Sexual Taboos in Creation Myths

Sexual taboos and unusual acts of procreation are found both in myths about the creation of the cosmos or world and the creation of our human species.   In terms of the birth of a Godling, avatar or intercessor whose primary purpose is to act as a living ladder connecting heaven to earth, there are more cases of human beings who mated with gods, rocks, trees or engaged in an incestuous relationship than there are deities born of ordinary sexual intercourse between a man and a woman or ordinary sexual intercourse between a male god and a female god.  Thus we find the myth of Myrrha, mother of Adonis as described in Ovid's Metamorphoses.  Im Ovid's version of the myth, incest between a drunken father and an infatuated daughter is the vehicle for the conception of Adonis, one of the most popular gods in the ancient lands that one day would become the Arab Nation.  Adonis simply translates to 'Lord', much like the name 'Ba'al' and he occupies much the same position as the Beloved whose life is forfeit in the cause of fertility.

Acts that are taboo in any culture usually are acts that possess great power in spiritual terms.  Robert Graves and Sir James Frazer both recognised this fact.   Food that is prohibited originally was considered sacred rather than 'dirty'.  The pig was a symbol of the Great Goddess and its flesh was consumed as a sacred Communion Rite.    In the realm of the gods, sexual intercourse between parent and child or sister and brother often produce the most powerful offspring.  In ancient civilisations, rulers often married a sibling to keep the line pure and the sacred power undiluted.

Myths that originally promoted these practices later were infected with prevailing social attitudes against incest.  Thus, the introduction of the concept of intoxication that prevents at least one of the participants from full knowledge of the nature of his/her action and the idea that a curse must be linked to an act of this sort.

In the older versions of the myth, the participants may be forces of Nature rather than gods in human form.   For example, in one tale, the 'Lord' who is Attis ultimately is born of a relationship between the seed of a castrated hermaphrodite and the daughter of a river.   The genealogy is as follows:  Cybele or Kybele, the Great Mother Goddess, was 'born from stone', issuing from a Rock or Sacred Mountain.  In some myths, the god of the sky mates with the Rock or Mountain to produce the Goddess but she predates any tales of her own conception and indeed often was worshipped in the form of Meteorite, a Stone fallen from the Sky.

Myths mutate as they are stolen, borrowed or assimilated in the cultures of invaders and the myth of Cybele is no exception.  In Greek myth, Cybele was downgraded into a woman who was desired by the God Zeus but who spurned his advances.  He therefore very characteristically planted his seed while she slept.  In another version, while Zeus slept,  he simply spilled his seed upon the earth which is, of course, the Great Goddess in her primal form.   She gave birth to an hermaphrodite named Agdistis.   In fact, Agdistis and Cybele probably were one and the same originally but in this version of the tale of Agdistis, the gods were so threatened by the potency of one who was both male and female that they castrated him/her.  From the severed manhood of Agdistis or from the blood grew an Almond Tree.  The fruit of this tree was consumed by the daughter of a river god named Nana and she gave birth to Attis.

Nana was a Virgin naturally and the birth of a child  was simply 'not on' in ordinary social terms.  She therefore exposed the child in time-honoured ancient fashion.   Like so many heroes and godlings exposed on mountaintops  or locked in coffins and set adrift upon the waters, the infant Attis was rescued and raised either by a he-goat or by shepherds.  In the course of time, he became an exceptionally handsome youth, attracting the desire of his own mother or grandmother Cybele. 

He, however, had fallen in love with a mortal priincess.  The Great Mother could not stomach this and cursed him with divine madness.  Attis then castrated himself beneath an evergreen.  Violets were created by his blood.  His spirit entered the evergreen or Pine.

Here you see a naked woman embracing a tree that has been cut almost to the root.  Apples are strewn on the surrounding ground.  It is a work by Steven Kenny.  When I saw it, I thought of all the Tree Myths and in particular, the myths that involve castration and rebirth.  I cannot pretend to know the mind of the artist, but to me, this painting speaks eloquently of Attis whose priest castrated themselves and who often threw their discarded genitals into the 'lap of the Goddess'.  Each year, an Evergreen was cut almost to the root, an image of Attis was nailed to the trunk and it was carried through the streets while devoted worshippers wept loudly to the accompaniment of flute, drum, sistrums and cymbals.  This frenzied mourning often culminated in the act of self-castration.  The Tree then was taken to a cave or crypt where it was wrapped in a burial shroud and where it remained for three days.  In the dead of night, his devotees then would proceed to the cave and the cry would be heard: 'He has risen!'

This painting evokes the Christian Pieta, where the Mother of God cradles the body of her crucified Son and Lord in her arms tenderly.

The photograph above shows a lovely statue of the Pieta against the background of the Cross.  This statue once graced St. Mary's Cathedral in Middlesbrough.  The Cathedral alas was destroyed by arsonists in May of 2000.

The Cross is the Tree, ladder to Heaven and instrument by which rebirth as well as martyrdom is effected.  As a phalllic symbol and Tree that points to heaven while living, the Cross itself is the solar wheel and the axis mundi.

