Voyage of the Bounty (revisiting an old primary source for modern history)

Dear Diary,

Once upon a time, as I strolled about the munificent city streets of Cambridge, I happened upon a little book in a book store, tucked away between the myriad volumes which graced its shelves. I don't often buy books that are not directly related to my specialism (classical studies), but this one caught my eye, and it truly is a little gem of a work. William Bligh and Edward Christian - The Bounty Mutiny (Penguin Classics).

Although much of the book is from the perspective of the Royal Navy (Bligh's diary, mainly), the appendices reveal other sides to this seemingly open and shut case, especially the reply to the trial which took place on the 12th of August, 1792, a court martial for the mutinous rebellion aboard The Bounty. Anyway, formerly named the Bethia, renamed the Bounty, she left Spithead in a gale on her ill-omened voyage on the 23rd of December, 1787. (It is a misconception that it was Captain Bligh, for he was not promoted until his return, but during the voyage, though in charge of her, William Blight held the rank of Lieutenant in HMRN). Anyhow, this is an absolutely riveting read, every bit as good as any film dramatisation of it, nay, better.

Starting out as a student of the law, the case and minutes of the trial are actually really quite excellent. It was a landmark human rights case in the history of Great British law. Naturally, Bligh got the verdict he sought, and it was only because of Fletcher Christian's brother, a well connected chap and a fairly good attorney by all accounts, that any kind of posthumous rebuttal was given. On the one hand we have the admiralty, the strict maintaining of discipline aboard a ship, very much the Establishment and all that entails. On the other hand we have one very precious thing: humanity. It is cases like these that provide the reason why the law is tempered with mercy. One cannot be utterly heartless and expect to keep the loyalty of one's crew for very long at all.

Fletcher Christian's rebuttal is really quite excellent reading, and the diary and trial even more so. There is even another important source at the back of this book, the testimony of Jenny Martin ((Madison, 2001, pp.228-234 [The Bounty Mutiny]), among others (such as a certain John Adams). The language used in this book is absolutely spiffing (I wish people spoke this way nowadays). For example, here are some excepts from the Proceedings of the Court Martial.

"...On the 14th [of June, 1789] in the afternoon [I] saw the island... and west part of Timor... where... the governor resided. On the next morning before day I anchored under the fort, and about eleven, I saw the governor, who received me with great humanity and kindness. Necessary directions were instantly given for our support, and perhaps more miserable beings were never seen. Thus happily ended, through the assistance of Divine Providence, without accident, a voyage of the most extraordinary nature that ever happened in the world, let it be taken either in its extent, duration, or so much want of the necessaries of life." Willaim Bligh (in Madison, 2001, p.74). Bligh had earlier quoted the (alleged) language used during the mutiny, such as "Hold your tongue, Sir, or you are dead this instant." (p.72). How polite is that for a mutiny? Fletcher Christian then (according to Bligh's testimony) addressed William Bligh saying, "Sir, your officers and men are now in the [life] boat, you must go with them." Again, impeccable manners these gentlemen have, unlike cursing pirates or uncivilised savages.

That is only one side of the story. Edward Christian writes (p.135) that 'Bligh used to call his officers "scoundrels, damned rascals, hounds, hell-hounds, beasts, and infamous wretches."' Indeed, according to many men of excellent chracter and honest disposition, their testimonia, according to Edward Christian, states that "he [Bligh] would kill one half of the people [i.e. crew], make the officers jump overboard, and would make them eat grass like cows". Edward Christian goes on to allege that, "whatever fault was found, Mr. [Fletcher] Christian was sure to bear the brunt of the Captain's anger." (p.135) but that, "He was no milksop." (p.137) after having been reduced to tears from abuse, starvation, punishment and the threat of still harsher punishment by Bligh (pp.136-137). Due to one missing coconut, Bligh accused Christian and others of having stolen his coconut supply, saying, "You are allowed a pound and a half of yams today, but tomorrow I shall reduce you to three quarters of a pound [a day ration per man]." (p.136) All the while Bligh was well provisioned, as indeed did the ship was too.

These are just a few examples of what a wonderful little book this is.

Max.

Our new band, my day off

Dear Diary,

I expected Dr. Walsh to be worse for wear, but upon seeing him he was lively, good company, and upon the surface at least there is no discernable trace of his neurological condition which renders him immobile. We had a few jars, discussed philosophy and theology, and it was an amicable catch up. He expressed interest in attending the literary festival this year, which may perhaps be a possibility, maybe. I have, at least, been granted a week off during this period by those... people.

The luthier came round and we had a jam, and even recorded some of it, which was awesome.

Chairlady Mao offered me an assignment this morning. Whoever had edited it before had done a hatchet job of it and I was left to clean up the mess. I made the deadline with a slender ten minutes to spare. It was a frivolous assignment, some silly research paper by a media studies student. I do find it interesting how the author of whatever subject it is I mark, seems to imagine that their particular academic specialism is absolutely essential to the running of their country. It doesn't matter whether it is hand-crafted bamboo woodworks, or AI, or (in today's case) the use of television programmes and educational films in schools. This is, even if what is written is demonstrably false (such as the creator of neural networks [mistakenly] believing that they are somehow 'conscious', or as in today's assignment: the use of watching T.V. being deemed more useful to students than actually reading books!). Yet these are the Dark Ages, so the premises of such syllogisms need not contain truths, but only require to follow one after another. In a way it's good: let the Chinese believe that computers are self aware and that television programmes contain more knowledge than actually bothering to read the sources in their original languages.

The old ball and chain reached out and we patched things up. I am, however, having second thoughts about being brought back into the fold already. I cannot justify creating and teaching an entire module only to hand over a fifth of the profits, then have those themselves taxed the same amount, and be left with some miserable pittance for performing the Herculean task of designing, writing then teaching a module, or even several modules. Their overheads are very slight (between $150-300 per annum is the cost to host a website from the particular provider they have chosen), so I find it very difficult to justify handing over a fifth of any profits made. For what? For love of queen and country? (A most admirable and worthwhile cause if ever there were one, sincerely). Alas no.

Moreover, without consulting me (and I was the one that came up with the name of this 'school' - if it can be called such, for it is not leastways official and no member of staff - except one - actually holds the necessary qualifications to be able to teach at that level) they changed the name of the school. Unfortunately, without any of them being classicists, these people did not realise that they have chosen a name which is identical to the most venerable and well established classical studies database on the web. Therefore if anyone types in the name of their 'school', it will be jumbled up with this website itself (which is part of Tufts University in the United States of America), a myriad posts discussing this particular website and more than that, a wealth of Greek mythological websites. I can see why they have chosen this particular name, because of Clash of the Titans, that old 70s movie. Yet there is actually no real hermetic allegory there (at least, not in the ancient world: I suspect that some of the Renaissance hermeticists may - or may not - have used it, but my specialism being classical studies means I am much more well versed in the actual ancient sources themselves than any Reception Studies).

In any case, my ranting aside, the 'school' is more about personal development than it is about formal schooling (evidently). Some of the people there do actually have a great deal of knowledge above and beyond the ordinary level (knowledge which is either disregarded by many academics - because it is not substantive or tactile - or kept secret, for a jolly good reason). Speaking of which, this is the reason why I left in the first place. The group is small, less than a dozen people, and yet the old ball and chain wanted to make a group within a group, a secret group, in which the others were not to know about any and all things pertaining to the working and running of the school. If it were me running it, I would have insisted that we each contribute to the hosting fee of the site (which would amount to just over 10 bucks each or so a year) then give all the lecturers 100% of any profits they make. It's not like we have to pay the cleaning lady or subscribe to exclusive academic databases. Yet the old ball and chain did precisely what I expected her to do: take the money. And who wouldn't? Well, me, of course. (I am being completely serious). It is for this reason that I continue to focus on what is most useful, most expedient, and what will actually garner real results, rather than slaving away for bugger all, as I have been doing, as I will continue to do - that is, unless I take action.

I certainly can't rely on the British Academic Establishment to make good on their word. They have no honour. This is Dark Age Britain. One does not spend twelve years studying at university only to end up in a good job which is directly relevant to what you spent twelve years studying. That's not the way things are done here. It is not a civilised country. The place is run by thugs, clowns and crooks, for the benefit of other thugs, clowns and crooks. That's just the way things are, no two ways about it (based upon the evidence).

Tomorrow there is some street festival. The luthier wants to busk it. If I'm honest, I could use the money (for I have spent all I earned so far this month already, and Chairlady Mao's gig amounts to $8, which will be about £5 once PayPal takes its cut and the exchange rate cuts it to ribbons). Yet the reason I work is so that I don't have to go begging ('busking'). I am not enthused about it, at all. Moreover, it will be too rowdy, too crowded tomorrow. All the other acts are being paid to be there, and don't have to beg, so why should I be the only one there with my cap in hand?

Stalin wasn't at home yesterday (a very rare occurrence indeed). As a result, the extremely precious parcel of long since out of print university level commentaries did not arrive (some tragedies by Euripides and a couple of plays by Aristophanes). I should have stayed at home, had I wanted to receive it, but what fun would that have been on my one day off a week? According to the bookseller, the parcel is being held in Basingstoke (some hundred miles to the east of where I live, and the book came from the north and west of where I live!). This is surely Dark Age Britain. Imagine, if I were a courier in the ancient world, on horseback, or even a hobo nowadays with a message for a friend. I would certainly not walk 100 miles in the completely opposite direction to deliver the message. Yet this is not Elizabethan England. Messages are not sent by the most direct route. Here, in Dark Age Britain, parcels are sent hundreds of miles in the complete opposite direction in order to be delivered. One wonders why this is so, yet you know the answer, dearest diary, don't you? Because these are the Dark Ages, and will be remembered as such.

