting the finishing touches to my latest play: Boadicea: Queen of the Iceni. Original works are so much more interesting to scholars well schooled in the classical tradition. Today was an interesting episode of In Our Time on BBC Radio 4 (on Sophocles' Antigone). It bade me revisit the play (only in [Kitto's] translation [the OWC ed.]). Sophocles, wrote how men ought to be, whereas Eupidies wrote how men actually were. I actually quite like Sophocles, but in honesty, I actually prefer Aeschylus or Euripides (especially). Being still only a neophyte at ancient Greek means I can only really appreciate the tragedies of Seneca, in Latin, naturally. In any case, one could not help but notice that Oliver Taplin has translated Sophocles' Antigone recently. Much like Peter Kingsley's translation of the philosophical hermetica, this is an absolute must for the bookshelf. Taplin, like Kingsley, is an old hand, a great classicist. I am ashamed to say that I do not even have Emily Wilson's Odyssey by Homer on my shelf yet (I have a dozen translations of the Odyssey, but no one translates like Emily Wilson does, and I mean no one - not even I!).

Speaking of which (mere materialism: obviously dedicated to upgrading my book shelves), the old ball and chain came through (eight weeks after she said she would), so that means (1) a Mother's Day card for mother (obviously), (2) a nice parcel for my daughter (essential), and (3) after all payments are made: upgrading my bookshelf. It is not actually the books which I need (for I have many of them, evidently, not that university learning is worth a tinker's dame in Dark Age Britain. This is not Renaissance Italy, evidently), but the book shelves. I have the last one of my rickety self-made shelves holding up my Loebrary. I shall need to upgrade that alright, but that will hurt, deep in the pocket. However, it is no great loss, because I will be safer in the knowledge that my Loebs are well looked after (they are currently wedged in at a slight angle - not good for books - and the end ones have little nail heads and screws denting their sides).

There were very few books which I (a) didn't already have, or (b) were informative, in town today. I picked up one little book I bought some ten years ago now: Writing for Pleasure and Profit. It was written a comparatively long time ago, and is not the most informative book, but it is still the kind of reading material I require in order to make the transformation or catharsis from chrysalis to butterfly (i.e. from unskilled labourer to writer). I still have the old ball and chain's books to edit (which must be done before the end of July), but she's in Hawaii at the moment at the Luau (so not problems there).

Righty ho! Back to work. No rest for the virtuous.

Max.

Work and play

Dear Diary,

I'll have to be quick, because I have a deadline for the Chinese firm looming any second. My old computer, already second hand when I first got it, is crawling, sometimes taking between 3-7 seconds to edit a single word. It just hangs a lot of the time with a '(Not Responding)' message until it sorts its life out again. I've nearly finished the assignment, but it's taken me two days so far, what with one thing or another, and I have yet to check it.

I'm also flat broke (again), so I need the money. I'm hoping my boss is satisfied with the work I've done.

Being in that... place tonight, though relatively quiet, was not fun. This little 17 year old brat keeps giving me orders (one of many). I long to say to them, "Look. I first started working in fast food in 1996, that's 26 years ago, a decade before you were born. So you... don't... get to tell me... what to do." They are not my boss or anything, but they act like it. It irks me, very much.

Tomorrow I was supposed to be elsewhere, at some do or another. I have decided to cancel it, because a good friend at work is lonely on his day off. He's invited me round for a Chinese (food, not work) and a drink. I accepted, as in truth, there is nothing more important than friendship. He's a rough diamond, but I actually quite like the bloke. One time, at work, he said that he would go halves on a lottery ticket with someone else at work, adding, "If it comes in, I will split it down the middle with you, 50/50." All these little kids said sarcastically, "Oh, yeah, sure you would. You would take the money and run." (which is what the little brats would do), but this is the kind of guy that isn't like that, at all. He is as good as his word, and a man is only as good as his word. That is very rare in this world, especially nowadays. He is a man of honour. He asks for nothing, but gives generously. I told him I was broke, that I would much rather come visit when I could turn up with a bottle and a Chinese. He insisted, explaining that he would just be sat at home alone, and wanted some company. How could I refuse? He also said, "Next time, you can get them in." This I will do, gladly. Reciprocity. Friendship. It's important.

If I am honest, we are very different in many ways. I tend to be somewhat more humanitarian, and have a more egalitarian view of the world. I live in books. I am not a conspiracy theorist. Much of the time, however, we both agree, because we are both ultimately patriots, no matter if both of us have become embittered by being ground down by an uncaring, ungrateful society, which rewards rich crooks and taxes the poor.

I have also learnt that here in the provinces, there is a much more conservative view of the world with many people. This is not true of the hippie and bargie side of this county, but is more true of those I actually prefer to keep the company of (such as Dr. Sean Walsh, the writer and philosopher).

In truth, I should have attended that do tomorrow, but I'm broke, and I actually hate going anywhere broke (besides, I still have yet to make good on £15 I owe this other chap, a thoroughly excellent person). It's for the better.

Max.

My old job back...

Dear Diary,

It's a cushy little number, not at all lucrative, but the work is interesting. I've been offered my old job back, part time, on call, as an academic editor for a Chinese company. (Let's face it, the Chinese are more serious about doing academic work than any British firm is!) I like it. I don't care that my boss is hooning it around in a red Lambo' with a Fender Strat' shaped swimming pool, jet-setting off to health farm retreats and island parties while all her staff subsist on bowl of noodles or rice, drinking tepid paddy water. (I edited the text for their website so I know how much they earn).

Tonight at that... place, was an absolute nightmare. These people do not handle stress well: they are not philosophers. They are children, really. These kids (which is what they are, for not one of them is over 21, except for the thug of a boss) throw things, smash pieces of metal loudly and are dictatorial. If I am honest, I prefer the polite style of tyranny and exploitation the Chinese have rather than these... people. I very nearly quit tonight. Having little teenaged brats breathing down my neck the entire time, yelling, throwing things and issuing orders, often in a strung out and curt manner, is too much. I've had enough, truth be told.

It will not be long until I leave there, you can be absolutely goddamn sure of that. I'm not digging it, at all. They are juvenile, uneducated, they crack under the slightest pressure, and when one gets stressed out, it has a knock on effect. There will come a time, soon, when I won't be putting up with that s- any longer. Hell, I'll subsist on rice and paddy water. I'll put up with being on call all hours for the exploitative Chinese academic establishment. Besides, I can focus on my career as a wine taster and literary type. Translation, poetry, reading and writing (namely publication) is where it's at. I can't wait to get shot of this slavery.

Max.

Nennius' History of the Britons (the leg work)

Dear Diary,

This project means doing shed loads of donkey work. The metadata is a bloody nightmare. It doesn't help that I've just discovered I no longer have access to the University library (no longer being a student there). It's not actually much of a problem, because running a search for 'Nennius' in the OU library returns very few results, by comparison. The same applied to Apuleius' De deo Socratis. Besides, I have enough reading material pulled down for this project, which just means a lot of reading.

I have to do one thing right now: focus exclusively on this project (Nennius) to the exclusion of all else. That is, if ever I want to get this book published any time soon. I figure it's pretty standard work, it just means lots of reading, taking note of meanings of names and places and cataloguing them.