In some versions of the myth of Attis, he pledged eternal chastity to the Mother Goddess.  When he broke that vow, his manhood was forfeit.

The fruit of an Almond is a Nut and it is no accident that a slang term for male testes is 'Nuts'.  Nuts are an ancient symbol of fertility and Yuletide traditions of stuffing the stocking with Nuts and Fruits mirror ancient rites. 

Mary, the ever-Virgin Mother of God inherits the mantle of Kybele.  The insistence of Christianity upon this and upon Christ's chastity corresponds to the most ancient traditions of the Great Mother and her Son as undiluted pure examples of Male and Female.  Virgin in this context is pure Woman rather than a woman who never had intercourse and never gave birth.  Virginity in ancient mystery religions was a magical trait that could be restored or renewed and was not something that would be lost irrevocably with the loss of the maidenhead.

Mystery religions or cults are secret religions and it is more than possible that the myriad conflicting accounts of Attis and Cybele resulted from incomplete knowledge or deliberate misdirection.

Some of the conflicting ancient sources of the myths include:

From Ovid's Metamorphoses 10: 'Pines, high-girdled, in a leafy crest, the favourite of the Gods' Great Mother, since in this tree Attis Cybeleius doffed his human shape and stiffened in its trunk.'

From Ovid's Fasti 4:

'What causes the impulse [of the devotees of Kybele, Cybele] to self-castrate?’ I was silent. The Pierid began: ‘A woodland Phrygian boy, the gorgeous Attis, conquered the towered goddess with pure love. She wanted to keep him as her shrine's guardian, and said, 'Desire to be a boy always.'

He promised what was asked and declared, 'If I lie, let the Venus I cheat with be my last.'  He cheats, and in the Nympha Sagaritis stops being what he was: the goddess' wrath punished him. She slashes the tree and cuts the Naiad down. The Naiad dies: her fate was the tree's. He goes mad, and imagines that the bedroom roof is falling and bolts to Dindymus' heights.

He cries, 'Away torches!', 'Away whips!' , and often swears the Palestine goddesses have him. He even hacked his body with a jagged stone, and dragged his long hair in squalid dirt, shouting, 'I deserved it; my blood is the penalty. Ah, death to the parts which have ruined me!'

'Ah, death to them!' he said, and cropped his groin's weight. Suddenly no signs of manhood remained. His madness became a model: soft-skinned acolytes toss their hair and cut their worthless organs.

From Statius, Silva 1:

The hollow caves of Phrygian Synnas Attis bedewed with the bright drops of his own blood'

N.B.  Red stone was quarried from these caves.

From Nonnus, Dionysiaca 20:

'A dream came to Bakkhos (Bacchus)--Eris (Discord) the nurse of war, in the shape of Rheia the loverattle goddess, seated in what seemed to be her lionchariot. Phobos drove the team of this dream chariot, in the counterfeit shape of Attis with limbs like his; he formed the image of Kybele's charioteer, a softskinned man in looks with shrill tones like the voice of a woman...

Dionysos spent five years laying siege to a city in India.

While Bakkhos was thus despondent, came a messenger in hast through the Skythian mountains from divine Rheia, sterile Attis in his trailing robe, whipping up the travelling team of lions. He once had stained with a knife the creative stalk of marriage-consecrating youth, and threw away the burden of the plowshare without love or wedlock, the man's harvest-offering; so he showered upon his two thighs the bloody generative drops, and made womanish his warm body with the shearing steel.

This was the messenger who came driving the car of goddess Kybele, to comfort discouraged Lyaios. Seeing him Dionysos sprang up, thinking perchance he might have brought the all-conquering Rheia to the Indian War. Attis checked the wild team, and hung the reins on the handrail, and disclosing the smooth surface of his rosy cheeks, called out a flood of loud words to Bakkhos--

‘Dionysos of the vine, son of Zeus, offspring of Rheia! Answer me: when will you destroy the woolly-headed nation of Indians and come back to the Lydian land? Not yet has Rheia seen your black-skin captives; not yet has she wiped off the sweat from your Mygdonian lions after the war, beside the highland manger, where the rich river of Paktolos runs; but without a sound you roll out the conflict through circuits of everlasting years! Not yet have you brought a herd of eastern lions from India as a token of victory for the breeder of beasts, the mother of the gods! Very well, accept from Hephaistos and your immortal Rheia this armour which the Lemnian anvil made; you will see upon it earth and sea, the sky and the company of stars!’

Before he had finished, Bakkhos called out angrily--‘Hard are the gods and jealous . . . Hera keeps me back from victory . . .’

Lydian Attis answered these words of Dionysos: ‘If you carry this starry shield of the sky inviolate, my friend, you need not tremble before the wrath of Ares, or the jealousy of Hera, or all the company of the Blessed, while All-mother Rheia is with you; you need fear no army with bended bows, lest they cast their spears and strike Helios  or wound Selene! Who could blunt the sword of Orion with a knife, or shoot the Waggoner with earthly arrows? Perhaps you will name the nor strong father of  Deriades: but what could Hydaspes do to you, when you can bring in Okeanos?