Max.

Tommorow's plans (for my day off) and today's work

Dear Diary,

Dr. Walsh is not terribly well I'm afraid, so I have said that I will pay him a visit on my day off. No doubt he will be glad of some company for since his neurological condition manifested (which renders him unable to walk at times) it must have been difficult for him.

In addition, I have arranged to meet the luthier and his mother, the author, on the morrow, which should be jolly good fun. No doubt we will play some music, though here in the countryside rather than there in town. Doubtlessly I shall be well away by the time I arrive, as Dr. Walsh drinks hard. No doubt the luthier will too. I'm actually rather looking forward to it. Dr. Walsh is into Bob [Dylan] but the luthier more into Frank [Zappa]. The former does not play, but is interesting to talk to because he is an intellectual and well educated. The latter plays a kind of hip-hop music, somewhere between the Red Hot Chilli Peppers and Cypress Hill. It's actually pretty cool. He is also interesting to talk to, because he is well travelled. He is also an outstanding percussionist and vocalist, which bodes well for forming a band, as he is as gifted as he is amicable.

Today I managed to get about 20 pages worth of editing done for the old ball and chain. My aim is to have it finished before the month is out. I only translated a mere start of a 6 lines long sentence in my current Latin translation today, so I shall return to it now, over a nice glass of Australian red, and a quiet evening in.

I was at that... place, yet again, with those... people. It is a tedious dreary drudge, and my only escape from it is finishing the end of Potoki's Manuscript Found at Saragossa which has a surprisingly curious ending, full of mythical beings, romance and ghosts, all set among the backdrop of religious tension and mystical practices.

Max.

A day translating Latin and working (and my bumpkin housemate on gardening).

Dear Diary,

Not being on call for Chairlady Mao 24/7 and still having a couple of months to burn on my deadline for the old ball and chain means I've been taking it easy for a little while, and instead of editing, I've been translating Latin. It's my not-so-secret little project and I'm making good progress. It's almost a hundred pages of pretty harsh Medieval Latin (some words, albeit a few, are quite rare, and certainly very late Latin). If I'm honest, I am not a medievalist, I'm a classicist, so I translate in the classical style. For example, many Latin books state that the subjunctive mood in Medieval Latin must always be omitted and rendered into the present mood instead. This is absolute nonsense. Just because some obscure Latin grammar book from the Dark Ages (which probably didn't even have much circulation) may have stated this preposterous 'rule', does not mean that it should be followed to the letter. Why? Because in both Nennius' History of the Britons and Hildegard von Bingen's Scivias (to name but a few, Walter Maps also springs to mind) there are several sentences where the same verb, appears in the same sentence numerous times, sometimes in the indicative mood and sometimes in the subjunctive mood. Therefore, why would Nennius or Hildegard bother to inflect both verbs differently if they (apparently) 'have no meaning'? However, there are some Medieval Latin rules I do stick to. For example, in Classical Latin (although I have also seen this 'rule' broken in antiquity), the preposition in before a noun in the Accusative case means 'towards, into, on to' or even 'at', but in before a noun in the Ablative case means 'in, on, among'. In Medieval Latin this is not so (according Ronal Latham's Medieval Latin Word List). For example, the Nicene Creed begins with credo in unum deum which does not mean, "I believe towards/into/on to/at one God" but means "I believe in one God". It's horses for courses.

In any case, I've rendered this book I am translating (which is fascinating by the way, I am becoming more and more of an astrologus by the day) into clear, readable English, with copious footnotes elucidating the nuances or alternative interpretations as best I can. I will still have a lot of reading to do (and I mean a shed load, with a complete table of every conjunction and configuration of the planets and constellations which appear in the book I'm translating, hand written beside me at all times, so if I spot the same conjunction or configuration [and there are potentially thousands] in Ptolemy or Manilius or Dorotheus then I will duly make a note of it, and add it to my translation).

Speaking of Dorotheus, I had not realised, but reading through it, the tables in the book were actually a part of the original manuscript (albeit written in Classical Arabic), so I have decided against including little pictures and charts, because they are not a part of this translation.

Today I went into town early, and had a lovely lunch and sat and did my translation, by hand. The weather was nice, and I actually prefer the company of books to people. Sure, I am sociable, and engage in conversation when the opportunity arises, but I prefer to be quiet now that I am older, and simply get on with my work.

Speaking of which, I was in that... place, and it did make me think that I really shouldn't be there, at all. I remember being at the Care Home and quoting Juvenal (in Latin, of course) on my break and one carer said, "You shouldn't be working here washing up." The same thing happened at that... place, when I once brought my guitar in and played a song I had written for my ex-fianceé, when my colleague said, "You shouldn't be working here." Yet this is Dark Age Britain, not Elizabethan England. Education has no meaning here, nor does talent. It wouldn't matter how talented or well educated one may be here. The game is rigged, invitation only (tax free offshore havens, trust funds, read Bullough's Moneyland to know more about this), by a group of nobby pricks that never did a day's work in their sorry lives. But that's okay. The fact that I hold a master's degree in Classical Latin, yet my job entails precisely the same duties I did when I was working at age 14, now I am 43, says more about Dark Age Britain than it does about myself. 'Meritocracy' is not a word which exists in Dark Age Britain, only countries outside of it.

Take Stalin for instance, my landlord. He is lazy, idle, a clodhopper, has no education to speak of, hasn't worked in years. He said to me once in his provincial Farmer Palmer accent, "Ooh arr, an' your Laaatin don't know nuffink about plaaantin' potatoes and carrots." (It was my idea that he should have a vegetable garden, by the way). I said nothing at the time, but rested quietly, safe in the knowledge that there are in fact many great books on the art of agriculture in the Latin canon, all of which grace my book shelves: Cato, Columella, Varro, even Pliny wrote about how to manage fields, as did his nephew (though he was more about villa management). Not only that but in ancient Greek too, there are excellent examples of agricultural practices. One has to think only of Hesiod's Works and Days. I remember thinking that Stalin's plants must be thirsty in the summer heat, and suggested that instead of him watering the plants in the evening, when the sun sets (he usually only gets up in the afternoon), he should instead water them in the morning, because of the humidity which permeates the atmosphere at night. (Remember, I lived outside for 15 years...). He said, "Ooh arr. No, don't wanna do thaaat." We looked it up. Sure enough, the very best time to water plants is first thing in the morning. Yet he still waters them last thing at night, and sows seeds too late in the year! (And he wonders why they don't come up! Ha!).

Education here is merely a form of stigma, ridicule, nothing more. Academics are marginalised. Stalin is higher up on the social scale than I am, effectively, often calling me a 'peasant' or a 'barbarian'. He is also better off than I am. Yet this is not Elizabethan England, it's Dark Age Britain. That is the way things are here.

Max.

The Carmen Astrologicum by Dorotheus of Sidon (trans. Pingree) and other books

Dear Diary,

My ignorance of Eastern languages is gradually being remedied, if only slightly. Seemingly Pahlavi is a kind of ancient Persian language, rooted in Aramaic, and is distinct from Classical Arabic. This text (the Carmen Astrologicum) by Dorotheus of Sidon had an afterlife in apparently both these languages (Pingree, 2005, pp.xii-xiii). David Pingree is certain that Dorotheus was from Sidon, not Egypt, citing the authorities of Julius Firmicus Maternus and Michael Italicus (p.vii see also p.xiv n.5). I am uncertain whether this may be the case or not, because right at the very start of the work the author (writing in the third person) states that Dorotheus is an Egyptian (Prologue 1-2), and that quotes Dorotheus saying that, "I have travelled... in many cities, and I have seen the wondrous things which are in Egypt and in Babylon, which is in the direction of the Euphrates." (Prologue 4 trans. Pingree, 2005, p.1). Therefore it may be the case that Dorotheus was perhaps born in Egypt, but settled in Sidon at some point in his life.

In any case, despite my lack of knowledge of obscure Persian dialects (though I happen to have a good Persian-English dictionary gracing my shelves and indeed a few good books on how to learn Arabic), reading this only in translation, it is still a fascinating little book. I should like to see the surviving ancient Greek fragments, as this translation is in mere prose (the language of mere mortals) whereas the title is Carmen ('poem, song, spell') of Astrology (Astrologicum). Dorotheus probably wrote in ancient Greek hexameter verse (p.vii), so this work is most certainly only really appreciated by those with a keen knowledge of a wide variety of ancient languages. Reading Lucan, for example, in English prose (by the late great Robert Graves), is a completely different experience to reading him in Latin, and the same goes for Manilius (the late G.P. Goold, in this case, having done a fine yet prosaic translation of his Astronomica). Besides, many Latin words, especially verbs have between a half a dozen and two dozen different meanings, some similar, some vastly different.

Even so, this 'song' is very readable, even dumbed down into the prosaic vernacular.

There are some other aspects (not the specific astrological term, but applied more generally in this case) of this little publication which will undoubtably affect my own work. For example, illustrations. I dislike illustrations in books, because they can display improperly over various different devices. However, there are ways around this (according to the book on eBook formatting I recently bought), and in a book on astrology it is important to actually have examples of natal charts and other tables, which are much more clearly displayed in an image than wading through lots of text. It is not essential, at all, but will enhance the book's value (I am speaking of worth, not mere pecuniary considerations, but dignitas).

