Books

I know you’re a decent, industrious, cooperative animal, comparable to a bee or an ant. All I’ve done is to lay bare the little man in you, who has been wrecking your life for thousands of years. You are great, little man, when you’re not mean and small. Your greatness, little man, is the only hope we have left. You’re great when you attend lovingly to your trade, when you take pleasure in carving and building and painting, in sowing and reaping, in the blue sky and the deer and the morning dew, in music and dancing, in your growing children, and in the beautiful body of your wife or husband; when you go to the planetarium to study the stars, to the library to read what other men and women have thought about life. You’re great when your grandchild sits on your lap and you tell him of times long past and look into the uncertain future with his sweet, childlike curiosity. You’re great, mother, when you lull your baby to sleep; when with tears in your eyes you pray fervently for his future happiness; and when hour after hour, year after year, you build this happiness in your child.

You’re great, little man, when you sing the good, warmhearted folk songs, or when you dance the old dances to the tune of an accordion, because folk songs are good for the soul, and they’re the same the world over. And you’re great when you say to your friend:
“I thank my fate that I’ve been able to live my life free from filth and greed, to see my children grow and to look on as they first began to babble, to take hold of things, to walk, to play, to ask questions, to laugh and to love; that I’ve been able to preserve, in all its freedom and purity, my feeling for the springtime and its gentle breezes, for the gurgling of the brook that flows past my house and the singing of the birds in the woods; that I’ve taken no part in the gossip of malicious neighbors; that I’ve been happy in the embrace of my wife or husband and have felt the stream of life in my body; that I haven’t lost my bearings in troubled times, and that my life has had meaning and continuity. For I have always hearkened to the gentle voice within me that said, ‘Only one thing matters: live a good, happy life. Do your heart’s bidding, even when it leads you on paths that timid souls would avoid. Even when life is a torment, don’t let it harden you.’”

Jomama highlighted a different section of what appears to be an astonishing book. Race you for a copy!

Both snolfs like the Asterix and Obelix books, but Snolf the First really enjoys them. He re-reads the books we have regularly, has adopted some of the phrases and mannerisms that run through the books, and has long wanted to have roast boar.

It’s officially available! B.W. mentioned it as part of his January 16th celebration, saying he thought it’d be available by February first. But I’ve gotten word that The Imaginary Bomb is on sale now, as a downloadable file or paper format. Congratulations, B.W.!

We have been “had” by the increasing power of the state, as well as much of the mainstream media’s complacency in reporting on it.

If you want to know why I put part of the verb in quotation marks, please see Shaun Saunders’ latest story, posted here with his kind permission. Very timely stuff, and as usual, an excellent tale.

[Sunni notes: Shaun sent me this story sometime in September or October 2007. I really liked it, but being busy and lazy and having email problems all contributed to it being pushed out of my mind for a while. Ultimately, I think that worked all for the best; the recent spate of taserings and taser-caused deaths, along with the state-ordered forced vaccination of children in Prince George’s County, Maryland—a barbarous act that only the American Association of Physicians and Surgeons has protested thus far— make its publication now (11/21/07) an especially pointed reminder that dystopian fiction is increasingly becoming reality.]



In the cavernous underground parking area of the sprawling Fabcola Home Shopping Centre, a police cruiser flashed its lights, blipped its siren and cut across an old white sedan, forcing it to pull over near a trolley rank.

The police officer driving the cruiser was six hours into what had been an uneventful shift. Two runaway trolleys were hardly worth reporting, but this was different. With fifteen years on the force, the officer could smell trouble, and the behaviour of the driver he’d just pulled over was definitely erratic.

He radioed in the car’s plates, advised Central that he might have a situation on his hands, and hoisted himself out of the cruiser. Immediately he felt his knees protest, and rued that at thirty-five, he was just too old for these sorts of shenanigans.

“Good afternoon Sir,” the officer said as he approached the sedan, breathing heavily. “Would you mind explaining what you’re doing here this afternoon? I’ve been watching you navigating aimlessly around the lot for over a quarter of an hour.”

Surprised, the nondescript looking driver answered, “Oh, I’ve been trying to find a parking space.”

Warning bells tingled. Straightening his shoulders, the officer screwed up his face, gestured around them at the available parking spaces, and said, “There are plenty of disabled spots...so what’s the problem?”

“Officer, I’m looking for a regular spot,” the driver replied.

“What for? I doubt there are any left now by this time of day – since no one uses them they’ve usually taken for granted by trades and delivery people.” He narrowed his eyes, peering. “But I don’t see one of those stickers on your windshield.”