‘Be of good courage: to the battle again! For my Rheia has prophesied victory for you at last. The war shall not end until the four Seasons complete he sixth year. So much the eye of Zeus and the threads of the unturning Mora have granted to the will of Hera; in the seventh lichtgang which follows, you shall destroy the Indian city.’

With these words he handed the shield to Bromios; then he tasted the feast, and cheered his heart with umixed cups of nomorepain wine. When he had satisfied his appetite at table, once more he touched up the flanks of his lions with the whip, and guided the hill-ranging car on the road back to Phrygia. He drove along the heights above the Kaukasian valleys, the Assyrian peaks and the dangerous Baktrian mountains, the summits of Libanos and the crests of Tauros, until he passed into the Maionian land. There he entered the divine precinct selfbuilt of Rheia, mother of mighty sons. He freed his ravening lions from the yoke straps, and haltered them at the manger which he filled with ambrosial fodder.'

I have copied this tale as it is interesting in describing a meeting between the messenger of the Great Goddess Kyble, Attis and their devotee, Dionysos.  




Elsewhere, Attis is described in similar terms as follows: 'Attis: is the recipient of special honor amongst Phrygians, for being minister of the Mother of the God'.

One can peer further into the mists of time to find parallels between Attis and the Sumerian shepherd king Dumuzi.   Attis indeed often is depicted as a shepherd himself.   Dumuzi the Shepherd  is chosen by the Great Goddess Inanna as consort but he is found to be unworthy when she returns to the Earth (Aboveground) after her visit to the Underworld.  His life thereby is forfeit as the laws of the Underworld demand a life as the price for her freedom and she proclaims him to be the Sacrifice..  Dumuzi is not willing, however and flees from the priests of Ereshkigal, Lady of the Underworld.  His flight mirrors that of the ancient god Ba'al when HE seeks to avoid payment of his debt to Mot, Lord of the Underworld.  Dumuzi as Ba'al before him ultimately is discovered and the Sacrifice is completed.

The Goddess who pronounces the doom upon her consort King/Beloved mourns him.  In some fashion, she has offered that which she loves most as her sacrifice to allow the Earth to be fertile again.  It is the Sacrifice of Attis/Adonis/Dumuzi that frees the Earth from the grip of Death.   As the Great Goddess is Nature Herself, she cannot serve as Sacrifice.  It is the blood of her Consort/Son that quickens her and ultimately effects his rebirth.

Who then are the Galli, the unmanned priests of the Great Kybele, who emulate the Sacrifice of the Beloved, the self-castration of Attis?  What power does castration endow upon them?  The Galli in fact must have believed themselves to be Agdistis, both male and female.  Only by sacrificing the male portion of themselves could they experience the power of the Goddess.  Their power to procreate remains external rather than internal, becoming the very gift of fertility to the Earth.

It is fascinating to realise that one of the Emperors of Rome in the person of Elagabalus was a follower of Attis.  His religious fervour was mistaken by many for sexual perversion and yet every act described in the 'history' of his reign can be identified as traditional practices of the cult.

'Leaves of Grass' in Oklahoma

As a child, I wished I had been born hundreds of years ago and felt misplaced in my century.  Now I feel that I am fortunate indeed to have lived in the epoch that saw 'Lord of the Rings' both as an incredible literary epic and as a series of films without rival.  Along with the great unforgettable films such as LoTR are wonderful quirky, unique films like 'The Disappearance of Alice Creed', 'Dirty Deeds', 'The Extra Man' and 'Leaves of Grass'.  One day, this period may be considered the Golden Age of Independent Films.

No longer are there any rules as to what can be produced and aired either in the cinema or on the television.  There are no set genres now either.  A film can be both comedy and tragedy, light and dark, social satire and serious philosophy interwoven with the bizarre.  Whatever the human mind conceives can be rendered as film.  The possibilities are infinite.  Advanced technology allows any one to make a film if he or she possesses sufficient determination.   Moreover, this technology is neither costly nor difficult to obtain.  The power of the internet changed the entire nature of social networking.  Communication is instantaneous and international.  Any artist can market his or her ideas worldwide to find a patron or patrons...

There was a time when certain elements proclaimed that books were becoming obsolete.  I believe them to have been mistaken.  There are more writers now than there ever have been in any previous epoch and despite the availability of e-books, people in general still prefer real books.  What the internet has accomplished, however, is freedom for any aspiring writer or thinker to write and to be read.   One of the greatest bloodless revolutions for humanity that has occurred was achieved through the invention of the Weblog.  Socially and politically, the world has been changed by the ability of any individual to post a message worldwide with no other requirement than access to a computer or another device that allows text to be published on the internet.