I picked up a couple of other books in town today. One book on how to play the bodhrán (for I intend to start a Bardcore career on the Tube), another book I used to own, which I already do own a concise version of (The Oxford Dictionary of Quotations). This is a newer edition, sadly, so the Latin section at the end is missing (I used to own the proper full on edition). Still, it may yet provide a little inspiration, and has a useful index. I also bought one other book today, which is an absolutely fascinating little read World of Strange Powers by Arthur C. Clarke, John Fairley and Simon Welfare (it is non-fiction).

Oh, and I did also order £100 worth of ancient Greek primary sources, out of print university level translation commentaries (Euripides and Aristophanes). I think curbing my book addiction, capping it at £113 a month is just about good enough. Besides, I'm running out of space. I need to put some more shelves up.

Max.

Developments, a night out and work to be done

Dear Diary,

I shall be honest with you, dearest diary. I detest my job, but it is of no service to complain about such menial, servile and base subsistence. As Richard Harris said in the opening scene of Man in the Wilderness, "Complaining never helped anybody." I surmise that the best thing to do is to simply keep buggering on, no matter the difficulties.

If I am honest, I am placing all my faith in my current translation project. It has the best potential. It is not as epic or anywhere near as poetic or elegant as my magnum opus, id est: Boadicea: Queen of the Iceni. It is a late work (a product of the 13th century, seemingly), but based on a much earlier original in ancient Greek. It is also highly technical and most certainly prosaic. Therefore it is an ideal work for the literary Dark Age - void of elegance, love or poetry, and filled with technical minutiae written in the most bland and dreary prose imaginable - formulaic, just like the hallmarks of the Dark Age. Informative, but without any kind of grace, no finesse, no style, perfect for Dark Age Britain.

I should have been more attentive to my duties lately. I have a book to edit. I should have met the luthier's mother and had Sunday lunch with them, in order to facilitate this little job I am to do for her. I should have done many things, translate, do more chores. Yet, an opportunity arose upon the spur of the moment, and I took it. My friend is... not exactly what one might call a learned man, but he is honest, and seems to have a heart. I confess, that like many of my friends, he is a rough diamond, with his own rigid set of principles and moral compass. It was as terrifying as it was delightful to spend time with him. (I actually detest playing computer games, with the sole exception of Rome, Medieval or Empire TW). Yet it was more company than anything else.

Tomorrow I must make good on a few things (the artwork for Boadicea, a hundred pounds worth of extremely rare books I have ordered - all in ancient Greek - and indeed pay some other dues which are necessary). I also have to buy a new pair of shoes, for mine are now worn through with many miles of walking (the heel of the shoe came apart today - surely a tell tale sign that I must invest in a new pair of brogues). I must also buy some smart trousers, and possibly a shirt or two. I should like to spend more money on books and shelves, but a limit of £100 on books and £200 on a commissioned artwork is quite sufficient for this month.

Would that I could translate poetry, mythology, or great religious texts from the classical canon (namely, the Biblia Sacra) or even the prophecies of Hildegard von Bingen. Yet this is the path of the pauper. For my sins, I see the most prudent course of action is to translate astrological texts, texts on neo-paganism (runic magic) and other such niches yet to be exploited. These are the Dark Ages, therefore poetry and Christianity have no place here. Philosophy, while laudable, is for slaves, beggars and paupers. Were I to dedicate my life to translating works of philosophy, or Walter Hilton or Thomas a Kempis or Hildegard von Bingen, or even Ovid, Virgil or Juvenal, I would wake up the next morning in bondage. Prosaic works of magic and prognostication are where it's at in the Dark Ages, not such silly things as magnificent poetry or having a moral compass.

Max.

Saint George's Day and some reading

Dear Diary,

I read the ancient Greek/Syriac version of the legend of Saint George today (only in translation because I don't happen to understand classical Syriac - yet), and remarkably, unlike the Latin version by Jacobus Voragine (or 'Veragine' in some texts), there is no dragon. Strange.

Today I am nearing the end to Jan Potocki's magnificent little magnum opus and it has reached a marvellous section where the gypsy king recounts his service among the knights of Malta. It is a fabulous little love story.

Another book arrived today, Dorotheus of Sidon translated from classical Arabic. According to the translator, this version was based on texts written in Palhavi script (Pingree, 2005, p.vii), which is seemingly a kind of Persian language derived from Aramaic. In any case, it is nice to finish one book only to begin another (one gets bored of reading the same old texts, even the hundreds of magnificent texts which adorn my shelves). It is a book on astrology, the Carmen Astrologicum which is of help in my current translation.

If, for example, you happened to be studying with the Open University, and you typed in the name of this text I am currently translating (the main name, for it has three names) you would find nothing on it. Zero. All you would find one article which is in the public domain anyway, under a creative commons licence (the only other article I have found, I had to use my personal Jstor account, as the University did not have access to it: both these articles refer to a different book with (roughly) the same name, probably written a century earlier than the one I am translating currently. To make matters worse, they touch upon similar subjects, but a close inspection of the Latin of both works reveals that they are separate). For the record - and this is not being defamatory but merely stating a fact - the OU Library has gotten progressively worse and worse over the twelve years I have studied there. When I first began studying, in 2010, the OU Library was so great. You could search and find any module materials from any subject you liked, as well as an extremely wide range of articles and journals, academic essays etc. Then, just as I began my first degree, suddenly all the module materials were made inaccessible to students (except for the one module you happened to be studying). Then, as I was nearing the end of my first degree, suddenly very many articles disappeared from search results as the Library was "upgraded" (downgraded, in reality). Then, it was again "upgraded" just last year, and yet more articles are again inaccessible. Even so, it's better than no access at all, and there are still many things useful up there, but certainly not worth the £3,200/year (at current rates: studying two law modules at a time) you have to pay for access to it. Anyway, back to cases. This book which arrived today (Dorotheus of Sidon) has helped me finally pin down a rough date for my current translation's composition. It is much later than I thought.

Like I said, there is very little information about this particular book which I am translating, anywhere. Most of the information I have on it comes from passing references in books I own on the subject, and of course the vast commentary in the critical edition itself (which I can't read because I only understand French and Latin, and some ancient Greek). Evidently it is not written in a language I understand. I do, however, own a book which teaches one how to understand that language, and I have a good dictionary of that particular tongue, so fathoming it is not impossible, given enough time and work.

In any case, happy Saint George's Day everyone. Ciao for now.

Max.

My one day off a week (developments, Hay, friends and a potential opportunity).

Dear Diary,

I should have perhaps made more of an effort on my one day off this week. I should be editing a book which I am part way through. I managed to only translate a few lines of Latin, and spent the day reading the wonderful Jan Potocki and playing Vikings 878 the boardgame with Stalin. Stalin won, sadly, but only because he captured my beloved home town of Bridport, and I dispatched the entire English army to track the cur down. I should perhaps be more prudent in future.

The idea about attending the Hay on Wye Literary Festival has been shot in the foot. Sean Walsh has recently, and most lamentably, developed a neurological condition in which he collapses sometimes, unable to get up. This is embarrasing for him, particularly when he goes to the bar to get a round in. As a result I have said that I will visit him at home next week on his day off. He's still writing, having a sympathetic colleague which has gotten him his old job back. So at least that's something. Indeed, Mrs. Richter cannot attend because she has her End of Module Assesment coming up, so must study. I understand her predicament.

Yesterday there may have been some opportunity which arose. It is a position as an 'Associate' working for a company that does charity work and manages grant allocation, and was extended. It is perhaps possible that I may cinch it, but I am not about to hold my breath. The chances are I probably won't get it, but one remains hopeful. Should I be deemed a suitable candidate, I shall certainly continue my cursus honorum and begin studying towards a degree in law, with a view to becoming a barrister. In the meantime, I shall have to bide my time in that... place (which does not bear thinking about). One bites one's tongue, does one's duty, and does the best one can, under the circumstances.

Seemingly this (potential) opportunity is a government funded scheme. This may provide some evidence that the current administration is actually serious about 'levelling up' and creating 'higher paid, higher skilled jobs' for those from working class backgrounds that have taken the time and trouble to invest their time and money into becoming more well educated. The position itself is specifically aimed at those from working class backgrounds. Granted, the job has absolutely nothing to do with anything I spent a dozen years studying towards at university, but this isn't 1463 in the time of Cosimo de' Medici, it's Dark Age Britain, so that is only to be expected. In some countries, when one studies law, one becomes a lawyer. When one studies medicine, one goes into the medical profession. When one studies classical history, one becomes a classical historian. Evidently this approach does not apply here. (' Transferrable skills' is merely a term which attempts to apply clearly evident irrelevance to something which is supposedly relevant). In any case, this potential opportunity may provide a stepping stone towards upping my game, so to speak. It may buy me some time to get what I need done (that is, publish a shed load of books).

Speaking of which, I have an appointment with the luthier's mother soon (that author intimately acquainted with the great classicist Peter Jones), to discuss that little job. This again will provide an impetus for me formatting my own books, which is a happy coincidence.