In other news, my estranged father got in touch yesterday. He's getting on, so it is no good being at cross purposes with him, despite our differing philosophical and political views, and any differences we may have had: water under the bridge.

My current workload (one after the other) is this:

Nennius, History of the Britons (trans. Latham)
Boadicea: Queen of the Iceni an epic-play by yours truly
Apuleius, De deo Socratis (trans. Latham).

The rest of my little hobby horses and pet projects can go hang. Necessity forces my hand. Then, once I have completed these little projects, I can start the serious work, namely the astrological/magical grimoire being translated and a book on runelore I am also translating. There is also another book, which, in truth, is much more important than either of these two, but astrology and runelore are more popular than this other work, which is very interesting, but really only to a select group of people. It is also much more difficult to translate, so that's shelved, for now. As for Seneca's Troades or van Gennep's Rites of Passage, the University obviously have no interest in either me, as a scholar, or my translations, so they can go hang. I'll get around to them at some point later, but much like studying at University itself: it is hobby, nothing more, and a very time consuming and extremely expensive hobby at that!

I should like to finish my translation of Scivias by Hildegard von Bingen, but that, again, is just a very costly hobby, and will not bear any fruit. Untranslated works and my original play should be my priority (even if these are done out of a sense of patriotism, certainly Nennius and Boadicea) rather than any mere pecuniary considerations. I have to re-enter Hades this evening, so to speak. Study at University for a dozen years, end up in McDonald's. Great (yeah *coughs*). This is not Renaissance Italy, evidently.

Max.

France and my old friend

Dear Diary,

My old friend and I had a long conversation. He was forced off the street by the police because busking is not allowed where he is (apparently). It's his home town where he was born and raised. He was drinking and staying with some friends.

He said to me, "You are the most erudite person I know. How is it that you hold a master's degree and only work at McDonald's?" I had to reply with the truth, "Britain is an island of slaves. Education is meaningless here." It doesn't matter how you dress it up, this is the actual reality. "But you have studied for twenty years!" he said (I corrected him, it's only twelve, at Univeristy). That is just the way things are here. This is not Renaissance Italy, evidently.

He is, I fear, heading in the wrong direction. He has been for years now. It is only because of the kindness of a friend that he is not sleeping out in the snowy mountains. He desperately wants me to go back there. (Apparently the restrictions from the pandemic have all been lifted now in France). If I go back there (or rather when I return), as I told him, I shall never come back, because there is nothing to come back to. There is no work here, only slavery and poverty. Yet before I make footfall on French soil, I shall have to have my books up online, and selling.

I've done a bit more translation today, and seemingly, the secondary literature I have read concerning this book is bang on target. It is, in fact, a book of black magic. These beings are the personification of evil things. I wish I could translate something nice, and helpful, and good, not evil, but all those books have already been translated, and I would therefore be poor again. (Mammon is far richer than Christ - where Christians give, with kindness, the Devil takes, being materialistic and more like Daniel Plainview than Mother Theresa). So, I risk and hazard my very soul, just to have my palm crossed with silver. That's okay. This is Dark Age Britain: the only way out of poverty here, is to prostitute what little you have, or turn to crime. Education, law, talent, good will, these things are meaningless here, least of all honesty or having such outmoded things as morals.

Max.

Day off (neighbour's house on fire and a blast from the past)

Dear Diary,

I awoke to the sound of an alarm going off, then the sound of sirens. My neighbour opposite, their house was on fire. There were people standing out in the street as the Fire Brigade came and put it out. I even got Stalin up (he usually gets up first thing, and I mean first thing in the afternoon). Seemingly, from the evidence it seems as though the cause of the conflagration was a faulty refidgerator. The back of it was all scorched. Had it not been the 'fridge, surely the front or sides would have had scorch marks on them. The man that lives there works at a recycling plant. One supposes that it may be the case that the 'fridge was reclaimed, maybe, though this is merely hearsay, and there is no substantive evidence of this. The two may not be connected.

I also received a message from an old friend. This man is an absolute liability. He is rarely found with his clothes on. He is larger than life (in personality, not... that). A very charismatic man, the life and soul of the party, great fun. However, he does drink too much, and is not careful about how he goes about his life. Ever since I have known him he has always kept it together enough to have a full time job and an apartment. Since then he has been living in a van with a Canadian girlfriend. Now, she's left him, and he has no vehicle to live in any more. (He also steals from shops sometimes, which is a most unbecoming and ungentlemanly trait which I cannot abide, at all). He is, however, a most gifted percussionist. As it happens, he's now begging for pennies with his electric guitar (the man is a very average guitar player, and not a great singer). I am awaiting a call from him. I should imagine that life is not easy for him, out in the mountains. It's freezing there. The one bar that did used to book us regularly recently closed, so I should imagine that it will be difficult for him to get any gigs (hence why he's busking). I cannot help but pity him. I confided in him, that I loathe my 'life' which I do, and how I only stayed here, and not in France, because the British offered me skilled work (which they did not make good on their offer). I did not tell him the other reason, which is that when my grandmother Diana passed over to the other side (not France, to the Afterlife), she came to me as a spirit, when I was working in Didier's loft, doing carpentry. Her spirit said, "What are you doing working for the bloody Frogs! You should be back in England!" I called home, and sure enough heard the news that my grandmother had just passed away that day.

I am still persevering with this not-so secret translation. It's not an easy text to translate. It appears to be from late antiquity or early medieval Latin, from the style of Latin it is written in. I cannot date it with any precision, and available literature on the topic is thin on the ground. I have translated many works now. The most difficult (besides Tacitus) include: philosophical works (which can seem to make no sense sometimes), a dream diary (Aelius Aristides) and other bizarre works. This one is really weird. It is all about symbols, spirits of the stars, strange concordances in the heavens. I actually love it, but it is not... the easiest work to translate, and not just because the vocabulary is rare in places, but because of its content. Right, it's my one day off work, so I must get back to work.

Max.

A day at work (and my new translation project).

Dear Diary,

I know virtually nobody reads this, and that's cool. I am a nobody, so why should anybody read it? Today I had to put up with these spotty teenagers ripping the piss out of me the whole time, and one particular catalyst. He is a fat, lazy man, the worst kind of employee. He never has a good word to say about anybody, and certainly nothing kind or insightful. He, like his colleagues, is not even half my age. I was working in this industry before any of them were even born. Naturally, I took it on the chin, and made light of it, because vast experience has taught me not to get up tight about such things but instead just to roll with it. In my heart of hearts, I wanted to say to him, futue te ipsum puerem but I refrained from doing so.

I am still soldiering on with my (not so) secret project. Much like another work I am translating (again, secret) it will be the only copy of it available anywhere, so if anyone wants to read it, they have to come to me (via Jeff Bezos - God bless America). I dream of what I might do to get out of this slavery. I understand well that having vast experience, a strict and firm personal morality and being extremely well educated means nothing in Dark Age Britain. I accept this. Were I in any other country in the world, this would not be the case, but I am not. I subsist here, in Dark Age Britain. This is not the Italian Renaissance, evidently.