It once was said that guns were the most democratic invention in terms of equality in conflict.   The international democracy in media that was created by the internet more far-reaching and significant.  Underground newspapers, posters and vanity presses have existed in one form or another as long as people have known how to read and write.  Whether by means of a printing press or incised into a wall or the face of a mountain,  political and social messages that escaped the control of the government or the authorities always have been published but never before was there the ability to affect the entire world.  The mainstream media no longer can dam the flow of information it considers dangerous to its interests.   There no longer is any excuse for ignorance and now, in truth, silence could be argued to constitute acquiescence or at the very least, social negligence.

On a less serious level, the public has access to the work of a multitude of brilliant artists in every medium who promote every conceivable point of view.    In film, independent artists can mix and combine elements that once would have been relegated to the cutting floor.  'Leaves of Grass' is a film that demonstrates the ability of the artist to combine philosophy, humour, literary criticism and violence in a heady mix that conforms to no conventional model.    Although films need not be plot-driven to succeed, 'Leaves of Grass' has a strong plot and is indeed an 'action film' inter alia, but by its title, potential viewers should be alert to the fact that this film contains intellectual material that may be unsuitable for those who find the business of academic logic exhausting.  Actually, the title is a clever double entendre, as the film concerns both poetry and marijuana dealers.

Like 'The Extra Man', 'Leaves of Grass' is a film that encourages more than one viewing.  It operates on many different levels and is a sly study in the contrasts and contradictions in contemporary society.

The underlying significance of 'Game of Thrones'

My stepfather recommended 'Game of Thrones' long before it had been conceived as a television series.  He was very fond of fantasy in literature.   My own reading habits usually depend upon my mood and at the time, I was devouring murder mysteries and did not wish to change that diet.

When the series was released, I came to it half-heartedly, greatly impressed by the cinematography, rich tapestries of otherworldly landscapes, taken from this Earth but not of this World, thus evoking Peter Jackson's extraordinary use of New Zealand's unique beauty to create Middle Earth for LoTR.  In a series like 'Game of Thrones', however, the viewer who is unfamiliar with the original novels is at a distinct disadvantage.  There are too many characters for a start, and moreover, too many important characters.   At the same time, a principle that had guided me too much in my youth was holding me back from true enjoyment.  I recognise it as a character flaw.  I am an elitist at heart.  When something is overly popular, I tend to eschew it utterly...  Thus, the wild enthusiasm that accompanied the release of 'Game of Thrones' on HBO would have prevented me from watching it once upon a time.

Thank God for small steps towards maturity of character.  Part of the reason I am less rigid in that respect is because I see the same trait in my own daughter and it exasperates me beyond belief.  She refuses to watch 'Game of Thrones' for no other reason than the fact that it reigns paramount in the conversation of her peers at University.   One of the great gifts that our children bestow unwittingly upon us is self-knowledge as they often are mirrors of our own characters to some extent.  She is very much 'her own person' but her wilfulness and stubbornness are inherited.  Dashing myself against the unyielding fortress formed from her opinions perhaps one day will improve my own character.

The same book, film or show can operate on many different levels, appealing to different individuals for very different reasons.  How can popularity truly negate the value of a book, film or show?  It may be annoying when there is media-saturation of any particular popular work, but it does not invalidate the work itself in any way.  Furthermore,  mass popularity of any work makes it a part of the general culture of that point in time.  If one cuts oneself off from knowledge of anything that the masses love, one separates oneself from a phenonmenon that is akin to the 'collective unconscious'.  As Merry protested to the Ent Treebeard at the Entmoot,  'But you're part of this world, aren't you?'

As one of those idealistic souls who, despite all evidence to the contrary, believes that human beings individually CAN change for the better,  I believe I have addressed some of my early tendencies towards arrogance and elitism.  Moreover,  I fervently hope that I am a kinder, more patient and compassionate individual than I was at my daughter's age.  The passage of years and encounters with a multitude of extraordinary artists certainly have taught me some humility.  I no longer believe I can be the best, but I do retain some aspirations of doing something 'worthy' before I die.  Like Auda abu Tayi as portrayed in Lawrence of Arabia, conceiving of a raid in order to take something 'worthy' home as spoils, I still long to write something that will set even a little fire in the hearts of those who read it.  Of course, Auda abu Tayi was a man after my own heart to some extent, described by T.E. Lawrence as follows:

'He saw life as a saga, all the events in it were significant: all personages in contact with him heroic, his mind was stored with poems of old raids and epic tales of fights.'

One could do worse certainly than to aspire to something similar.  At the end of the day, however, growing up to some extent is the realisation that one may be able to create only small moments of significance and beauty rather than an opus consisting of a larger-than-life tapestry.

Which brings me back to 'Game of Thrones' and its underlying theme which is not the epic tale of rival kings and queens striving for the Iron Throne but a multiplicity of 'coming of age' tales of outsiders, misfits and other individuals who would not appear to be 'hero material' at the outset.

There are many novels that feature an outcast or social misfit as protagonist and trace the history of that individual's progress from a rocky start to a glorious finish.  'The Hunger Games' trilogy is a recent popular example of this.  The hero or heroine in these novels may have one or more characteristics that do not fit into the idealised portrait of a classical hero but on the whole, he or she does demonstrate most of the important traits of a person with a grand destiny.