Today is Her Majesty the Queen's birthday. I read on the BBC News website that Her Majesty said that the novelty of birthdays wears off at such a venerable age. For the past few years I have always penned a poem for Her Majesty, honouring her birthday, and had I not read that little quote, I would have done this again. However, this is Her Majesty's Platinum Jubilee, so a little poem is insufficient to mark such an occasion. Therefore an entire play is much more fitting. The artist I hired, an old school friend, Clare, just got back to me this morning on her way out of the door heading to work. We have a (virtual) meeting scheduled for tomorrow morning to discuss the cover artwork for my play, in honour of HM's Platinum Jubilee, Boadicea: Queen of the Iceni. This is excellent, as it means I am on target to publish it on my self set deadline of June the 3rd, when the celebrations begin. Clare is concerned about what medium she should use. She has suggested acrylics or pastels (the former because she cannot afford oils). Therefore I shall have to buy her some very high quality oil paints, because if one does a job, one must do it to the best of one's ability. Besides, acrylics only last a generation or so, being made of cheap plastic compounds. Oils last for much longer, and I wish to have this painting framed and preserved for as long as possible. It commemorates something very special, and indeed marks the occasion of my first published play (one of many...). I am very much looking forward to seeing Boadicea be brought to life, not only in text upon a page, but brought to life in the vibrancy and colour of a magnificent oil painting which shall adorn my room for many years to come. I should very much like to hand it down to my daughter, so that it stays in the family, seeing as she is all that will remain of me once I have passed to the other side, be it above or below (at the whim of Thanatos - should the ancient hermetic writings contain any truth, which I believe they do).

Here's a little something I translated from Stobaeus' hermetic 'fragments' (26.4):

When they are peaceful, so the soul also returns to its proper peaceful course. If the soul liked to repay justice, then the soul also does the duty of a judge. If the soul was a musician, then the soul also sings. If the soul loved the truth, then the soul also devotes itself to philosophy. Indeed, it is almost a necessity that these souls are appropriate to their way, to see them do what they loved doing on earth. Because, if, they fell into humanity, the souls had forgotten their proper nature and even more so for the souls which are further away, in revenge the souls remind themselves of the way of being, of those things which had been locked away.

Bibliography

Nock, A.D. (2002 [1954]) Hermes Trismegistus [vol.4] - Stobaeus’ Extracts and Fragments 23-29 and Various Fragments, Collection of the Universities of France courtesy of the William Budé Association, Paris.

Max.

Hay Literary Festival (2022)

Dear Diary,

I don't do festivals any more. I used to, for many years, years ago (when music was my priority instead of higher education). There is one festival, however, which I would very much like to attend: Hay on Wye in Wales. I am not actually that enthused by many of the speakers at this year's event (I have only seen the programme for the first week so far - the week I am most likely to get off at work), but I suppose that were I a novelist, I would find these writers of some interest. In any case, it would be enough to take a backpack filled with a tent, and return without the tent (probably give it to a homeless person - someone that needs it) but with a backpack filled with books. I am unsure if I can afford to attend this festival (because I have ordered a bunch of extremely rare books which I need to pay for, and also pay for the artwork for my play Boadicea, and indeed there are other things due which I must cover), but I was extremely depressed yesterday, and could use cheering up. I absolutely loathe my job. It is not a life. It is slavery. Yet one must do what one can, given the circumstances. One cannot expect to hold a master's degree in Classical Latin and end up in a good job in Dark Age Britain. I would like, in fact, to have a book stall in Hay, filled with books that I have translated and written, but that is for next year. (I figure getting a pitch would not be that difficult, and sourcing a collapsable plastic table, a tarpaulin and a little fishing stool is not mission impossible).

I would have liked to take my daughter, but that is unlikely. Like me, she is poor. This year I think I will take a little classical guitar and one book only (the Biblia Sacra). The company of other intellectuals will be enough. The guy that did the artwork on my first book (a translation of Ficino's De Potestate et Sapientia Dei), his mother - a family friend - lives in Wales and has said she will go with me. I am hoping to rope Sean Walsh (a local writer, political commentator and former lecturer in philosophy at Liverpool University) into coming along. I should imagine that her and Mrs. Richter will have as much in common as they will in disagreement. They are both at the same end of the political spectrum, and indeed share very similar religious views (Christians, like myself) but have very different views on the current Executive. I doubt Sean will come, as he's met a woman recently (as a dear late friend [Dave Latham] once said to me, "When love rears its ugly head, friends go out of the window."). Mrs. Richter's company will be enough. I'm not actually a specialist art historian or theologian, being a die hard classicist, so I should imagine we'll have a lot to talk about. I actually don't care about the speakers at the festival, so much as the books in the town of Hay, or indeed other writers and thinkers that are in attendance.

Max.

Weird and wondrous things from the ancient world (a book)

Dear Diary,

I have been toying with the idea of writing (yet) another book for a while now, capitalising on what I have learnt studying at university over these past dozen years. It will not be a primary source translated, but a secondary source, authored by myself. Its working title is something like Weird and wondrous things from the ancient world, and it is my take (translation/interpretation) on several disparate things from the Greco-Roman world. It contains a wide variety of interesting and unusual things, fabulous, bizarre, outlandish. It contains things like werewolves, vampires, ghosts, paranormal phenomena such as bilocation, oracles, prophecies, divination, drawing the gods down from heaven, spirits, and even UFOs. I figure why write about boring stuff (such as serious scholarship, history and pioneering research - all worthless in this literary Dark Age) when I could write about interesting things instead? I blog a lot (as you may have noticed...) and I also write freebie articles for no returns, yet I work in fast food for minimum wage. So, instead of this getting on top of me and grinding down my spirit, I've decided to use what I've got (a wealth of knowledge) and become an active agent, instead of a passive receiver: turn my hobby (classical studies) into my profession (an author). I certainly can't expect the British academic establishment to keep their word on offering me a so-called "good job" (for their word is worthless: they have no honour).

I'm on my own, and have to carve out my own destiny, plant my own flag - as it were - though this will always be a British flag, because I am a citizen-subject of Her Majesty's Realm, not some tub thumping sociologist/anarchist, some rabble rousing social psychologist. Anyway.

The idea came about when I posted on FaceBook once. Most of my posts are not liked by many people (mainly because they are about serious topics, such as academia - not frivolous and licentuous things). However, one post received over a hundred 'likes', and it was about the Wandjina cave paintings in Australia: spirits that descended from the heavens (that look precisely like aliens). This shows you what a sample target audience (in my case hundreds of friends) are into, and willing to buy. It is not fruitless and pointless endeavours such as serious academic scholarship, Great British history, or Roman archaeology (such things are for poor people in this day and age - Dark Age Britain). Instead, it is a combination of things. (1) My passion: classical studies (particularly anything weird and wonderful - the paranormal). (2) What the target audience wants and are interested in.

Regarding this second point, in Kevin Greene's book Archaeology: An Introduction he writes (Greene, 2006, p.232) that the weird and strange aspects of archaeology (which are often false or made up to pander to an audience) are more popular with the public than such silly things as 'facts' and 'scientific data' (all of which are worthless in this literary Dark Age). People don't want to read dry excavation reports, but interesting things: the strange, the curious, the outlandish. I shall combine the two, offering an objective dispassionate analysis with a most interesting subject matter. Thereby, God willing, I shall once and for all claw my way out of indentured servitude (if only for a brief time: and use whatever I make to invest in a business), and towards a more enlightened, philosophical existence.

Max.

Another challenging shift (and indeed my current translation project)

Dear Diary,

Although this is a nation of beggars, slaves and paupers, one does one's best. Okay, so I've landed myself in £15,000 worth of debt only to end up in the precisely the same job I did when I was 14, now I am 43 (twelve years of university education well spent!). One must make do with the best one has. If the best I can expect (in this country at least), is being at the behest of uneducated teenagers, so be it - this is not the heyday of Cosimo de' Medici, evidently. It's Dark Age Britain.

After the fiasco the other night, I have had to be very careful about what I say at that... place. This evening, I decided to stay silent, and simply get on with doing my work (remember that I am the guy that cleans the gunk out of kitchen utensils over a sink, when I am not serving fast food - you know, with my master's degree in Classical Latin: that guy). Me being me, decided to break my own vow of silence (which lasted only an hour or so). There is this loud, annoying, lazy teenager (the worst kind of employee). I decided to pay him a compliment. I said to him, in all honesty, "I missed you yesterday when you left, because it became extremely busy the moment you left." (Please bear in mind that it was the start of the bank holiday weekend and the few staff we had on consisted of (1) a new girl from Columbia whose English is not the greatest, she works hard but is new and (2) an extremely tardy and idle young simpleton from the village [small hands, eyes too close together: you know...]). For my compliment, I was "rewarded" by a little vitriolic outburst from this rather spacious (in the Latin sense of the adjective) and ignavus young man. By all accounts, the little poisoned dwarf that I had been at cross purposes was showered with compliments by this young man straight afterwards. (This is extremely unusual, because said young man never has a good word to say, about anybody), to which he recieved a firm dressing down by her "older" sibling.

I felt that the dressing down he got was a little over the top, but the boss is still quite young (not yet twenty), so this is only to be expected. That's what happens when you put a teenager in charge of a team of workers. As one fellow classicist quite rightly pointed out recently, "At 18 I couldn't manage myself, let alone an entire workforce!" In any case, whether I utter a Latin curse from Plautus, or offer a fellow colleague a compliment, sincerely, deservedly, it seems that whatever I say has a negative effect. The spacious young man got in a huff, and stormed out on a busy Saturday night, then and there.

Well well well. The last time a member of staff stormed out in the middle of a busy Saturday night, he was fired. This chap may or may not survive this ordeal, maybe. The big boss likes him, because of his caustic and acrid sense of "humour" (something they share in common, both being brutish, uncaring and sarcastic - the very basest form of humour, much of it salt in the gutter spoken by hempen homespuns, to use a phrase of Shakespeare's). We'll see. In any case, it is not so much a case of, "If you're going to say something, say something nice, or don't say anything at all" (the way it should be), but instead, "Don't say anything, or you'll get either yourself or someone around you fired." So much for liberal democracy and free speech! Surely this is some kind of obscure time, perhaps even a Dark Age, where duct tape is silver, but silence is golden...