Let's talk about the value of education. Warren Buffett once said that it is best to invest in knowledge. He may well be right. Yet Warren Buffett also said that, "The more you learn, the more you earn." Now, this may be true in the USA (God bless America) but it is certainly not true in Dark Age Britain. In fact, the opposite is true. What do you get for your £15,000 worth of debt here? The answer, is f- all. Not one single book, not a single tutorial, nothing. That's okay too, this is Dark Age Britain, not Renaissance Italy, evidently. I buy and read books, a lot of them. I can see a time where I can apply what I have learnt to more useful purposes.

My penchant is for the mystical, the pious, the profoundly religious, the spiritual, the kind, the humane, what is noble, what is true, what is best. These kinds of things are old fashioned nowadays in this crazy world in which we live. That's okay too. There will come a time when my Ivory Tower is fully built (in a symbolic and allegorical way), and I will be in a much better position to not only help myself, but, more importantly, help those in need, that are less fortunate than I am. None of my 'learned' colleagues could give a damn about any of these people. They think only of themselves.

I am reading Gerald of Wales' Topography of Wales at the moment (Lewis Thorpe's translation) and I find it a magnificent work. The Welsh had (and still have) a very subtle and also Jovial culture. I find it fascinating. Imagine, for a moment, a master of Classical Latin, being at the behest of these spotty teenagers that merely put people down and joke around the whole time, and instead, there is one that reads. I am immersed in a world from a thousand years ago, when musicians, poets, bards and even landlords and law-makers had an extremely profound culture in Wales, far beyond anything we experience in this day and age. On my brief five minute break I read this, in the rain, with a plastic tray covering the book so it does not sustain water damage:

"The Welsh are very sharp and intelligent. When they apply their minds to anything, they are quick to make progress, for they have great natural ability. They are quicker-witted and more shrewd than any other Western people. When they play their instruments they charm and delight the ear with the sweetness of their music. They play quickly and in subtle harmony. Their fingering is so rapid that they produce this harmony out of discord... They grace notes with great abandon, above the heavier bourdon of the bass strings, and so produce a joyful and lilting melody. The essence of all art is to conceal art:

When hidden, art delights; when obvious, it offends." (Ovid, The Art of Love 2.313).

Gerald of Wales, Topography of Wales 1.12 (trans. Lewis Thorpe).

Then, the bard (and I myself am not unaccomplished in music...) returns to be at the behest of these feral, untutored, acrid adolescents: my superiors. This, is what it is like to be an intellectual in Dark Age Britain. No amount of hard work, honesty or striving to better one's lot through the application of erudite study is of any service in Dark Age Britain. Would that I lived in Afghanistan or Iraq! At least then I would have much better prospects than I ever could have here, in the darkest age Britain has ever seen since the mid sixth century, the time of Gildas!

Max.

Building the Ivory Tower.

Dear Diary,

Registration opened very recently for new modules, and the price for this next academic year is £3,200. That's for two modules, one compulsory and one other (evidence law). Lord Sumption chose to go into law, even though he has a penchant for British medieval history (an excellent subject, and one very close to my heart) because, he "did not want to be poor." Now, I'm not like 'Stalin' my housemate/landlord (a backwoods clodhopper aka 'The Cookie Monster' or 'Oscar'), cloying after every penny. Even his partner said recently, "[Stalin], you're so tight!" This guy has a fork in the sugar bowl and leaves the dirty washing up water to go tepid and wash up again in to save on the water bill (not that he washes up, for the dishes are still filthy once he has dipped them in the cold, dirty water, not even bothering to clean the things). Anyway. I am no Scrooge, but, after twelve years of studying (three years unofficially studying in Cambridge, among its magnificent architecture, illustrious history and most of all: the best book shops I have ever seen in my life, a veritable thesaurus of wisdom and repository of sacred knowledge), and it has gotten me absolutely nowhere (I still do the same job, now, today, as I did while studying as an undergraduate, as a post graduate, and now as a so-called 'master') I cannot justify forking out £3,200 a year. I simply cannot afford it. And for what exactly? There are no books any more, much less any tutorials (and this was before the Neo-Plague struck, cost cutting). Virtual 'tutorials' and eBooks are not real tutorials, and real books. Moreover, there is no guarantee that the Benchers at the Inns of Court would ever accept me as one of their own. I am at their mercy. I would (probably) need to get a first (highly unlikely considering the fact that I've been studying a completely different subject for the past twelve years) in order to be permitted to become a barrister. Furthermore, to what end? What? Become a paralegal, doing the donkey work of a lawyer for a measley fourteen grand a year, the same amount I have often earned as a plate-scraper and washer upper? Is that not slavery? No?

So, Max is working on a secret project, so secret in fact, that I cannot even utter the name of the book I am translating, lest some insidious and wily classicist gets there before me. There is no translation of it available anywhere online (legally, at least, and not even in certain darker corners of the web, though I am unsure about torrents: because I do not use them). Even so, this is a strange, curious and interesting little work (only 98 pages of Latin), which appeals to a wider audience than the more esoteric works on magic which have not yet been translated. I was collaborating with a Ph.D. student on translating one of those books, but seemingly the one translation which has been done of it (a partial, and into Russian) does not reach a wide audience. The subject of my most recent endeavour, however, has a much wider audience, potentially, and might be one of the cornerstones of the newly built Ivory Tower I am constructing. Nennius' History of the Britons is not going to sell well. There is already a free translation of it online. I did that more out of my patriotic duty, as a scholar and an Englishman (even though Nennius was Welsh, if indeed he existed at all - remember that most historians are very much like conspiracy theorists, they doubt everything unless they are presented with a complete set of dental records, several letters from and to the person concerned, and a number of inscriptions and coins with the author's name stamped on, otherwise he is a 'literary fiction' and never existed). Besides, no two historians can agree on the colour of shite, much less anything else.

Anyway, Max's new secret little project (so secret, that I even blog about it) is a very strange creature. It is full of symbols, spirits and celestial wisdom, prophecy (my usual occult, mystical and oblique interests). The reading material around it is also quite interesting, even though much of it is in ancient Greek (which I have to pull my finger out and learn, finally. I can still only identify perhaps one in five words when I read Greek, and even that is usually the prefix not the infix or suffix, especially verbs). Righty ho! I must get back to working on it. That is, before I have to journey into that... place, among those... people (my 'learned' colleagues). Were you to combine the ages of my two immediate superiors, they are still half a decade off my own age. Were you to combine the reading and learning they have collectively done, that is as nothing by comparison to my own. Yet one cannot complain too much. This is Britain, therefore we are ruled by impetuous youths, thugs and unlettered foreigners. Education here has no meaning, no significance, no purpose. This is not Renaissance Italy, evidently.

Max.

The Ivory Tower

Dear Diary,

I was in that... place again, with those... people, my 'learned' colleagues. Such things do not bear thinking about.

Pretty much the whole time I am there I think about what my mother calls 'The Ivory Tower'. In our village (which is a most quaint and picturesque, idyllic charming little country village, snuggled and nestled within the most spectacular countryside imaginable) there lived a famous writer. (Indeed in nearby places, such as Bridport or Lyme Regis a great many historic writers live or have lived there). Mother would say, "Oh, [so and so] in his ivory tower" as though he lived apart, in another world, a world of fiction. In a way, he does live there, in Rainbowland, a world apart. He does not have to mop floors or clean the gunk out of pots and pans for a living, or slave over a hot stove for people. The only time he has to do such chores is in his own home, which is no trouble compared to running a business.