This is not the case in 'Game of Thrones'.  In 'Game of Thrones', there are countless characters who do not appear to be hero material in the least but who gain in stature and ultimately show themselves as heroic in small or great ways.  'Game of Thrones' gives every one hope in that respect.  To paraphrase Varys, 'a very small man can cast a very long shadow.'

Although there are classical heroic figures such as Eddard Stark, other 'heroes' include a dwarf, an overweight self-confessed coward, a bastard, a hoyden and a paraplegic.  One suspects that the writer, George R.R. Martin, like Tyrion Lannister might confess that: 'I have a tender spot in my heart for cripples, bastards and broken things.'

Some have declared 'Game of Thrones' to be a work that one day will be recognised universally as a classic.  Epic tales often do become classics by sheer force of their plots, even where the style of the writer is not quite equal to that of the greatest lyrical novelists or poets.  The fact of the matter is that 'Game of Thrones' like 'Lord of the Rings' may indeed possess the timeless eternal appeal that is the hallmark of any 'classic' in literature.   Both Tolkien and Martin are masters at the art of storytelling and create memorable, unique characters.  They both are adept at dialogue and can toss off epigrams to rival those of Oscar Wilde.  If every sentence penned does not proclaim them to be 'great writers' in every sense of the word, it cannot be denied that both are great storytellers and truly great writing is to be found in their works.  It is difficult for long epic tales to achieve stylistic consistency in any case.  The writer of a novella or short story can hone each sentence until it shines but when one is dealing with thousands and thousands of pages, it is virtually impossible to achieve the same quality of style in every paragraph.  I would not even mention this had it not been for a comment my daughter made to the effect that, although 'Lord of the Rings' remains one of her favourite literary works, she does not consider Tolkien to be a truly 'great' writer.

A very successful writer who has been a close friend of mine for many years told me that he reminds himself constantly that a writer first and foremost is a storyteller and if the writing gets in the way of the story, it must be excised from the tale.   Invaluable advice.  I strove too much for stylistic brilliance in my early writing, as I greatly admired many writers who had achieved a 'succes d'estime' and indeed felr then that commercial success somehow was a blot upon the escutcheon of any serious novelist.  Yes, I was a somewhat insufferable precocious child, to say the least...

As with 'Lord of the Rings',  it would be a mistake to ignore the series/films in favour of the books or to ignore the original books in favour of the cinematic form.  They truly work together.  One has to concede always that any cinematic version of an epic of this length and breadth must make changes in the plot in the interests of effective use of time while remaining as true as possible to the original.  Both Peter Jackson's 'LoTR' and the HBO series of 'Game of Thrones' manage this difficult feat.  In the case of the latter, it helps immensely that George R.R. Martin himself worked on the project.

In either form, 'Game of Thrones' is an epical tale to inspire every one, be he or she large or small, young or old, brilliant or half-witted, sound of body or crippled.  It allows every individual to see a path that will lead him or her to an heroic goal, however unusual that goal may be.  It's a damned fine yarn as well...

Humpty Dumpty and the Concept of Reparations

The grim spectre of 'Political Correctness' has cast Mother Goose somewhat into disfavour and thus, there are children now who emerge as fledgling adults without ever knowing half of the nursery rhymes or childhood tales that were common coin in Western culture 'once upon a time'.  For those who are not familiar with the tale of Humpty Dumpty, it is told as follows:

'Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall,
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.
All the King's Horses and all the King's Men
Couldn't put Humpty together again.'

Humpty Dumpty was and is an Egg.  Eggs have served as the protagonists of moral tales, riddles and jingles since time began.  Tolkien in fact chose an ancient Anglo-Saxon riddle as one of the subjects of the verbal contest between Gollum and Bilbo Baggins.  The prize for winning was the One Ring.   The riddle itself really does not touch upon social ethics but the One Ring certainly does.

'A box without hinges, key or lid,
Yet golden treasure inside is hid.'

Despite the lack of key, hinge or lid, the Golden Treasure entirely lacks protection as an Egg is one of the most fragile objects in the world.  Perhaps there is a lesson in that as well.

There are many wonderful proverbs in which the Egg is featured.  'You can't make an omelette without breaking eggs' is one.  'Don't put all your eggs in one basket' is another.

The ditty about Humpty Dumpty originally was not intended for children but generally is accepted to have been created as a political jingle.  There is no agreement as to the actual situation it described originally but, as a modern Jacobite, I would favour the explanation that places it at the seige of Colchester in 1648 during the English Civil War.  According to local lore, a large cannon on the city wall had been christened Humpty Dumpty.  A shot from the thugs of Cromwell, aka Puritans, took down the wall at that point, causing the cannon to tumble to the ground.   Although this might be the specific origin of the ditty, Humpty Dumpty always symbolised an Egg in the Nursery and as an Egg, has appeared in literature again and again through the years.

To members of the legal profession, Humpty Dumpty is one of the more interesting characters in 'Through the Looking Glass'.

One of the discussions is as follows:

'I don't know what you mean by 'glory',' Alice said.
Humpty Dumpty smiled contemptuously.