In any case, I am ploughing on with my "big project" (this is the big one). This little project is so secret, that I even blog about it (it's that secret). Seriously though, I dare not even mention the very name of this work (it is known by many different names, thankfully, and indeed the main name it is known by is the same name of a similar, later work: thank God, as this confounds search engines across the internet). I should get back to translation, but will probably roast some Empire TW. (I'm playing Great Britain of course: as always). I've just put down a French rebellion, and am now looking at expanding into India. One is reminded of that excellent sketch on The Fast Show by Paul Whitehouse. "India, the Raj. I was very, very drunk." I say! Pop that chap somebody! (Jolly good! Rather).

Max.

Detectorists (season 3) from a classicist's perspective

Dear Diary,

I once had a regular gig at a little café in my home town of Bridport and played Johnny Flynn's song which is the theme of Mackenzie Crook's Detectorists. I happened to meet a man in the audience who was the head of a small archaeological unit in Dorset, and he commended the song as it was archaeology related. (The same archaeologist, in his work history had been the very man that had excavated a place in London, near the Bay of Dogs, which, after laboratory analysis, had been the first securable dated find to give a terminus post quem for buildings in London. This was before the 'Bloomsbury Tablets' were discovered not so long ago). Anyway, I mentioned to the late Charles Phillip-Clarke (my archaeological mentor I worked for at the time) about Detectorists and his reply was one of disdain. Much like Liz Green (not the psychologist/astrologist author, but the Canadian Romano-British archaeologist), Charles Phillip-Clarke disliked metal detectors. He said that they prioritised metal over and above other important finds, taking artefacts out of context, disregarding things like building sections, stonework, pottery and anything else which is not made of metal. They are, in fact, looters.

I know of more than one 'detectorist' in Bridport (none of which hold any qualifications in archaeology whatsoever) and they are all in it for one thing only: the money. They do not care about Britain's cultural heritage. I have even seen them near here, where I live now, in Wiltshire. I dislike them very much. Anyway, rant over.

Despite my quibbles about Detectorists (and detectorists, as a regular noun not a proper noun) I actually quite like this show. It is vaguely amusing I suppose. There are, however, a couple of points which are inconsistent with reality (it, being a work of fiction). Firstly, one cannot study archaeology at the Open University, as the OU do not offer any archaeology modules. (They did when I was studying towards my first degree, when the show was first aired, so I suppose this is not inconsistent with reality). Secondly, one does not find a good job as an archaeologist once finishing one, or even two degrees, at the Open University. (Though to be fair, in the storyline, Mackenzi Crook's character ends up in a dead end temping job, so this much is truthful). What happens once one finishes two degrees in archaeology and Classical Latin at the OU, is that one does unskilled labour for minimum wage, or worse still, takes pains to become a "volunteer" (slave, however you dress it up) for Historic England. Though laudable, this doesn't pay the rent. This is the actual reality of what happens if you study archaeology at the Open University. That is, unless one indulges in fiction and sees comedic entertainment shows as reflecting reality itself. This is Dark Age Britain, not the times of Augustus Henry Fox Lane Pitt Rivers.

Max.

A psychological barrier to success

Dear Diary,

When I was very young, at secondary school (one of what then was known as the Spartan - as opposed to Athenian - house) the Olympic champion Kriss Akabusi arrived to speak to us children one day. He began his speech with just three letters: P.M.A. Positive Mental Attitude. This left an impression upon me, as a tender child, and has remained with me ever since. One must always have a positive mental attitude, in whatever challenge or endeavour one undertakes.

However, I am not 14 any more. I'm 43. Let's just say that "life" (subsistence) has ground me down to the point that I actually much prefer Juvenal than Homer or Virgil. I know full well that there is no kind of success or hope here, in Dark Age Britain. I had just as well be in Mariupol than Dark Age Britain (at least there life would be exciting and not dull to the point of wanting to commit suicide). Anyway, I confess, I have a psychological block which prevents any kind of progess, and I am only too aware that the only way to break through this invisible barrier is by following Kriss Akabusi's advice: maintain a positive mental attitude, in spite of all adversity.

I remember once being at the University campus, and hearing a fellow student's challenges. He was a man that was in the military (the greatest and most laudable of all occupations), and was abused as a child. He also fell into a bad crowd when young, but surmounted these challenges and became a man. He described such an invisible barrier which was stopping him from making any forward progess. He described the very day that this invisible barrier was broken down, and he was able to make his way, unhindered through life. It was at this point that God appeared to him. Just then (and I am not joking), God, showed up. Even before he said it, I felt His presence. The guy said, "Can you feel it?" I said, "I already did." Just as soon as He arrived He left. This was precisely on the Summer Solstice, and our alma mater is in a particularly special place, in terms of Sacred Geometry.

The feeling (though indescribable in mere words) was one of pure benevolence, pureness, goodness, nothing earthly or untoward, but pure goodness. I felt it, as did he. God, showed up. Whether you believe or not is no matter, for He exists, and that is beyond any petty attempts at disproving His existence or not. There are those that know, and those that merely suppose or conjecture. Christ exists. There's no doubt about it.

In any case, I find myself at an impasse. I must break through that invisible barrier, as my fellow student did. It is not a difficult challenge. All it means is computer programming. It is not even a first or second generation language (such as Machine Code or Assembler) but a sixth generation high level language, child's play to someone like my twin brother (a telecommunications software engineer). Yet I am not a techie, I'm a translator, a poet, an artist, a musician. Even so, if I want to break through this invisible barrier I'm going to have to read about it and learn it, like I know Latin verb conjugations or noun declensions, like I know the lines on my own hand (palmistry). It's a challenge, and the longer I put it off, the worse it will get. For the moment I subsist in Hades, the Infernal Regions, Tartarus: the fast food industry. It is the same job I did as a teenager, then as an undergraduate in my thirties, a post graduate and now a so-called 'master'. It's unskilled labour for minimum wage, at the behest of teenaged bosses. Why? Because this is Dark Age Britain, no doubt about it. When our PM says "higher paid higher skilled jobs" don't believe him. Because they don't exist. It's all hot air, rhetoric, meaningless, all aimed to garner votes, that's all it is, sophistry. We studied the same subject, so know how it works: to make the weaker argument appear the stronger. There are those that believe, and those that only pretend to believe. There are true brothers (and sisters) of the faith, and hollow shells.

Max.

The straw that broke the camel's back (being pulled out of Hades).

Dear Diary,

As Seneca once wrote, in the opening of his Thyestes: quis infernorum sede ab infausta extrahit? "Who pulls me from the ill-omened seat of the Infernal Regions?", things got "a little too much" this evening in Hades (that... place). I confess, that were I more of an even-minded philosopher and less of an ever artistic poet, I could have handled things a little better. Yet, equally, as things stand, my departure from that place was at least dignified, and more or less civil. As Tom Cruise said in John Grisham's The Firm, "It wasn't exactly a sequential conversation. There was a lot of yelling, mostly by me."

As you may well remember, Dear Diary, in my last letter to you I happened to mention that a certain little overlord of a young lady found fault with every single little thing I did (even if it was faultless). This evening, it was her turn to be at fault. I asked her, very gently, politely, "May I have some olives please?" She muttered something short under her breath, and did not seemed to acknowledge my request. So, I waited another minute or so, and asked her again, softly, politely, "May I please have some olives?" (That was, in order to rectify the mistake she had made, which was no big deal and could have been put right in a flash). She began to get angry, and lost her temper. Therefore, I told her precisely what I thought of her (not impolitely, yet merely the unvarnished truth, assertively, what has been going on about this over the past few months every day). Needless to say, it was not pretty.

I even went as far to call her a subducisupercilicarptor which really pissed them off (this means 'an eyebrow raising fault finder' - it is the longest word in Classical Latin). The boss (her brother) said, "Right! Max, go home, now. You're speaking another language which I am not comfortable with." (Latin has a certain reputation, from the Harry Potter books and movies, and much else besides). I was only too glad to leave.

The boss (who's eighteen, by the way, the "older" brother) was under the assumption that I would have to walk home, because there are no buses or taxi firms open at that time of night. Normally I would walk home, two hours, through the forest, across the fields, under moonlight, no problem (a hobo for fifteen years means I just walk, and walking is no problem, whatever distance, from John O'Groats to the Lizard, no problem). Yet this just happened to be the day which I returned to the luthier for my instrument (a cajon had been repaired), and the luthier very kindly gave me a lift home, as had been pre-arranged that day, without the little 18 year old boss' knowledge (in accordance with Divine Providence). The luthier even repaired my guitar (my best one: Saint Lilian, my very best classical guitar, quite expensive and certainly very precious, many years gigging on it) and did a splendid job of it. This was just as he had done for my cajon, giving it a proper snare, and adding two levers so it's drum sound can be muted or the snare may sound at the flick of a switch: very nice. (For which I had paid him handsomely beforehand, and naturally, I had not turned up empty handed but came with an offering of continental style meats, olives, olive bread and some nice French cheese, as well as some more refreshment, to thank him for his hospitality).

All in all, it was not a bad day, despite the apparent loss.