So, I dream of the Ivory Tower my mother described to us children when I was a young boy.

Back in those days (and even as recent as say 20 years ago) the publishing industry was gate guarded by white middle class people, and only around 5% of authors would get published, and even those would get shafted royally earning between 5-10% royalties, some two or three years after having written a book. There was no Amazon dot com or avenues for publishing elsewhere (with a phat 70% mark up, I might add). That is a 1980's business model: old hat, gone, like yesterday's newspaper. Times have come on a little bit in recent years (that's British understatement, in case you didn't catch it).

Now, I am not for downgrading the quality of my work just to get more cash. I will only ever translate or compose the very best literature and poetry possible. However, there are many books which do not have their copyright renewed, which are up for grabs. I have even bought some of these, and the formatting is bloody awful in many of them, done by people that don't even speak English as a first language (such as Dodo Press). Moreover, the covers are not done by professional artists. I fully intend to change that. With several years experience editing under my belt, knowing what is required, not only in terms of the language, but also the technical side (to a lesser extent, but sufficient), I intend to put a shed load of books up there, and indeed narrate them. It doesn't help that I live right next to a goddamn firing range, but I will just wait for a lull in the thunderous roar of cannon, then record it. I especially like Christopher Marlowe, and, as far as I know, there is no one edition of all his works (I have had to trawl many bookshops and order many editions online to get most of them). So that's a great idea for starters: a complete works of Christopher Marlowe. Yet it is not enough to simply copy-paste the Muse's darling's poetry. One must also be extremely well acquainted with not only the classical world of literature (which I am, fortunately) but also contemporary writers at the time, not least of which Shakespeare. Thus this will add (literal) value to the work. It's not my own work, but the notes and commentary will be.

Top priority, get my own work out there (which is essentially vanity - my favourite sin), then capitalise on whatever I can (me being me, it will be classical texts, undercutting the competition considerably) to get myself out of the goddamn kitchen, and in to the Ivory Tower, Rainbowland Road.

Next step? Help my daughter get there too.

Max.

Hildegard von Bingen's Scivias - a new translation (details and discoveries)

Dear Diary,

I was in that... place again with my 'learned' colleagues. They are impatient, juvenile, fretful and dictatorial. Surely the comparative degree adjective senior ('older') in Latin has no meaning here in Dark Age Britain. I am at the behest of spotty teenagers, and not even British teenagers at that! (I heard one say just the other day, "I'm not English" yet they were born in England, raised in England, can only speak English and have an English father!). Mmmnnyesss. Quite.

Anyway, I am translating Hildegard von Bingen's Scivias ('Know the Ways') and it is an absolutely fascinating little adventure, not least because this is a most curious and illuminating work, but also because I am discovering more and more about scribal abbreviation. Because the pdf I was working from is a poor copy, I thought I would have a glance and some original manuscripts of this work. After no digging at all (merely a brief search) I found one excellent 13th century copy in Oxford University's Bodleian Library (MS 160) and another splendid 12th century copy (the Salem Codex x,16) in Heidleberg University's library. What should I find? Errors, in the pdf I was working from. Reading scribal abbreviation is a necessary tool in the array of instruments available to a Latin scholar. It's a bit like reading epigraphic abbreviations: without such knowledge one cannot read an inscription, or in this case, a manuscript.

I first encountered scribal abbreviation while translating the philosophical hermetica, but also again on my master's degree (though other, students may have passed this over - focusing more on the theoretical side and archaeological aspects [i.e. rhetorical hearsay and bits of broken wall rather than the hard-core essential skills belonging to a classicist of the old school]). Alas, I remember meeting a god once. Dr. John North of Cambridge University. (You won't believe this). I was translating Tacitus' Germania at the time, and the good doctor actually finished off the sentence I was translating, in Latin, verbatim, from memory! He may not be a genuine god, but he is a god to me. Anyway, we were discussing the use of the subjunctive mood (which at the time I mistakenly believed was only rendered as 'may, might, could, would') and the good doctor said, "Should is also acceptable, and even preferable in some cases" (or words to that effect). Later on I checked, and sure enough in my Latin grammar books, should is a perfectly acceptable use of the subjunctive mood (not the jussive, of course). Anyhow, straight afterwards, we were talking about Latin translation and the good doctor asked, "Have you looked at the manuscripts?" "No." I replied honestly. "Well you should." said the good doctor, wittily.

I can see now, why doctor North said I should. The manuscripts themselves are more informative and profound than merely some digitised copy of a text. There are, however, four notable exceptions: the Oxford editions, Cambridge editions, Budé (Parisian) and Tuebner (Leipzig) editions, all of which contain most excellent apparatus criticus. However, Dr. North did say it is better to simply read the text, and not bother about alternative interpretations. I read in one book I have on the great Roman poet Ovid (by Peter Jones) that quite often scansion can eliminate erroneous possibilities in manuscript readings, simply by the weight of the words themselves.

Alas, I digress. Hildegard is an absolutely fascinating Muse. This work is actually 360 pages of Latin (180 in two columns), so will take some time to translate (I'm still only on column one of page two!), and my earlier attempt at translating it will have to be set aside (for it is before I managed to master the language properly). Yet I am motivated. There is the trifling matter of publishing what I have already translated, but that will come in time (as soon as I can buy some ISBN numbers).

The only thing motivating me to get that bloody tedious job done (which is basically just checking, re-checking and checking the Latin yet again) is the fact that I have to put up with this bloody awful, terrible and hellish subsistence at that... place. My 'learned' colleages: extremely well read, mature, and certainly most reasonable people, true philosophers to a man, most mindful and considerate, full of compassion and forgiveness. (Yeah *cough*). Sure.

Max.

The whole daughter thang (and my current reading material).

Dear Diary,

After hitting the sauce pretty hard last night (Saturday night) I was worse for wear today, but after two large cups (bowls?) of tea, I started to feel more or less human again. In my shuffled and disjointed dreams I caught a glimpse of someone I know owning and operating her own law firm. When I mentioned this, the lady in question (a graduate in law that works for the Department of Justice in the U.S.) happened to mention that she had a dream some time ago in which she dreamt that I got her a teaching job in England. I suspect there is nothing to this, that they are not in any way foresighted (perhaps) but more realistically just wish fulfillment dreams. In any case, that is by the by.

On a whim I reached out to my daughter again today. It is a week since we last were in touch. She could not talk (I assume she may have been with my ex, and I am not entirely sure whether she has even told her that she is in touch with me - one assumes she may not have been). She could have been anywhere, at her boyfriend's, her best friend's (who's male: she is a typical woman) or elsewhere. Anyway, as I wrote her an emotional message, expressing my remorse, feelings of shame and regret at not being there for her, even if I was homeless or poor. I was shuddering, trembling and in tears as I wrote it. I am not some tough guy or heartless macho man, but a sensitive soul, a poet, a musician.