The driver calmly answered, “No, I’m not a trades or delivery person, Officer. I’m also not disabled.”

The officer stiffened; vestiges of his basic training kicked in. He took half a step closer so that he could get a better view of the driver through the open side window. The guy did look mighty thin and sure enough, there was no disabled sticker on the windshield either. His right index finger began trapping on the butt of the holstered Taser. He had to be careful. If the perp was one of those whacked-out vitamin freaks, even a jolt of a few hundred kV might not be enough to restrain him. Some of the stories he’d heard at the station...“Sir, can you please extend your arm so I can scan your SID?”

The driver complied.

With his other hand, the officer used a palm-sized uplink to scan the driver’s Subcutaneous IDentity chip for Medicare records. Almost immediately the results appeared on the screen of the device, and the officer knew there was something very odd about this suspect. There were no records of any visits to medical practitioners or pharmacists for over 10 years...

Tensely, the officer advised, “Sir, you’re either involved in something very illegal, like one of those vitamin rackets, or you’re actually a very sick man and just don’t know it. I’d rather not even think about the first option.” But I have to, he thought, for my own safety. “I want you to look straight ahead and slowly place your hands on the steering wheel and then don’t move. Not a muscle, not even a twitch. I’ve got to call this in.”

Bewildered, the driver complied. Then, “Officer, I don’t understand. What have I done?”

“Sir, there’s nothing in your file: No blood pressure, diabetes or ADHD medication, not even antidepressants or sleeping pills...in short, you’re a walking time-bomb, just waiting to explode.”

Realising what he’d said, the officer backed away from the car, right hand now firmly grasping the butt of the Taser. Puffing from the exertion, “But I don’t want to upset you Sir. No, not at all. In fact, why don’t you just take a few breaths, calm down, and we’ll sort this out. Sometimes, somehow, some consumers slip through the cracks.” With an edge of desperate hope to his voice, he added, “Maybe even there’s a problem with your SID,” but didn’t believe a word of it.

What he thought was, Hopefully back up will arrive soon.

Risking a quick glance at the at the officer, who was shaking now as he whispered into his radio-mike, the bewildered driver murmured, “It seems I’m not the one who’s stressed here.”



After radioing base and receiving further instructions, with great caution a miniscule blood sample was taken from the suspect’s thumb and analysed on the spot using the cruiser’s sophisticated onboard equipment. The results confirmed the previous information gleaned from the SID’s Medicare records: “No sign of any pharmaceutical medications...”

Desperate to buy more time, “Sir, this instantly qualifies you for an on-the-spot diagnosis of H.A.D.”

“Had?”

That’s right; keep him talking...make non-threatening conversation, using a soothing tone...

With a kindly voice, “Health Adjustment Disorder: it’s a medical term that applies to people who simply won’t look after themselves.” The officer forced a smile to match his voice. “I know from your SID that you’re forty two years old, right?”

The driver, with his hands back on the steering wheel, shrugged. “Yes officer, that’s correct, of course.”

“Well, in my job, and being in the public eye all day, I have a responsibility to keep up with all the latest facts and figures. Also, all officers have to complete basic first aid and health training. And when it comes to consumer health, I can tell you that the probability of someone your age – or my age for that matter; and I’m a few years younger than you ’ not needing drugs to control your cholesterol, to manage your diabetes, and then some more pharma just to help you get through the day and get some sleep at night when you have all those other problems, well, it’s just about zero. Modern health science tells us that diabetes in particular needs to be monitored from birth, and psychological disorders like attention deficit can make themselves known as early as two years of age.” The officer shook his head. “From there on, it’s just all down hill: arthritis, a smorgasbord of cancers, heart and kidney disease, and a psychological disorder for every day of the year. You know, they’re actually finding new diseases and new mood disorders every day! Oh, the tabloids sometimes have ridiculous stories about consumers who claim they’ve never been sick, but when properly investigated, you learn that it’s just smoke and mirrors to keep their readers interested.” He winked. “You know, those who don’t actually do much reading at all, if you know what I mean.

“But the important thing for health consumers to remember is that to stay one step ahead, you know, while the doctors and researchers and companies are looking for cures, is that we all have to do our bit by looking after ourselves.” The officer sighed with relief — multiple sirens could be heard approaching. “And that means regular visits to your medical practitioner, and taking their advice. Literally.”

The driver spoke. “What are all those sirens for?”