As things fell out, or rather, as the Three Fatal Sisters (Moira) decreed, I happened to meet a lady intimately acquainted with a top classicist, Peter Jones (author of Learning Ancient Greek and Reading Ovid's Metamorphoses). This venerable and most well spoken lady needed someone to format her book for her which she has lately written. Seeing as I happen to know a thing or two about formatting books, I said I shall indeed do this for her, but ask nothing, because I respect and admire that great classicist so much, Peter Jones, and because she is my friend's mother (the luthier's). Nonsense, she said, asserting that she must pay me something for my efforts, to which I accepted, politely, graciously.

One door closes, another opens. Life, is an adventure.

Max.

Nay saying, ultra criticism and maintaining a positive mental attitude in the face of adversity

Dear Diary,

I was yet cast down to the very nook of Tartatus, hurled headlong once the earth itself had gaped, beyond that triple headed hound who guards its gates, into the very infernal regions of Hades. Namely, I had to go into work again.

Before that, entered the bear-pit that is FaceBook, some writers' group. I argue very strongly that self-publishing is the way forward. Even so, this was not particularly well received (especially by those that cannot edit or market books for themselves...). The champions of fuelling the ever avarious publishing giants (the 'Big Five' which is really only one: Random House) are, as I see it, most misguided. In any case, that is the banter of budding writers, most of whom write substandard prosaic fiction, not exalted verse, and certainly not the in the classical style.

At that... place, however, things have gotten worse (one cannot imagine just how much worse they could get, considering yesterday's ordeal). I have noticed something, or rather, I cannot fail to have noticed something which irks me beyond words. I should heed the sage advice of Plutarch or Seneca the Younger, and not allow ira to nest and take root, but it irks me. What happens, is this.

This young, immature, not even yet an adult 'learned' colleague of mine finds fault in anything and everything I do, in order to make herself appear somehow 'better' than I am, and to diminish my own standing. Her sister (the one that is sleeping with the boss) also does this. They are, in Latin subductisupercilicarptores ('eyebrow raising fault finders'). They do not have a positive mental attitude, and have no sense of fair play or teamwork (being incongruous gossips and scheming little imps). As Henry of the Beard once wrote, viculus nescioquis barone suo privatus est. ('Somewhere there's a village missing its idiot').

I cannot stand it, but I accept that this is not the Italian Renaissance, by any stretch of the imagination. We do not live in the heyday of the Abbasid Caliphate during the ninth century or the Umayyad Emirate in tenth century Al Andalus. It is Dark Age Britain, 2022. Education, hard work, honesty, talent, these things mean nothing here, so I accept that my education has been a complete waste of time. I would have been far better off becoming a male prostitute or turning to crime. I would remind you, my miniscule readership, that I am still doing the same job, now, as I did as a teenager, as an undergraduate, as a post graduate, and now as a 'master'.

One member of staff had Covid today (so obviously, he works alongside the rest of us, because this is a place run by brainless brutes and immature clowns) and he asked me if I had a remedy for his illness, because I am a Doctor. I happened to mention to the young man (less than half my age, again related to the twin harridans) that I am not a Doctor, but merely a Magister Artium and that my specialist subject covers ancient medicine (i.e. what not to do with a patient, if only in the minutiae and not in the philosophy or principles underpinning medicine: Hippocrates, Galen, that old chestnut). Then came a kind of compliment, that this was a 'great achievement', as he said. I understand from other members of staff there that my education is merely an object of ridicule. It is absolutely certain that it has been of no use, whatsoever. If anything, it has made me an object of scorn, ridicule and made me even still more marginalised than I already was. But that is only to be expected. This is, after all, not 1463 in the time of Cosimo de' Medici in Florence: it's Dark Age Britain, 2022. It may as well be the mid sixth century during the time of Gildas, for all the "good" education and reading has done me.

Yet one must always at least attempt to maintain a positive mental attitude (even if the world is on the brink of annihilation during a potential third world war, and in the midst of a global plague which racks the world with a lethal severity - absolute proof that this is not some kind of 'golden age' but far from it: the exact opposite is true, in reality).

In other news, I have been reading Ptolemy again (only Tetrabiblos) as research for my current translation. I must say that this project is a very big pain in the backside. It is not exactly the easiest text to translate. Furthermore, though this Latin text may have been held in high esteem during Elizabethan England, such tricky to translate works are not esteemed nowadays. That's okay too. If nothing else it provides further proof that learning, especially classical learning, is of no consequence in the Dark Age which Britain now subsists. Grumble grumble grumble. It's okay though, right? Because at least we're not getting shelled by the Russians! (As though that were the yardstick of a well to do and prosperous, forward looking and civilised nation).

There will come a time when things are better than they are now, but certainly not here, in this place. All that university education means here is debt, ridicule and slavery.

Max.

A difficult day, yet still progress

Dear Diary,

I have lived by the Golden Verses of Pythagoras for many years now (ever since I first read them, much like Galen did), and there is one line which was particularly apposite to this evening's duty at that... place. "If falsehoods be advanced, hear them with mildness, and arm thyself with patience."

Tonight, there was much slander and gossip, tantamount to a civil offence, if not criminal, for defamation of character, rumours, gossip. These... children are very immature. They think life is a game, a joke. Work, is not a joke. It is serious. This does not mean that one should be overly serious at work, yet always pleasant, always agreeable, but in the spirit of the fact that we are there to work. It's not playtime. It's serious. It is our daily bread. We do good service, as best we can. Yet in Dark Age Britain, maturity, honesty, education, hard work and experience mean nothing. (This is not Renaissance Italy or Elizabethan England, evidently...).

I managed to overcome such slander because, for all my little foibles, I am an honourable man, and can meet any boss in the eye, with a testimony that is valid. The truth, always outs gossip, slander and mud-slinging. The truth will always out.

In any case, I spend my evening musing about improving my play, Boadicea: Queen of the Iceni, not that that will lead anywhere, for these are not the days of Shakespeare, Marlowe or Milton. It is Dark Age Britain, and such things, however heavenly or admirably, mean nothing here.

Max.

Musings on old army days and also literature

Dear Diary,

Unlike my twin brother, that went straight from college, then to university, and into a good job, my younger years were spent as a wandering musician, a hobo. The only reason I survived fifteen years of living outside was because I had spent six years in the army. Well, not the army army, but the ACF. Our regiment had two inscriptions on it. Beneath, it read, in Latin primus in Indis which is fairly straight forward, "First [regiment] in India", which it was. Yet the other inscription (marabout), I was unaware of its meaning, and have been for a very long time, up until just a moment ago when I read in the bath (a habit I should perhaps lose, but at least I have confined myself to only reading novels or other comparatively unimportant books - such as marked copies of primary sources - because I do not wish any of my books to sustain water damage).

Anyway, while reading Potocki's Manuscript I happened upon this sentence (I do not own a copy of the French, but would translate it myself if I had one), which as translated by Maclean reads as follows, "They [imbeciles] possess, as it were, the first degree of holiness. We give imbeciles the name "marabout", which we [Arabs] also give to saints." So there we have it, or at least one source for the meaning of this elusive inscription of the once formerly Dorset and Devonshire Regiment (before that, the Dorsetshire Regiment), otherwise known as the "armoured farmers" by other servicemen.

Today I must endure those... marabouts, at that... place (my 'learned' colleagues). Yet this is not Elizabethan England, it's Dark Age Britain. Age, experience, education, these things mean nothing here. This is not Renaissance Italy, evidently.

Max.

A drummer, drum maker and guitarist (and work)

Dear Diary,

I met up with that drummer today from last night. It was pretty cool actually. He is not an educated man, but well travelled, and is a self taught instrument maker and repairer. He is repairing my broken cajon and upgrading it so its snare can be switched on or off at the flick of a switch rather than having to reach inside it from the back or unscrew the dozen or so screws on its front. I am thankful for this and paid him handsomely.

I perhaps should have gone into work this evening, but if I am honest, I'm sick of these people, utterly. I don't like being continuously ridiculed and shamed by these little kids, bullied by thugs or treated impolitely. Although the bullying has lessened (the punches are now far fewer than they were, and they haven't trapped anyone in the freezer with the lights off in a while now) it is more psychological now, and shaming. This is certainly not cricket and I feel strongly about it. After last night's 'performance' at the poker game, I would rather not see these people. When I called in sick (for I felt like crap today after a very long session yesterday) they insisted that I turn up. I called them back and put my foot down, saying that I am no fit state to work, assertively. They had no choice but to accept this turn of events.

I'm hoping that Chairlady Mao can come through with some work for me. (I was reviewed, reasonably favourably yesterday). I find it interesting that I was doing a review and she had the reviewer reviewed (which I was expecting, even if not told so up front). Even just a trickle of work just to cover the rent would be useful while I work on publishing my books. I will, of course, have to put up with those... people at that... place a little while longer, but I don't expect that it will be that long until I have a number of titles published. I very much look forward to always wearing a suit, never having to don that awful fast food uniform again, and more importantly, never more be bossed around, beaten and bullied by these brutes and little dictators. (My 'learned' colleagues). Even if I work longer hours for less money, I enjoy the work. There is a book learning how to read Egyptian hieroglyphs I have in which a contemporary historical report from one scribe (chronicling his work writing hieratic script) reads as follows. A young scribe, having completed his education, is set to work and is writing to his father:

"It is greater than any other profession. There is nothing like it on earth.
I have seen a coppersmith at work at his furnace. His fingers were like the claws of a crocodile...
The jeweller... when he completed the inlay work of amulets, his strength vanishes and he is worn out.
The barber shaves until the end of the evening. But he must be up early... He takes himself from street to street to find someone to shave. He wears his arms out to feed his belly.
The potter is covered with dirt. His clothes... stiff with mud, his headdress... is made of rags.
I shall describe to you the bricklayer. His kidneys hurt him.
The weaver inside the weaving house is... wretched... He cannot breathe the air...
The fletcher is completely wretched.
The furnace maker, his fingers are burnt... his eyes are inflamed because of the heaviness of the smoke.
The washerman launders at the riverbank near preying crocodiles.
After all this, the father replies to his son, saying, "See, I have put you on the path of God."