'Of course you don't -- till I tell you.  i meant 'there's a nice knock-down argument for you!' '

'But 'glory' doesn't mean 'a nice knock-down argument',' Alice objected.

'When I use a word,' Humpty Dumpty said, in a rather scornful tone, 'It means just what I choose it to mean -- neither more nor less.'

'The question is,' said Alice, 'Whether you can make words mean so many different things.'

'The question is,' said Humpty Dumpty, 'Which is to be master.  That's all.'

Alice was much too puzzled to say anything, so after a minute Humpty Dumpty began again.

'They've a temper, some of them -- particularly verbs, they're the proudest -- adjectives you can do anything with, but not verbs -- however, I can manage the whole lot!  Impenetrability!  That's what I say!'

Which takes us back to the old Anglo-Saxon riddle of the Egg.  Impenetrable, of course, until it is shattered!

Lord Atkin, inter alia, used the argument of Humpty Dumpty in his dissenting opinion in the case of Liversidge v. Anderson, a case that dealt with an Executive Order by Parliament that could be seen as a progenitor of the entire body of law that has been created both in the U.K. and in the U.S. under the sinister mantle of 'homeland security'.

The case of Liversidge dealt with a Regulation that allowed the Home Secretary to detain individuals if he had 'reasonable cause' to believe the individual in question had 'hostile associations'.   As the Regulation dealt with matters of 'national security', the majority opinion chose to grant extraordinary power to the Home Secretary, claiming that all that was necessary was that he had acted in good faith.

Lord Atkin rightly argued that:

'In England, amid the clash of arms, the laws are not silent.  They may be changed, but they speak the same language in war as in peace.   It has always been one of the pillars of freedom, one of the principles of liberty for which on recent authority we are not fighting, that the judges are no respecters of persons and stand between the subject and any attempted encroachments on his liberty by the executive, alert to see that any coercive action is justified in law.

'I know of only one authority, which might justify the suggested method of construction.'

He then proceeded to quote Humpty Dumpty's argument, then concluded that:

'After all this long discussion, the question is whether the words 'If a man has' can mean 'If a man thinks he has'.   I have an opinion that they cannot and the case should be decided accordingly.'

To Lord Atkin, the fact that the words 'reasonable cause' had been used in the statute signified the need to apply an objective standard.  Protection of the individual's rights should be of paramount concern to the judiciary irrespective of politics defining 'hostile associations' at any particular point in history!

From the vantage point of the early 21st century, whether the concept of 'Homeland Security' has be used and abused to incarcerate thousands of individuals both in the U.S. and in the U.K. without due legal process and without any requirement to proof or offer real evidence that those individuals ever committed ANY crime, Lord Atkin's obiter dictum gains further in significance.

Following Lord Atkin's august example, it therefore is apt to use Humpty Dumpty as an example in a discussion about contemporary politics.

I will leave the discussion of Homeland Security, real or imagined, however, for another time, in favour of that of 'Reparations'.

'Reparations' is a valid concept in Tort but as a political concept, it leaves a great deal to be desired. 

For a start, the political idea of 'Reparations' appears to exist solely to benefit specific target groups in very specific circumstances, eg. the Jewish holocaust and the descendants of African slaves in the United States.   Soon, any one who lived through the Second World War will be dead and no doubt, the concept of 'Reparations' then will be transferred to their descendants.

To me, this is utterly unconscionable.  It is neither legally logical nor ethically sensible.  In the first quarter of the 21st century, there are no slaves in the U.S., nor are there very many descendants of slaves who were not born with the same rights and opportunities as any one else.  'Affirmative action' and 'Diversity' are other political concepts designed to benefit specific target groups while perforce operating to the disadvantage of every one else.  

Whatever the Third Reich did or did not do, it is completely past tense.  There should be no right in Tort to create a cause of action for something that the individual did not experience personally for a start.  Furthermore, there have been holocausts throughout history and genocide and ethnic cleansing were the order of the day to many invading forces.  It is neither right nor just but it must not be allowed as a political weapon used to bludgeon any one unfortunate enough not to have been born into one of the 'Victim' groups.  The deaths of any minority group cannot be perceived as somehow more heinous than the deaths of others.   Furthermore, the entire business of the Jewish holocaust (and it is a business according to Norman Finkelstein and other Jewish writers) is a shield used to deflect criticism of the holocaust against the Palestinian people.   The slogan that proclaims: 'This cannot happen ever again' applied to the Jewish holocaust becomes entirely hypocritical when viewed objectively from the standpoint of humanity in general.  In fact, the word 'Holocaust', especially when capitalised, is a word defined according to the rules of Humpty Dumpty himself.  'It means just what I choose it to mean --- neither more nor less.'

Why should young Germans carry the weight of spurious guilt for a government they never experienced personally?  In point of fact, one of the reasons that Hitler came into power in the first place was because Germany had been brought to her knees by the Reparations forced upon them by the victors at the end of the First World War.  Hitler promised a return to national pride and honour as well as an end to famines that had reduced the populace to a steady diet of turnips.  Germans who lived through those hard times often still cannot abide the sight of turnips...