Anyhow, on my way to and wait for work I brought a book in for a person I often see on the same bus ride, Evans-Wentz's Tibetan Book of the Great Liberation. Despite some rather tenuous connections between that and Christianity (for example an incorrect reading of in principio erat verbum etc.) it is, for the most part, a truly sublime and insightful work. I actually prefer it to the Tibetan Book of the Dead. I am not so concerned with the Jungian psychological interpretation, but more interested in the texts themselves. There are also some interesting parallels with Plotinus, which are fascinating. This is really only one source among very many, and merely reading it in translation is only barely scratching the surface. The doctrine is really quite interesting. I had brought another book with me (Ovid's Metamorphoses, Mary Innes' prosaic but utterly faithful and most precise translation) for inspiration for putting the finishing touches to my play (Boadicea: Queen of the Iceni). However, having only skim-read the introduction when I first read this work (jumping into the text itself) re-reading it at a leisurely pace is absolutely fascinating. To be sure, I am no Buddhist, at all, for I am a devout Anglican, but even so, I am curious about any and all religions of the world (all of them). One thing which struck me while reading this work are certain parallels with the philosophical hermetica - works which I am not unacquainted with, having translated them and made a close reading of parts of them for my final dissertation on the master's degree. Not that these are the days of Cosimo de' Medici, when scholarship, learning, erudition and translation actually counted for something...

Anyway, besides subsisting in virtual slavery on the eve of what might be World War Three, and a complete waste of a dozen years studying Latin hard to no avail, ultimately (this is not, after all, Elizabethan England or 15th century Florence: it's Dark Age Briatin, where such efforts are meaningless), I have been thinking about what to do about it all. Not for myself (for I have taken care of that already: the hard work is already put in, so it's only a matter of time before I reap the harvest of hard work's fruits), but more, for my daughter. She loves to write. She reads a lot. She has studied. She works. She plays Mozart on the piano. Therefore, I will do everything in my power to ensure that she gets some books up there (Amazon, etc.) for sale, well formatted, and well marketed, so she doesn't have to subsist in virtual slavery. It would be nice if we were both elevated out of poverty, through hard work. It doesn't actually matter what she writes - poetry or prose. It will be of excellent quality, because the apple does not fall far from the tree. She is my daughter, therefore she is an excellent writer and musician. Like Didier said, "Great artists do not simply fall from the sky. Mozart's father was every bit a great composer as his son."

Max.

News presenters (muses)

Dear Diary,

They say that the mind is the most erogenous zone, and this may well be true. I've always had a thing for news presenters (more Jan Ravens types, the wry satire of them rather than the presenters themselves). For my sins (for one should not undress a lady with one's eyes) I always had a 'thing' for Fiona Bruce, though my little brother thinks she looks like a man.

Recently however, I have been trying to decide who is sexier: Sandra Gathmann from Al'Jazeera or Yalda Hakim from the BBC. On the one hand, I could not help but notice that the round and sly (and indeed most well endowed) Sandra Gathmann was married, for in one episode of her show Start Here she wore a wedding ring. It comes as no suprise that such a fine and voluptuous woman is spoken for. (There is no way of confirming this, for this fair and delicate reporter has no Wikipedia page, currently). On the other hand, you have the absolutely beautiful Yalda Hakim. She does have a Wikipedia page. She's like a cuddly Arabic teddy-bear. Chic. Refined. Well educated. Both are first rate. Yet who is sexier?

Is Sandra Gathmann Jewish, American, Arabic? (She's evidently from Qatar.). Likewise, is Yalda Hakim Arabic, a Kiwi or from Australia? The answer is that she is from the place which even Alexander the Great had trouble conquering. Where Sandra is a wife and a mother, round and sly, Yalda is slim, demure, chic and really quite attractive. Sandra has those baby browns, those enchanting eyes of a mother of the East. Yet Yalda has those cold ice blue-grey orbs of radiance which disarm any man at twenty paces. In essence, it is difficult to know who is sexier. Sandra has the curves, the American accent and is well endowed. Likewise, Yalda is perfectly formed, well educated, eloquent, slim. It is impossible to know who is fairer. Both are gifted with sublime qualities. I should not be musing over news presenters, but it is a fact that both are extremely beautiful.

Max.

Reading Macrobius (and my current translation of Apuleius' De deo Socratis)

Dear Diary,

I was in that... place, once again enjoying the company of my most learned, well read, knowledgable and indeed wise colleagues. (Yeah *coughs*). Naturally, it was most tedious, incredibly busy, and, as per usual does not having anything of note to add to an intellectual's life diary. That is, except one thing. I was aware that both the older and younger thugs that run the show are conspiracy theorists, and, in keeping with their characters (the elder more Jovial, the younger: more Saturnian) I had not realised, until quite recently that the younger of these two hoodlums would side with the Chinese and the Russians over the Americans and their allies. Not, I feel, a wise move. The older of these two sprogs from this little domestic disaster has just returned from his native wasteland. (If I am honest, the land he hails from is actually quite sumptuous in places, and is one of the very old and famous states of Europe, particularly its capital - yet they hail from the provinces). Anyway, he says that "he saw no refugees from Ukraine" there. This may well be true, for although his native wasteland borders the Ukraine, his ancestral hearth is located far from the border. He did, however, see a great many refugees coming into fair England (greatest nation on the planet). Rather than being concerned with the plight of these poor people, he was much more concerned about how long it took to get through customs, and seemed aggravated at having to wait so long. He mentioned that he believed that all news is fake news. This is absolute nonsense. I lived with a die hard conspiracy theorist for a number of years (again, uneducated) and this forms part of a rather worrying trend. Take the BBC for example. Yes, it is a state owned service, and yes there may be a certain amount of propaganda in the way certain pieces are presented, but, for the most part, the BBC is an outstanding news service. It is certainly more impartial and less dogmatic than many other nations' news services. As evidence of this, there is the 'reality check' or fact check of politicians words in the Lower House. The BBC makes sure and looks into authoritative sources to discern what the actual facts of the matter are, and compares this with sweeping claims (often politically charged, full of sophistry and rhetoric) made by certain members of the Lower House. This is surely evidence of a newsworthy service, that seeks the truth, rather than simply toeing the government's line. Besides, even if there were elements of propaganda in a particular news piece by a certain service, each nation has its own kind of propaganda, so by following the sources and testimonies, tracing where a piece of evidence may have come from, and comparing it with similar reports, one can get a clearer picture of the truth. Not all news is fake.

Anyway. It is not often that I take a really prized possession with me to work, but today was one of those days. I decided, on a whim, to take a rather expensive book with me. This is a prized possession: William Harris Stahl's translation of Macrobius' De Somnio Scipionis, and besides a fair amount of digression by Macrobius, there are some especially noteworthy and most informative nuggets of information in this work. Not to mention that this is an absolutely outstanding translation, the scholarship in this work really is first rate.