Max.

The staff party...

Dear Diary,

So anyway, I should have been bustin' my ass for the old ball and chain today, my only one day off a week, so I should have been working. Anyhow, Chairlady Mao called, wanting me to look at some paper on organic chemsistry then electric vehicles in Hong Kong (which, like the paper I edited on Wuhan some months ago was essentially an exercise in propaganda masquerading as well-being: it's political).

Anyhow, I went to some dive this evening and played some music. They were all pretty cool actually, even the 20 year old burd that can't sing for toffee that all the 40 something blokes enourage her (for less than honourable motives, myself included). Anyway, she seemed to be interested, having followed me outside, but I ignored her, being much more interested in a luthier, an instrument maker, that also happened to be pretty cool. Sure enough said young lady with her fine rack and slim posterior soon shacked up with another man, her age, which is for the better.

Then came the "staff party". I tried my best to contribute, after a long walk in the rain, to no avail.

I'm crap at poker, so lost (despite my crash course in psychology after 11 pints of 8% cider and beer...). I had a head start.

There was, however, one moment when I was translating Latin in front of them, and the big boss and his younger thug brother were there, and I said, truthfully, "Do you know what this book is I'm translating from Latin? It is a book on astrology, the only one of its kind. It is a gap in the market, which means I have a monopoly on its translation, and which also means I am destined to never have to take orders from you people, ever again." The look on their faces was priceless: from dictators with absolute power to nobodies working in fast food. I would be dishonest if I said I didn't savour this particular moment...

Never mind these brainless brutes calling me a "fucking 'master'". They all wore their caps, uniform and McDonald's outfits this evening (I wore a suit, of course), and they always will wear that "livery". I however, tread a different course, one of knowledge, wisdom and success.

Max.

The game (poker) and some musings about that... place

Dear Diary,

As usual, I am immersed in Jan Potocki's magnum opus on my way to work, and indeed while I am afforded a slender five minute break. In between the maya-like almost illusory fable, a number of yarns spun by Potocki, I come back to reality accosted by vulgar, obstinate, puerile and most impolite little people. My so-called "superiors" at that... place. They shout, scream, make animal noises, and look down on me in a kind of inverted snobbery. Their collective knowledge, wisdom and life experience amounts to virtually nothing by comparison to mine own. Yet these are the people in charge: clowns, brutes, savages. Ignorant teenagers. This is the very reason that this is Dark Age Britain, and not a more enlightened period of history. This is not Renaissance Italy, evidently. Why not let the chimps throw a tea party? Why not let these... people (if they can be called such) be in charge? Experience, kindness, wisdom, these things count as nothing here, in this country.

Tomorrow is the poker game, held by the people at work, hosted by the two thugs that run the place. It is a new game to me (for I do not gamble). Yet, this does however afford an apposite opportunity to conduct a further case study into cognitive symbiosis. I confess, I have not played poker since I was in my teens, when my twin brother and I would read one another's minds in order to gain a tactical advantage over our opponents. I have no twin brother now (for he is off in the Americas). So, I shall have to use what I have learnt from studying body language and psychology (a subject previously beneath me, but now one which I take an interest in). Most communication is unspoken. Moreover, I am a quick study, and, being a twin, I am fiercely competitive, especially when real returns are at stake.

I have been taking tips from the master of the game, Daniel Negreanu. As the late great savant Didier Deman once said, "It is only by imitating the masters that we may become masters ourselves." Research, knowledge, study. These things are important factors to win. Now, I am, by no stretch of the imagination, a mathematician, so I shall not be counting cards, but what I will be doing is playing a role, much as an actor or performance artist would do. At the same time I shall be looking for signs, unspoken communication, reading their body language, to gain a competitive advantage over these... people (if they can be called such - not having the capacity to reason). They don't read. They don't study. They play poker and computer games. I myself am guilty of such a sin (I play Empire TW, Rome TW and Medieval TW sometimes). Moreover, there is a problem. Tomorrow is my day off, which means I will probably be at the gig (a local get together of musicians), which means I will be hammered before I get there. (The game starts at 11 P.M.) Fortunately I have built up a resistance to all alcoholic beverages over the years, so long as I pace myself, eat well, and spend more time playing guitar than drinking, I should be fine. I have also considered the possibility of not even attending the gig, but spending this time productively, translating Latin. This will help keep my mind sharp, focused.

If I am honest, I actually can't stand poker, or gambling. Yet much like speculating on commodities or currencies, it is not gambling if you know the rules of the game well enough to tip the odds in your favour. One thing I must bear in mind is that it is just a game. Win or lose, one must always do so with grace. It is amicable, a relaxing time (indeed the only time) where we can meet and not have to issue or carry out orders in a work environment. I shall, as always, be impeccably well dressed for the occasion. One must always be presentable, always. There are the educated, and the uneducated. Those with knowledge, and those without. Yet as Manly P. Hall once said of Albert Pike, "The happy combination of a scholar and a truly delightful person. A person who had many friends, simply because he was friendly, and who had an almost unending sense of humour, though much of his life was burdened by most serious responsibilities... uniting learning with practical acumen, grace with power, and that imperious magnetism which only a genius can command."

Max.

John Renbourn (the life of a great guitarist, or two)

Dear Diary,

I remember listening to John Renbourn when I was on the road. His music was such an inspiration for me, mainly because it was technical, but also imbued with feeling and furthermore, was a part of a really quite ancient tradition. Yet more than that, it was contemporary. There is a great musician that I have had the honour of playing music with one time, Jerry Cahill, another fantastic guitarist. I met him once at a bus stop, in Exeter, when he was going to his home in Silverton, and I was headed nowhere in particular (being a wandering minstrel myself). He said to me, "You're like a young John Renbourn." As it happens, the musician I was jamming with at the time (another fantastic, blinding guitarist, by the name of Stephen Pearson, who still lives in Exeter, as far as I know) was well acquainted with the late great John Renbourn's son, Joel Renbourn. Joel played punk music, not the refined, classical style which his father, John Renbourn, played, but still, there existed a connection.

I remember being on the far side of the ocean and meeting beatniks from the sixties that adored John Renbourn's playing. I asked the guy in question about John's singing voice (which, like Hendrix's, was not the greatest, but was just about good enough) and he said, "That's John Renbourn." John made the guitar sing.

I also remember, one time, a good friend of mine (who knew I loved John Renbourn's music) took me to see him play live in Bristol. After the gig John walked through the audience and came straight up to me (he knew who I was...). I had all these things I had wanted to say to him, pre-prepared, things like, "You've been such an inspiration to me, throughout my life." (etc.) Yet all I could manage (being awestruck) was, "Thank you."

Beyond the great music he played, his favourite drink was calvados (fifty to a hundred year old apple brandy from Normandy). He would sometimes have to battle with his own rage - for he was an artist in the truest sense of the word. I remember seeing one documentary about Bob (that is the Bob, Bob Dylan) when he was in London in the sixties. Someone had thrown an empty vodka bottle out the window on to the London street. Bob made a big deal of it, and squared up to John Renbourn (who towered over the little man, both in stature and accomplishment as a classical guitarist). Bob soon backed down: all bark and no bite.

Stephen Pearson once told me that he too went to see John Renbourn play, to try and glean something of his genius (Steve is by no means an amateur guitarist, but well practised, accomplished, and stems from a family of great guitarists). Steve said that though he went there to try and learn from him, when he saw John Renbourn play, his mind went completely blank. He was mesmerised, enchanted, and could do nothing but surrender to the sweet sound he made, and immerse himself in his music. There was no room for learning minutiae of technique, but solely a gentle bliss of enjoying the sonorous melodies of this master.

John Renbourn was not just any old guitarist, but he was the guitarist's guitarist.

Max.

Jan Potocki's The Manuscript From Saragossa (reading through Maclean's translation)

Dear Diary,

There are some preposterous elements of plots in this novel, such as the 'peaceful inhabitant of Val Castera', Testalunga. The first thing he does is stab a nobleman to death for hitting on his wife. Then Testalunga flees and meets some bandits, and straight away 'the group acknowledged him as their leader'. Nonsense. There's no way, just no way, that a complete stranger meeting a bunch of hardened criminals that know one another well would simply be proclaimed leader of their band. Yet it is a novel, and this (and one or two other things like this) are merely the fly in the ointment in an otherwise outstanding work.

I'm about a quarter of the way through so far and this book is really very curious indeed (I normally can't stand novels, at all, except for ancient novels, and Michael Dobbs' House of Cards, of course). The Ninth Day is the most interesting section so far (for it contains a certain amount of knowledge to do with... esoteric matters). Being part of the Firm means am only too aware that there is probably more truth than fiction in this work, even if that truth is dressed up as fable. It is not necessarily the characters, or the plot, or even the story which are true (because they are probably not), but more that these things actually happened, and still do happen, to certain sections of society, at least. What are "these things?" I am not at liberty to say, but it's kind of like Keanu Reeves and Lawrence Fishburne in The Matrix, taking the red pill, staying in Wonderland and seeing just how far the rabbit hole goes...

All in all, Jan Potocki's magnum opus is a really rather excellent book.