The sooner the concept of political Reparation is struck down by the highest judicial bodies both domestically and internationally, the better.   Holocaust should be a word that is applied to any and every case of genocide from the dawn of time.  All human beings are created equal, after all.  There is no 'chosen people' with a value in International Law, Criminal Law or Tort that outweighs the value of any other human life.  The sooner that the general populace repudiates the idea that it somehow should be forced to pay a price for the acts or sins of its ancestors, the better.

In fact, the concept of political Reparation is related to 'Political Correctness' and indeed, the concept of 'Hate Crimes' is yet another example of spurious reasoning that is designed to benefit specific 'Victim' groups rather than being valid in legal terms.

If a man or woman commits murder, he/she is guilty of a crime and the punishment determined by law can be exacted.  If a racist commits a murder, he/she is guilty of the crime of murder and can be punished for it.  Why should there be special consideration for the fact that he/she possesses attitudes that are repugnant to others in political terms?   Murderers in general are not nice people.  What difference does it make that the criminal is motivated by a political attitude rather than simple or complex Greed?

In the 21st Century, an unfortunate belief that people must be protected against themselves prevails in the West.   The whole philosophy of 'Political Corretness' is a naive attempt to teach people to be 'good' according to arbitrary definitions of what is Good.  Even if the motivations are positive (and it has been shown that, alas, they are NOT in most cases, but rather a method by which the legal profession can profit by engaging in lawsuits that have no real basis in common law), the results make very bad law.

Furthermore, 'Political Correctness' au fond should be nothing more than  a matter of manners and good manners must be taught in the home, not in courts of law.    Lack of common courtesy is at the heart of many of the negative trends that prevail in our Western civilisation.  The idea of 'road rage', for example, would not be exist if people acted according to the dictates of common courtesy.   One need not LIKE people in order to treat them with basic courtesy, after all. 

You cannot make people good, nor can you make them 'nice' by passing laws that elevate certain forms of nastiness to legal prohibitions.  Nor can you prevent people from despair and suicide by making the act of suicide illegal.

 Recently, an article appeared in a local newspaper to urge the government to erect barriers on a high bridge that would make it difficult if not impossible for individuals to leap to their deaths.   Go one step further and you see laws that make suicide a crime.  The consumption of illicit substances is yet another crime.  Freedom of the individual purportedly is one of the basic principles of so-called 'Western Democracy'.  How is it then that Freedoms often are curtailed for no other reason than to 'protect' an individual against himself or herself?

The idea of 'Political Correctness' is one that is applied to humanity as if we all were children who must be forced to walk the straight and narrow path created by those political Ethicians who believe that their superior moral guidance (and power to administer punishment) is necessary in the pursuit of preventing the world from going to Hell in a handbasket.  It cannot be justified by any one who truly believes in freedom of expression or freedom of thought.  It is a sort of blanket censorship with teeth and unfortunately, a brand of censorship that has gained far too much political clout.

Name-calling may be a nasty form of communication but should it be punishable by law especially when it is only punishable in specific circumstances when practiced by specific individuals?  The term 'nigger' for example is one that is at the top of any list created by the PC Police but only when used by those who cannot claim to belong to the group it describes.  An African-American can use the term with impunity, whether as a tool in comedy, a verbal weapon in an altercation or as a term almost of endearment.   Some one from any other ethnic group can lose his/her livelihood if the word passes his/her lips in public.  At the same time, a word like 'Honky' or 'Redneck' which could pertain only to a different ethnic group can be used with impunity by ANY ONE.    Any Political Correctness definition is riddled with double standards.  

It is in the realm of social satire and comedy that the utter absurdity of our cultural obsession with 'labels' and 'political correctness' meets with the derision and contempt it deserves.  In the States, Larry David entered the lists long ago against the PC warriors.  In the U.K., Ricky Gervais has been fearless in his mockery of the concept.  God willing, laughter will erode this absurd philosophy gradually and ultimately demolish it completely.  In the meantime, laughter is the best medicine against the self-righteous and those who believe they possess a right to dictate to the rest of us either socially or literally.

The Irony of the Triumph of Time

 For W.D.R.
A poet always is a little in love with love itself and never allows childhood dreams quite to die.  Thus, the title of this poem is ironic, as Time did not triumph over Tristan and Iseult, nor can it efface the illusions of first love.  The Triumph of Time ultimately is Death and as Swinburne is quick to remind us: 'Death is a sleep.'


Before our lives divide for ever,
While time is with us and hands are free,
(Time, swift to fasten and swift to sever
Hand from hand, as we stand by the sea)
I will say no word that a man might say
Whose whole life's love goes down in a day;
For this could never have been; and never,
Though the gods and the years relent, shall be.

Is it worth a tear, is it worth an hour,
To think of things that are well outworn?
Of fruitless husk and fugitive flower,
The dream foregone and the deed forborne?
Though joy be done with and grief be vain,
Time shall not sever us wholly in twain;
Earth is not spoilt for a single shower;
But the rain has ruined the ungrown corn.