The officer dismissed the question with a vague wave of a hand. With the other he produced a plastic bin from the cruiser. It had multiple lids on top, like segments of an orange, although the officer didn’t realise that connection. “See this?” he asked. “Great idea: each of these little compartments is labelled with a different time of day.” He looked at his watch. “Right about now, I should be having my early evening pills.”

He tipped a dozen into his hand.

The driver’s eyes boggled at the coloured collection of pharmaceuticals. “Oh dear,” he said, “What on earth are all those for?”

“Well, these blue ones are for my depression. The grey ones with the white stripes are for cholesterol, the ones with the red stripes for my gout, and...”

Three vehicles screeched around the corner, sirens and lights blazing and flashing as they spilled backup officers into the car park.

“...you’ll get to know all of them yourself pretty soon, once you get some appropriate care.”

A short time later, after the driver had been Tasered repeatedly and tied into a straight jacket – “You can’t take chances with these sorts,” the officers agreed – and bundled into the back of a padded van destined for a psychiatric institution, he realised that the police officer had been correct, after a fashion: after years of constant exercise, careful eating, and avoiding disease before it required ‘managing’, it was certainly a case of being ‘had’. Before the van had left the subterranean car park, he was already feeling the effects of the “emergency” drugs the paramedics had injected into his bloodstream.

Life would never be the same again.

Another addition from Sunni: If you enjoyed this story, please consider buying Shaun’s new book, Navigating in the New World. It’s a wonderful collection of speculative science fiction.

Ira Levin has died. Sure, he’ll be remembered more for Rosemary’s Baby and The Stepford Wives, but This Perfect Day is far and away his best novel in my opinion.

The Classically Liberal blog hinted at this a while back, and has now posted some details in Laissez-Faire Books will continue. ISIL has bought LFB. It will be interesting to see how much—or how little—the book list changes.

Well, she said many things I find inspiring, it turns out. Here are a couple examples:

Perhaps you’ve already noticed the new category to the right: Noteworthy Nodes. I’d been thinking of ways to feature some of the better content in this rambling warren, but leave it to Australian pro-freedom writer Shaun Saunders to serve up a reason for making it happen pronto.

Inspired by Cat Farmer’s recent essay The 7 C’s: An Ideological or Social Spectrum, he wrote a story based on her idea. Shaun dedicated it to all of us here, but I daresay the other conspirators will agree that Cat deserves all the credit. It’s too good not to feature prominently and permanently here, and Shaun graciously gave me permission to do so. We both hope you enjoy The Seven C’s!

The Seven C’s

By Shaun Saunders

(For Sunni and her Conspirators, with special thanks to Cat Farmer for her brilliant, inspirational essay The Seven C’s: An Ideological or Social Spectrum)



When the spunky young guy dropped me the corny line, “So what’s a nice girl like you doing here?” instead of the usual retorts someone my age might use in my position, I thought I’d answer with the truth.

“I’m here because my father loves me.” There! That should wipe the smug authoritative look from his face.

And it did, for a moment. He opened his mouth, found nothing quick to say, and closed it again.

“There’s more to it than that, of course,” I added, taking the advantage.

“There usually is,” he answered drolly, with a half-raised eyebrow. He hooked a nearby stool with the toe of his boot and plonked himself down, all ears.

“If you don’t mind, I’ll stand,” I said.

He smiled. “But of course, whatever makes you most comfortable.”

I cleared my throat. “It all begins with the ‘Seven Cs of Freedom’.”

His smile became a grin. “Oh, this is going to be good. I must hear it all!”

“According to my dad, the seven Cs represent an ideological spectrum between ‘Contemplation’ and ‘Coercion’, or, as dad says, thuggery. He also says that the spectrum is a way of looking at relations between people in any given society, and that its rules and laws, and people’s attitudes and behaviours towards one another, reflect which end of the spectrum most people are at. Are you with me?”

“Oh yes, and most fascinated, too,” he said.

“Good. Would you mind bringing your stool a little closer? Thanks. It makes this a little more comfortable for me.”

“Of course. But what are the other five Cs?”

“Ok. I’ll start at thuggery – Coercion – and work backwards, just like dad did when he explained it to me. Coercion is the antithesis of freedom, because by its very definition it must mean an imposition of some kind by one person on another.”

The young man nodded. “Yes, it can only include freedom for the person doing the coercing, no matter how it is prettied up for general consumption.”