Back out of the rabbit hole, and into mundane reality, this evening at that... place was more easy going (Sundays are not as phrenetic as Fridays or Saturdays). I have even been invited to the 'work do' (a few guys playing cards together).

Max.

That... place (and inevitable changes, presently)

Dear Diary,

It is really quite evident that something has to give. I shall no longer be a slave to these... people, at that... place. By the grace of Almighty God (and not a little amount of work already put in by myself - for one is not a passive receiver, but an active agent in the world) I find myself in such a position that I am, as a future participle in the ancient tongue of the Romans (Classical Latin, one's forte), "on the point of being" or "just about" able to cast off the shackles of slavery and indentured servitude, and instead, bask in the light and glory of Christ himself. There is no easy way out of poverty, and turning to the crooked ways of crime is certainly not the answer. Nor is kowtowing to some profiteering publisher, as Daniel Day-Lewis once said in There Will Be Blood, "The rest will be spectulators, that's men trying to get between you and the oil men to get some of the money that ought, by rights, come to you." There is no hope, except in God. There is no faith, except in Jesus Christ. There is little (or no) point in putting one's faith in inbred circus folk or foreign gangsters, masquerading as fast-food specialists. One does what can, and one always does one's best, whatever the task may be, and however humble a task it is.

I very nearly quit this evening. I confess, I am not as philosophical as I could be. I perhaps should have not said to the young lady that bore down on me as Aeneas did upon Turnus, I said dii te perdint "May the gods destroy you!". It is a frivolous, meaningless phrase, often used in the works of the most excellent comic playwright Plautus. It is far better to bless, than to curse. It is better to be in a positive frame of mind, always, to heal instead of harm. Yet life, particularly a subsistence in Dark Age Britain, is not always that straightforward.

Said young lady (my superior, yet, let us always remember, only because her sister is banging the boss) harped on about the meaning of the word "politics". I mentioned to said little girl, that the noun politics stems from the ancient Greek (πόλις 'city' or οἱ πολλοί 'the many'). Then, I was met with derision and scorn from these juvenile, uneducated band of gypsies. At this point, the elder one member of this little domestic disaster cited our illustrious PM. This was no doubt because when the older of the two thugs that run the place called me a "fucking 'master'" just after I had been conferred with the honours of a Magister Artium following twelve long years of study and to the tune of £15,000 I happened to mention that our PM studied the same subject I did at Univeristy. What does this little cross-eyed inbred gypsy or any of her immigrant kindred know of ancient Greek or Classical Latin? Nothing, is what. Yet they are my superiors. Why? Because this is Dark Age Britain, and not the time of Cosimo de' Medici in Florence 1436, evidently. One ought not to dwell on such frivolous eventualities, but instead one should remain in a positive, constructive frame of mind, ever thinking of what can do to apply one's years of learning to some practical and useful end, in spite of rather challenging circumstances, and the complete betrayal of the British Establishment. They will offer you all the riches of the King of Persia, of Cassius, of Midas himself, but will actually deliver nothing but threats, accusations and scorn.

Enough of such trifling and frivolous nonsense (for the British have no honour) but instead let us think on the future. Let us think on our one and only daughter, and how we may best help her and indeed little Ronulus and I elevate ourselves out of abject poverty, and towards a brighter, better future. There are no "high paid, better skilled jobs" (as our classicist PM kept maintaining - they do not exist, except in a land populated by imaginary unicorns and false promises). There is only reliance upon one's self. One cannot expect Britain to keep its word (for, like Putin, whatever Britain says: the opposite is invariably true, based upon the evidence, thus far). How would it serve me to pay yet another £3,200 a year, over four years, to attempt to attain a qualification far inferior to the two I already hold? The answer is, it is of no avail. This is not the Italian Renaissance, evidently. It's Dark Age Britain.

Trust in God, not man. It is far better to put one's faith in sound foundations, and think upon heavenly things, rather than the base, insidious and perfidous so-called 'promises' of the British (who are ruled by mere materialism and supposed 'facts' from the scientific community - often most hostile to anything they cannot see or hear or perceive through a microscope). There is this whole other world out there. As above, so below.

Think not, on unskilled labour for minimum wage. Think instead, one how best one can help one's self. Then, by extension, be in a position to help others.

As Jan Potocki once wrote in his masterpiece The Manuscript Found in Saragossa (as translated by Ian Maclean, 1996, p.48 upon The Third Day in the story of The Story of Landulpho of Ferrara), "I had never looked upon gold except as a means of helping the poor and needy."

Kindness is frequently the first lesson learnt, and quite often the last one mastered.

Max.

What has been, what is, and what will be.

Dear Diary,

Tonight was tough at that... place, among those... people.

If I am honest, I've had quite enough of these... people. I admit, I could have handled things better this evening. It was Friday night, and things were very busy. There was one point when the bosses (the younger thug and the girl he's banging) left to go for a break. Orders came in, and I tried to do what I could to help the orders go through more smoothly and quickly. Naturally, my seventeen year old 'boss' (who is only in such a position because her sister is shagging the younger brute that runs the place) immediately stopped me from doing so. This young lady takes a very long time to make a single order. I pointed out to her that I first began working in this industry in 1996, some dozen years before she was even born. None of this matters. Her sister, her brother, the people they're sleeping with or related to run this place (it's a family thing). I admit, I made quite a scene. It doesn't actually matter. I could quit, today, and still have enough resources to tide me over until my next royalty cheque comes in. (That is, if I got my s- together and actually published my present translations and plays). I just don't care any more. I've seen these people very sick with the neo-plague (Covid), and I risk my own life on a daily basis, among these... people. They all take the piss out of me, and hate the fact that I was doing what they're doing now a dozen years before they were even born. They are resentful, jealous, petty people, not philosophers.

It's actually pretty cool, I don't really mind what happens. The boss (the older of the two thugs, only just thirty, scarcely out of the trees...) once said to me, "Fucking 'master'" on the very day that I was conferred with the honours of a Magister Artium in classical studies. This vexed me, severely. I told him (and all there abouts) that it took me twelve years of studying to attain that qualification, that it is the same subject Boris Johnson (Alexander Pfeffel) learnt at University: not making burgers, not mopping floors, not washing pots. Latin is a tradition which is not exactly unknown to the world. Ancient Greek even more so.

In short, I've had enough of their cross eyed inbred bullshit. It's a clique. Would my time be better spent slaving for these ungrateful sons o' bitches, or, focusing on my literary career? Chairlady Mao has recently offered me more work. I have a back log of work from the old ball and chain. And more important than both of them, I still have my own publications to publish. Like the Steely Dan song says, "I'm a fool to do your dirty work". It's all bullshit. (After all, holding a master's degree in Classical Latin means fuck all in Dark Age Britain. This is not Elizabethan England, evidently). I would do well to work from home, and distance myself from these gypsies, carnies, circus folk: uneducated, unphilosophical and most certainly impolite and unmindful 'people' (if they can be called such, without the ability to reason). In short, they are plague ridden and beneath my consideration (but only because they are not mindful or considerate themselves).

Max.

A curious find on a second hand book stall...

Dear Diary,

It is not often that I find a book which truly astonishes me. Indeed, the last book I found which had such an impact must have been a couple of months ago, a particular treasure which I paid £115 for (bartered down from £150). I am not at liberty to disclose its title or contents, but needless to say it is one of the rarer and more... esoteric books in my collection.

Today, however, I found a book which - although is nowhere near as expensive, nor indeed as in keeping with my own particular world outlook (that is to say, Christian henotheism [a belief in the One God but also belief in a myriad lesser divinities and their subordinate spirits]) - it is, however, much to my liking. Very much so. I could have picked it up and walked out with it, but, as is customary at a second hand stall, one is obliged to contribute a decent amount. I picked this little gem up for a meagre donation of one pound. It is in mint condition, and is an absolutely outstanding little work, translated, as it is, from Spanish (and sometimes Castilian). I am only at the end of chapter one, and so far it is simply sumptuous, refined, broad-minded, historical, mythological, filled with wonders, dreams, portents, omens, ghosts, spirits, ancient legends, Christianity, Islam, even a touch of other religious beliefs as well, gypsies, bandits, action, seduction, adventure. You name it, it's got it all.

It is, however, a prosaic novel (sicks up). It's one redeeming factor is that is a historical novel. Not the genre of historical fiction (though, I suppose, technically it is) but more that it was written hundreds of years ago, and harks back to events which happened in still further centuries beyond that.

As for my usual reading matter (classical studies) there are very few surviving novels in the classical world (if memory serves, only one in Latin, and seven in ancient Greek, that is if one discounts the partial Satyricon by Petronius, a Latin work).

One thing which did put me off (and I do admit, that this is merely a subjective opinion), is that the protagonist succumbed so very easily to the tempation of these succubi, the very instant they got their kit off and offered him lavish gold and limitless wealth. One might imagine that he would have at least had some will-power, or, better still, resisted completely the charms of these bellydancing incestuous lesbian succubi that shower him with limitless wealth. Well, there we are. It is much like the Judgement of Paris I suppose. Athena: wisdom and craft? Doesn't get a look in. Hera: hearth and home and a good housewife? Forget it. Paris goes straight for the fairest of the fair. (Typical bloke).

Even so, despite the distinct lack of willpower of our seemingly faithless protagonist, it is a remarkable work, and one which I highly recommend. It's style is elegant, refined, noble even. The book is The Manuscript Found in Saragossa by Jan Potocki translated by Ian Maclean. 10/10.

Max.