Stahl wrote in the days before the internet, so this is a man that is extremely well read, as evidenced by the profound observations and acute footnotes contained within the work. While I studied my master's degree, as I was writing my final dissertation (which was on δαίμονες in Apuleius' De deo Socratis compared to the philosophical hermetica), my tutor advised me (rightly) to concentrate exclusively on contemporary or near contemporary sources. Other recent works on similar subjects often do this same thing, attempting to only ever cite contemporary or near contemporary sources. However, Stahl does not do this, and neither do I (unless I am told to by my tutor). Quite often, in the classical world, an ancient author will cite sources or sometime draw from sources which are not cited, that are very much more ancient than the time they were writing in. As such, it does not follow that only contemporary sources are relevant. Quite often, so long as an element of learning is directly relevant to the subject at hand, it is worth citing, even retrospectively. Take, for example, the conjectured etymology of the regular noun δαίμων. Seemingly Plato explored the etymology (Cratylus 397e-398c), but also, having read Macrobius, a much later writer, he too also explores its supposed etymology (Saturnalia 1.23.6-7). This is directly relevant to my translation of Apuleius' De deo Socratis, but is not relevant to a university dissertation (apparently). That both these supposed etymologies may well be incorrect is by the by.

Moreover, the translation I am currently reading by William Harris Stahl highlights a great many authors that a die-hard classicist and Christian (such as myself) may not be aware of. Many of them are from the Middle Ages. They are not the canonical Church Fathers or the most illustrious authors of the ancient world (though many of these get a mention as well), but are rather obscure or less well known, thus each and every one is of importance to me. The same will apply to my translation of Apuleius' De deo Socratis (to a lesser extent). The student reading it may not have heard of a certain author, thus, by not being restrictive in my use of sources, I will apply anything and everything that is directly relevant to the subject at hand sine ira et studio. In any case, it is a good Muse, Stahl's work, and certainly well worth every penny (dear though it was).

Max.

Progress on my play - Boadicea: Queen of the Iceni

Dear Diary,

I was in that... place again, with those... people, my "learned" colleagues. It was very busy, but nothing of note happened, at least not sufficiently noteworthy to be included in an intellectual's diary.

I am acutely aware that the audience here is rather limited (at least compared to my FB 'Meta' page), but it is enough that there exists a record of my frivolous, trifling and not leastways fulfilling 'life' (subsistence) as the lowest most basest slave that ever there were in Britain in its darkest age since Gildas wrote his De Excidio Britanniae.

My reading material today was a nice little book I picked up in a second hand shop in Cambridge when I lived there: The Celts by Nora Chadwick. It is an introductory work, but is well written, impartial, objective, and the author evidently has a keen knowledge of several languages and indeed a broad understanding of the archaeological evidence. Even if Nora does not cite her sources (ever) she does at least most often let the reader know which source she is referring to (so as a keen and wily literary type, I can simply pull the relevant book from my many shelves, or less often, look at some digitised version of a particular source).

As a result, this work (indirectly) will have a bit of an impact on my play - Boadicea: Queen of the Iceni which is almost finished now, being up to 1,150 lines (roughly 1,250 should be the limit, as any of Euripides' or Seneca's plays are). There is much beneath the surface, uncited, and I have kept to my notion of not citing anything classical, with one or two exceptions. I cannot say it is completely original, because it's not. Everything from Winston Churchill, Queen Elizabeth the First, even the late Prince Consort are in there. Yet most of all, there are two 'pillars' propping this work up: John Milton and Christopher Marlowe. (Shakespeare is not ignored, but is overshadowed by the "Muses' darling" and the immortal Milton).

As with any great literary work, it's not what one keeps in, but what one leaves out. There are some parts which are not really fit for a broad audience. As with any play I write, I take the approach that children may be in the audience, so I cannot make it in any way untasteful or unsuitable. It has to have style, but without the gore of Titus Andronicus or anything deemed unseemly.

In short, it is coming along nicely. I did actually have to stop myself from putting in certain things. There is a telling passage in Macrobius, which I only put half of in (like Macbeth it is an actual real magic spell, in Latin - and I don't mean people pulling rabbits out of hats). There is only one other invocation in the play, which I drew from modern hermetic writings interwoven with classical mythology. It was an invocation of all the four winds (though, according to Vitruvius, there are many more than that). As I just finished writing the final word, late in the night, well past the Witching Hour, suddenly the winds blew violently knocking all the trash cans all over the street. "Coincidence, or something more?" as Johnny Depp's character Dean Corso said in the controversial Roman Polanski movie The Ninth Gate (based on the novel The Club Dumas).

I confess, I have some motives for writing this work. They are positive motivations, namely, one could not help but notice living in Cambridge that the only two of Marlowe plays are regularly staged and performed by the Marlowe Society are (1) Dr. Faustus, and (2) Edward the Second. Why? Why not Dido: Queen of Carthage? (A much more classical work). Why not Tamburlaine the Great? The reason is simple: Dr. Faustus is a magical play, and Edward the Second is a very British play. So, if those are the only two remnants from "The Muses' darling" which survive (that is, Christopher Marlowe), then in order for me to achieve creative immortality, I, as a playwright, have a duty to pen a play that is both very British and most magical, which I have done. There is a romantic element (of course, no great story can exist without the unstoppable force of love). Equally, there is much of me invested into this play, not least of which the kinds of feelings you read here in this diary of mine... Speaking of which:

Even if I am neglected in my life, here, and now, this will not always be the case. This will be seen as a literary Golden Age, but is, in truth, a Dark Age. Prosaic novels are the mainstay today. I recall reading in Schaps' Handbook for Classical Research during my master's degree that, "Were Homer alive today he would have written a novel." I also recall studying Continuing Classical Latin that translating poems into "powerful" prose is where it's at nowadays. I could not disagree more strongly. At least, on the M.A., it was emphasised that one does not translate Catullus into prose, and the set text (not the Seneca) of Euripides' Trojan Women was done by the most excellent Diane Svarlien. Like the late great Rex Warner (I refer to his rare translation of Euripides' Medea, not his canonical translations of Thucydides etc.), Diane Svarlien is capable of translating excellent prose as well as being gifted enough to render poetry into verse well.

One wonders what would have been made of me in Elizabethan England, or in Florence 1463, or in 9th century Baghdad. An average translator back in the Abbasid Caliphate recieved £30,000 a month. I will not make that in three years! This is precisely why this is the literary Dark Age. One cannot see this as any kind of 'Renaissance', and certainly not a 'Golden' Age!

Consider, for example, these verses I wrote today.

Callizena:
If it may please your majesty, pray mam,
our scouts report that Verulamium
is well defended, girded by strong walls,
ramparts bristle with Rome’s machines of war.
It’s thought they’ve stored up much livestock and corn.

Boadicea:
What of their arms and armour, Roman?

Callizena:
Indeed, fashioned from Hephaestus’ forge.

Boadicea:
What kind of man is their governor?
Might he be amenable to our cause?

Callizena:
It is said that he’s a reasonable man.

Boadicea:
Lastly, good Druidess, what of the men
under his charge? What about their morale?
Where do their loyalties lie, him or Rome?

Callizena:
Steadfast, they are all in good spirits,
Dionysian Artificiers,
a guild of architects, very loyal,
brothers, bound by oaths sworn before the gods.

Boadicea:
All things and in all places are subject
to the gods and their power covers all
alike. Thus, accordingly, we should act.

Callizena:
I shall make all the necessary
preparations, to do what must be done.

Boadicea:
My thanks. May Andate bless our venture,
so that we are assured of victory.

Callizena [produces a talisman of two bodies entwined then raises her hands to heaven]:
Lunar Achaya, whose authority
is granted by the stars. Soldier, lover,
beloved by Mars and Hermaphrodite,
bring doom to citizens of this city.