Wow! This guy is smart. “The next C is Control: this is about using rules and regulations, policies and procedures and customs to keep the majority in their place –”

“– But the minority with the ability to coerce determine what and where that place is.”

“Right again. Would you like to take over my monologue?”

“No, not at all – you’re doing a swell job. Please continue –” (with a twinkle in his eye) “– I think your father would prefer it that way.”

“Next up is Cajolery. This is much harder edged than merely getting your point of view across – think of it as persuasion with a sword aimed at your target audience’s throat. Your point of view is the only point of view...and everyone had better take it on board.

“It’s all uphill from here – although cooperation is sometimes a front for control and coercion –”

“– Like when someone puts a gun to your head or hires a thirty-thousand dollar a day barrister and says ‘please cooperate with me’? Sorry, I’m butting in again.”

“No, you’re actually communicating with me, and showing courtesy at the same time by questioning your own actions. But you’ve knocked out another two Cs...”

“Leaving us with?”

I sighed, perhaps a little over-dramatically. “Contemplation. Placing considered thought before action, or, in my case, inaction.”

The object of my attention screwed up his brow. “Okay,” he said slowly. “But where does your dad and his affection for you – his obviously lovely daughter – come into this intriguing ideological parable?” He cast a glance at the storm clouds gathering in the afternoon sky. “We may have exhausted the seven Cs, but I do hope that you can finish this story without working through any more of the alphabet: I have a feeling that might benefit us both.”

That twinkle, again.

I sighed. “As you would know, my father has strong views on what is just and right, and what a citizen’s responsibilities are in maintaining a just and right society. He expects everyone to contribute to that according to his or her individual capacity to do so.”

Big, cold raindrops began to patter around us.

More quickly now, “Last week a petition was circulating through the village... about boat people or something. Illegal immigrants maybe. Whatever. Anyway, this morning, during breakfast, my father asked me for my views on the subject. When he found out that I didn’t have any, and worse, that I hadn’t given thought to the petition, he was not impressed.”

“What exactly did you say to him?” the young man asked, grimacing as he chilled in the rain.

“I said, ‘Well, that has nothing to do with me...I’ll let someone else worry about them.’ My father stopped eating, looked at my mother and said, ‘Is this our fault?’ Mother’s reply was, ‘Yes, ultimately, but someone else can worry about it.’ Dad said, ‘Agreed.’

“Dad excused himself from the table, made a call, and shortly after some men in uniform were knocking on our front door. As they dragged me out of the house, kicking and screaming in a most unladylike fashion, I asked my father how he could do this to me.”

“Don’t tell me – he said, ‘This is the first C – Coercion – and you’ll have to plead to someone else, I’m not interested’?”

“Close. He actually said this was ‘Cajolery’.”

The young man shivered in the rain. “Whew. I’d hate to get him riled up to ‘coercion’, then.“

I put on my most endearing, please-help-me-I’m-defenceless-and-very-very-pretty smile. “Yeah, that’s about it. Put in the public stocks in the centre of town because I couldn’t be bothered helping someone else I’ve never even met.”

“Or even giving them thought,” he corrected. He shook his head. “Ah, the advantages of being the Mayor’s daughter...”

Fuck, it was cold, and I was starving, too. Enough banter. Time for some mutual ‘cooperation’. None too innocently, “Perhaps you could help me out of these wet clothes? They didn“t padlock the stock –” (Not that that would stop any healthy guy given the option of having some private time with me.) “– Dad said all I had to do was convince someone to let me out.” With a knowing smile, “How about it? If you’re still not convinced of my innocence, you can tie me up someplace warmer.”

The young man’s face turned to stone. He arose from his stool. “No, I’m sorry, but life is not a fairy tale – wolves do have teeth, and little girls in red capes do get eaten, cold or not. You’ll have to look elsewhere for your Galahad, but I do thank you for the parable. It was most...instructional. Good day.”

“How can you just leave me here?”

“Quite easily, I assure you. Your argument lacks a ‘C’ not on that list: conviction.”

“Prick!”

The duty constable smiled once more as he departed. “Careful, or you’ll have me adding another C to that list, somewhere above coercion and far more personal. Give my regards to your father.”

I don’t remember how I came to possess A Lodging of Wayfaring Men. I hadn’t heard of it, hadn’t seen it on a web site, so I didn’t request it from the publisher ... and since it isn’t from a large publishing house, nor a pro-freedom one, I’m not sure how I came to the sender’s notice as an individual likely to be interested in the book. Further adding to the mystery is that the book isn’t available via usual channels, meaning online bookstores. Swirling another layer through it all is that the book’s author or authors chose not to take credit for the work, publishing it as Anonymous.