Boadicea: Queen of the Iceni by Maxwell Lewis Latham, (most of) Scene 4, Act 3.

Primary sources: Xenophon, Anabasis 2.2.7; Cassius Dio 62.9.2-3; The Picatrix 1.4.7, 4.9.34.

Latin, Greek, reading and writing (and indeed publishing)

Dear Diary,

Notwithstanding putting up with my "learned" colleagues at that... place, I have been doing a little reading, as always. Some of my reading material is truly inspirational stuff. For example, I have been reading F.J.E. Raby's Christian Latin Poetry. It only contains the odd stanza in Latin, and is more of an overview of various poets that span the post classical period through to the Middle Ages, but what is interesting about it is the combination between various scholars and poets that had been well schooled in the (pagan) classical literary tradition but also instilled with the values of being good Christians. I find this period of history absolutely fascinating. I wrote a Miltonic epic poem (still only just started, a couple of thousand lines long so far) a while ago The Fall of Man, inspired by reading Milton, but also drawing on my classical learning and indeed the Christian literature I sometimes read (particularly the apocryphal scriptures: non canonical). Yet I started this before (a) I became aware of the (modern) hermetic milieu (a pivotal point in my life), and (b) before I completed my master's degree. This book has inspired me to re-start The Fall of Man from scratch, but that little Muse will have to wait until my umpteen other projects are finished, for now.

Indeed, while searching for some inspiration for my current Muse (Boadicea: Queen of the Iceni) regarding diplomatic negotiations between ancient peoples, I revisited Xenophon's Anabasis. This is a magnificent little work. I remember re-reading it some three years ago. Since then, I could not help but notice that it gets a passing mention in Ridley Scott's The Terror. There are a couple of really nice lines in it which can easily be delicately weaved into my new play.

Nennius is progressing, slowly. I know in my heart of hearts there is a lot more work it needs doing to it (because one must do the best job one can), even if the translation is actually complete. It is not so much the translation (though that will need to be meticulously checked, and re-checked, and indeed a close examination of the Latin recensions taken into account), but it is more a case of reading around the subject, to ensure that I can garner enough information to give it a proper treatment. It's a lot to take on board, but not unsurmountable.

I have my old laptop still working, which not only has MS Word on, but also the only game I play, Empire TW. However, since transferring all the files from one machine to the other, I have had no desire to switch it on. It is old, its hard drive clicks (my new machine has no moving parts but Flash RAM for a 'hard' drive). Despite the little quirks this new machine has, it is far superior to my old machine, despite having less RAM and roughly the same clock speed processor. AMD architecture is (and has always been) more innovative than Intel's. Whether it is floating point technology or any number of innovations (such as having smaller pins to be more efficient, as they generate less heat), instead of simply piggy-backing chips or cranking up the clock speed, AMD (and indeed ATI), has always been better, in my opinion, in terms of the evolution of "the dinosaur" (the 80x86 processor). In truth, a Deck Alpha or an Archimedes is a far superior machine, in terms of its working architecture, but these are old machines, and have long since been made obsolete. Anyway, I must get back to writing my play and finishing Nennius.

I am dreading yet another day in that... place tomorrow. I hate it. I loathe it. Slavery! If anyone reading this gets a so-called 'job offer' from the British academic establishment, think very carefully before giving it any due consideration. If my own testimony is to go by, the British talk a good fight, but when it comes to the crunch, they don't do anything, but give only excuses why they could not do anything. They have no honour.

Max.

Nennius, endnotes and the war in Ukraine

Dear Diary,

I managed to finally track down my only hard copy of the Latin text with my notes. It is such a slender book with such a small spine that it has no writing on it. I wonder what to flesh the book out with (besides additional translations, which I have done, John of Cornwall and Geoffrey of Monmouth: The Prophecies of Merlin). Nennius is a short work, and my translation is even shorter now that I have brutally culled all unnecessary footnotes. So, I was thinking of editing a Latin text, for the facing pages. I have to do this anyway, and it would mean that any interpolated sentences which I have put in can also be noted in other footnotes, where these additional sentences came from.

If I'm honest, it is not a great edit. What I have done is translate absolutely every word I can find, so have crammed in lots of sentences which are only found in obscure manuscripts. They are, I feel, important, because nothing should be missed. It is not so much a 'recension' as an 'expansion'.

I have learnt a couple of things during this whole process:

1) Never lose your only hard copy of a Latin (or Greek) text when you're translating, especially when you're as poor as a church mouse. Keep it on a shelf in your library close by, always to hand, in a proper place.

2) Never delete all the notes which note where you have cited a source. I had deleted them or simply not added them, relying on my memory to write the bibliography for them. Nine out of ten times I can recall where I have read something (for I know my personal library very well indeed), and even if I don't I can search for the author (I always rename to include both the author and date of any book or academic article I download from the University's library or an open academic journal). However, some of my most beloved works (such as the Cambridge Histories or Companions) do not have every file named with its author and date, so it is impossible to search for them.

In other matters, it is difficult to know what may happen concerning the war in Ukraine. There are many commentators out there, especially in the media, which are generally less calm and rational, but instead full of emotive sensationalism (especially in the tabloids). I feel that NATO's response has been very even minded and pragmatic. The world ought not to engage in a Third World War which could potentially bring about Mutually Assured Destruction (a nuclear war). The Zircon hypersonic glide missile is a pretty harsh weapon, as is the S-400 missile defence system. It all depends on one person: Vladimir. This is his war, his game, played by his rules.

Let us suppose, hypothetically, that NATO does get goaded into a Third World War. The Russians have already said, many times, that if they get clobbered they will take everybody else out with them. No one wants this. No one.

So let's suppose that nukes (notwithstanding so-called 'tactical' nukes) are out of the question, for fear of Mutually Assured Destruction. It is difficult to know what will happen. Much will depend on what countries like China or North Korea do, or even India. If it is Russia versus everyone else, everyone will lose, because Russia will ultimately destroy the world with nukes. However, nukes aside, it would be a bitter, cruel war, with much loss of life. I'm not sure if Vladimir has any real knowledge of the great British character during wartime. It doesn't matter how big the enemy, Britain does not quit, surrender and it is never intimidated. Moreover, it is true that the whole of Europe, and indeed The Five Eyes countries will weigh in. If Russia does try anything, probing and annexing countries, it will have one hell of a fight on its hands. Imagine: America, Canada, New Zealand, Australia, South Africa, Germany, France, Italy, Spain, Portugal, even less well off nations in Eastern Europe, and the northmen: Norway, Denmark even maybe Sweden and Finland (should these two join NATO). That is not to mention the bravest lion of them all: Great Britain. I can see this thing escalating out of control. Turkey, imagine, if they got involved. They have a huge military (one of the biggest in NATO). In any case, I hope this thing comes to and end, and it does not spiral out of control, but the way things are going, they're not looking good. The whole world order hangs in the balance. Imagine if Europe and the US and our allies all get bogged down in a heavy war in Eastern Europe. What might certain hostile nations in the Middle East and Africa do? Certainly they may take advantage of the chaos and disorder. Let's hope it doesn't come to that, but I can see another ten year Trojan War on the horizon.

Max.

Nennius and the inspiration behind Ridley Scott's "The Terror"

Dear Diary,

Deciding which notes to leave in, and much more importantly, which to omit, is an unenviable task. It is rather like compiling a selected index for a book in that one must decided which entries to include and which are unimportant. On the one hand, the notes should be informative, and shed light on the text, highlighting any historical mistakes (of which Nennius makes many, especially with regard to chronology). On the other hand, almost all the best translations I have read keep footnotes to an absolute minimum, and as concise as possible. It's a fine balancing act, a kind of tightrope walk, deciding upon what to leave out.

After not a little deliberation, I have taken the executive decision to include only those notes which cite other primary sources, or which are absolutely essential to the reading of the text. Having made (yet) another appendix, I have relegated all the interpolated sentences, from obscure manuscripts, and any alternative interpretations to said appendix.

I still have much work to do, and reading through Notjohn's Guide to eBook Formatting is a dreary drudge. I would sooner be translating Latin or learning ancient Greek, but no progress was ever made by flitting between different tasks as though a butterfly.

I confess, I have misplaced the only hard copy I own of the Latin text, which contains my hand written notes. When I ordered some new shelves I reconfigured my many (many) books in their places, and this one book seems to have slipped the net. However, not being able to track it down is not the end of the world. I needed to go over the text again, and indeed this particular edition of Nennius is simply a copy-paste job from Wikisource's Latin from Mommsen's edition, so is no great loss. In fact, it is one of the few books I don't mind losing, for it does not contain anything which cannot be found elsewhere.

The pressure is slightly on since I gave a copy of the translation to another historian for her to make an honest review of it. It's time critical, and I should have gotten more work done on it today.

Rather astonishingly, Sir Earnest Shackleton's explorer ship The Endurance was recently found by marine-archaeologists (here). Although this expedition, and others like it at the time, appeared to have been the inspiration for the Ridley Scott serial The Terror, there is actually much more to this tale of exploration than meets the eye. In one of my favourite books, The Third Man Factor by John Geiger, the author recounts the 'sensed person' ghostly presence, an apparition which manifested on this ill-fated expedition from the heyday of the greatest empire the world has ever seen (The British Empire, naturally).

The old ball and chain said last month that she would front me the money for editing three books. She said the same this month, that I should have it with me last week. What with me investing in a new computer last month, and a foolhardy errand spent helping out a friend this month, means that for the last three weeks of last month, and indeed the last three weeks of this month, I have been, and am now subsisting on a shoestring, as poor as a church mouse. No matter. I could have and should have been more prudent. I was relying on the old ball and chain to make good, but I had also foreseen payment problems with this person. It is not easy living out in China or Taiwan and engaging in the international monetary transfer system. There are many problems. Besides, whenever I worked for Chairlady Mao or even the bloody awful job I have now, I am always paid after I have done the work, not before. Therefore, it comes as no surprise that the old ball and chain just mentioned that she has gone on holiday for a month, and is therefore unavailable. One must make do with what one has. Fortunately, the most important thing of all is already covered this month: little Ronulus' dog food, which I have an abundance of. I could live better than I do by walking into work (two house, up steep hills, through the mud, sometimes in the rain) but that is not a good solution. I would be rather weary by the time I arrived there, so I shall have to simply make do with preserving what little I have left this month to go on getting to and from work. It's only twenty days, and besides, where I work there is food (even if I only rarely am allowed some). One can subsist on scraps, make do with what little one has. This is not a problem. What irks me (though it should not do, truth be told) is that the old ball and chain didn't make good on her word last month, this month, and now seemingly not for another month while she gallavants off to some retreat. Just because I am as good as my word, does not mean that anyone else is. I should not judge. The old ball and chain was kind in forwarding me money for editing books. Yet, much like the failed start at creating a new school, payment will always be a problem for her. When people rely on payment, regularly, to make their rent, this is a serious issue, therefore I can see problems in this area.

The best thing to do is to become self-reliant. I have had enough of this bloody slavery nonsense, which is espoused by the likes of Thomas a Kempis. One paper I read, several years ago (even before the United Nations report on inequality and poverty in the U.K.) by the London School of Economics, proved that working is not the way out of poverty. One of my absolute favourite actors, Denzel Washington, once said, "Working really hard is what successful people do." Yet working for what? For whom?

A poet and singer, and indeed author I know, once said to me, "There are only two people that make any money in this world [Britain]: the owners of businesses, and the HMRC." I asked my ex-fianceé if this is true (she owns seven houses and has worked in Westminster for years) and she replied that yes, this is true. Therefore it must be true, if the London School of Economics say it's true, and Mike the Biker says its true (he himself being comparatively successful on the scale of bottom feeders and beggars and slaves), and Anna 'She Who Must Be Obeyed' says its true, then it must be true.

Of course, I've read enough economic history, particularly recent economic history, to understand that it is much more complicated than that. There is the classical economics of Adam Smith, then there is the John Maynard Keynes style of economics, and, much more recently, speculating on crypto and indeed less recently, offshore tax havens and trust funds. This is, again, only scratching the surface of what is a very deep subject.

I am not materialistic, but I'm also not enjoying a day off with no money, when I've worked so hard. Therefore, it is time to get on with the task at hand, and attempt to complete my own self-set assignment of having just enough royalties trickling in from various books I have translated (and indeed my play, Boadicea: Queen of the Iceni, which only needs the finishing touches and crowning ornaments put to it), to 'tick along nicely' and not have to worry so much. I feel that having (as the old ball and chain reckons) 'fifty books' up there, is a target to aim for. Yet I must be selective. Anyone can write fifty books worth of prosaic waffle. Not anyone can make targeted precision Latin translations, which are gaps in the market, and which are on reading lists of current modules. Nennius and Boadicea are just the start. I also have Apuleius already done (and a master's dissertation written on it, which will help with the commentary), and indeed another book translated from the French. Do you know how much it costs to get a decent translation of Apuleius' De deo Socratis? (I do not mean the over a century year old but still quite readable Thomas Taylor translation, freely available on the web). £25 for the Jones' translation (Loeb), and £170 for Harrison's translation (Oxford). Neither of these books are affordable to the common man (unless you're a book addict like I am), therefore a more reasonable ten pounds should suffice for a good clean copy of the text translated into clear, readable, idiomatic English. I shall certainly undercut other authors too, notably the sixty year old translation of the French author I am half way through translating (on the contrary, Apuleius is finished already), and indeed Fred Ahl's translation of Seneca's Troades (again, I'm only half way through that translation).

So my current status of my translations (excluding the 'secret' translations I am undertaking, so secret, that I cannot name them lest some opportunistic classicist gets there before me) are as follows:

Nennius, History of the Britons including The Prophecies of Merlin (very nearly almost complete)
Apuleius, De deo Socratis (very nearly complete, like Nennius - it just needs checking).
van Gennep (half way home)
Seneca, Troades (also half way home)
(Various other translations at various different stages of completion, all only just started, really).

So, I must get back with my nose to the grindstone, checking these bloody footnotes. It will be nice to see this project completed, finally, and not have to be at the behest of either Chairlady Mao or the old ball and chain any more (or indeed the brutish beasts I slave for).

Max.