Well, I do love mysteries, and will admit to eyeing the book in my queue with some anticipation as it progressed in the stack. When it finally reached the top, I found myself digging through it not so much in hopes of finding answers to the mysteries, but in enjoyment of the story and interest in the ideas it presents.

What if you could be more than you ever thought you could be? To be better than you thought you could be? Would you do it? asks the back cover. The answers aren’t given in the book, and neither is information that will directly challenge the reader to answer them. However, in the telling of the stories of several men over most of their lives, there’s much to think about and react to that helps provide answers for readers inclined to take those questions seriously while reading A Lodging of Wayfaring Men.

The remaining copy on the back cover hints at the activities of four major characters, doing so in such a way as to invite comparison with Ayn Rand’s Atlas Shrugged. Such comparisons are valid, in some respects. Both books address some individuals’ need to strive to achieve the best within themselves, and to find the best within others. They also portray the creation of an alternative society where such Creators and Producers are free to pursue their interests outside the grasp of the state. Lastly, both are novels of ideas, addressing crucial elements of human interaction and society in various ways to inform and challenge their readers.

A Lodging of Wayfaring Men is in some important respects better than Atlas Shrugged. It offers a deeper understanding of human psychology, and therefore in some areas will be more effective at reaching the reader, especially those not already inclined to value freedom. The speechifying is much more subtle, and often couched in dialogue rather than long soliloquy; but it also misses the mark more than Rand’s does. The characters are more complex and therefore more realistic (particularly the women); and their interactions are also deeper and more satisfying. The structure and pacing of A Lodging of Wayfaring Men is uneven, and the book overall would have been much improved by more careful copy editing. Still, it is a compelling book that offers much for freedom-loving individuals to think about.

Much of the action centers on the creation of a secure, private market that is completely outside of the reach of all government—and therefore taxing—authorities, and which begins its existence disguised as a computer game. The technology is not outlined in great detail, but sufficiently so to capture one’s imagination; I found myself wishing that such a system were in place, or at least in development, right now. Particularly effective is an exchange two of the characters have discussing fears and objections people have to freedom (pp. 148-151). Other similar gems are sprinkled throughout A Lodging of Wayfaring Men, although some are placed more adroitly than others.

Particularly endearing to me was the repeating theme of the need to address reality, whatever its form. It seems to me that many freedom-oriented individuals focus more on what ought to be, rather than what is, and thereby lose efficacy. I wish the Free Soul house were a real place where people could go to hang out and interact. A Lodging of Wayfaring Men doesn’t offer a utopian vision as much as it does sound ideas on ways to make what we do have much better. For all the quibbles I have with the book, its solid presentation of many ideas had me folding corners of pages so that I could return to specific ideas and consider them in more detail at my leisure. As full as my reading schedule is, I plan to make time to return to A Lodging of Wayfaring Men in order to glean the most from this interesting, thought-provoking tale.



Order A Lodging of Wayfaring Men from Vera Verba Publications, $26.95

No, no, not that Mr. Potter—I’m referring to the real, unequivocably pro-freedom Mr. Potter.

Trying to sift through my backlogged email a bit, I found a bit of terrific news that I want to pass along ASAP. Shaun Saunders’ new book, Navigating In the New World, has been published at last! He was kind enough to give me a peek at the galleys. I greatly enjoyed every story in the collection. For those of you who drop by the Antipodean SF site, you’ll recognize several stories ... but in the book each one is wonderfully expanded. I’ll be reviewing the published version of the book in a future Salon, but Navigating In the New World is simply too tasty for me to wait that long. If you’re intrigued, see the teaser page, and if you like what’s there, buy the book from Lulu.com. Congratulations, Shaun, on another excellent book!

Tom worked his webby magic on my ramblings and we are pleased to present to you the May/June issue of Sunni’s Salon. Don’t worry, there’s none of the negativity that burst out here fairly recently, and aside from my opening rambling remarks, it strikes me as a mostly light and fun issue. We hope you enjoy it!

Oh, and a scheduling note: it’s my goal to get future issues up closer to the beginning of the second month they cover from now on. This one was delayed by that aforementioned emotional turbulence; and I’m already taking steps to try to minimize the disruption my imminent adventure might bring on. Hoping is.

A King’s Cross platform 9 3/4 exists!



Cropped image from the King’s Cross Wikipedia entry.