It will grow not again, this fruit of my heart,
Smitten with sunbeams, ruined with rain.
The singing seasons divide and depart,
Winter and summer depart in twain.
It will grow not again, it is ruined at root,
The bloodlike blossom, the dull red fruit;
Though the heart yet sickens, the lips yet smart,
With sullen savour of poisonous pain.

I have given no man of my fruit to eat;
I trod the grapes, I have drunken the wine.
Had you eaten and drunken and found it sweet,
This wild new growth of the corn and vine,
This wine and bread without lees or leaven,
We had grown as gods, as the gods in heaven,
Souls fair to look upon, goodly to greet,
One splendid spirit, your soul and mine.

In the change of years, in the coil of things,
In the clamour and rumour of life to be,
We, drinking love at the furthest springs,
Covered with love as a covering tree,
We had grown as gods, as the gods above,
Filled from the heart to the lips with love,
Held fast in his hands, clothed warm with his wings,
O love, my love, had you loved but me!

We had stood as the sure stars stand, and moved
As the moon moves, loving the world; and seen
Grief collapse as a thing disproved,
Death consume as a thing unclean.
Twain halves of a perfect heart, made fast
Soul to soul while the years fell past;
Had you loved me once, as you have not loved;
Had the chance been with us that has not been.

I have put my days and dreams out of mind,
Days that are over, dreams that are done.
Though we seek life through, we shall surely find
There is none of them clear to us now, not one.
But clear are these things; the grass and the sand,
Where, sure as the eyes reach, ever at hand,
With lips wide open and face burnt blind,
The strong sea-daisies feast on the sun.

The low downs lean to the sea; the stream,
One loose thin pulseless tremulous vein,
Rapid and vivid and dumb as a dream,
Works downward, sick of the sun and the rain;
No wind is rough with the rank rare flowers;
The sweet sea, mother of loves and hours,
Shudders and shines as the grey winds gleam,
Turning her smile to a fugitive pain.

Mother of loves that are swift to fade,
Mother of mutable winds and hours.
A barren mother, a mother-maid,
Cold and clean as her faint salt flowers.
I would we twain were even as she,
Lost in the night and the light of the sea,
Where faint sounds falter and wan beams wade,
Break, and are broken, and shed into showers.

The loves and hours of the life of a man,
They are swift and sad, being born of the sea.
Hours that rejoice and regret for a span,
Born with a man's breath, mortal as he;
Loves that are lost ere they come to birth,
Weeds of the wave, without fruit upon earth.
I lose what I long for, save what I can,
My love, my love, and no love for me!

It is not much that a man can save
On the sands of life, in the straits of time,
Who swims in sight of the great third wave
That never a swimmer shall cross or climb.
Some waif washed up with the strays and spars
That ebb-tide shows to the shore and the stars;
Weed from the water, grass from a grave,
A broken blossom, a ruined rhyme.

There will no man do for your sake, I think,
What I would have done for the least word said.
I had wrung life dry for your lips to drink,
Broken it up for your daily bread:
Body for body and blood for blood,
As the flow of the full sea risen to flood
That yearns and trembles before it sink,
I had given, and lain down for you, glad and dead.

Yea, hope at highest and all her fruit,
And time at fullest and all his dower,
I had given you surely, and life to boot,
Were we once made one for a single hour.
But now, you are twain, you are cloven apart,
Flesh of his flesh, but heart of my heart;
And deep in one is the bitter root,
And sweet for one is the lifelong flower.

To have died if you cared I should die for you, clung
To my life if you bade me, played my part
As it pleased you--these were the thoughts that stung,
The dreams that smote with a keener dart
Than shafts of love or arrows of death;
These were but as fire is, dust, or breath,
Or poisonous foam on the tender tongue
Of the little snakes that eat my heart.

I wish we were dead together to-day,
Lost sight of, hidden away out of sight,
Clasped and clothed in the cloven clay,
Out of the world's way, out of the light,
Out of the ages of worldly weather,
Forgotten of all men altogether,
As the world's first dead, taken wholly away,
Made one with death, filled full of the night.

How we should slumber, how we should sleep,
Far in the dark with the dreams and the dews!
And dreaming, grow to each other, and weep,
Laugh low, live softly, murmur and muse;
Yea, and it may be, struck through by the dream,
Feel the dust quicken and quiver, and seem
Alive as of old to the lips, and leap
Spirit to spirit as lovers use.

Sick dreams and sad of a dull delight;
For what shall it profit when men are dead
To have dreamed, to have loved with the whole soul's might,
To have looked for day when the day was fled?
Let come what will, there is one thing worth,
To have had fair love in the life upon earth:
To have held love safe till the day grew night,
While skies had colour and lips were red.

Would I lose you now? would I take you then,
If I lose you now that my heart has need?
And come what may after death to men,
What thing worth this will the dead years breed?
Lose life, lose all; but at least I know,
O sweet life's love, having loved you so,
Had I reached you on earth, I should lose not again,
In death nor life, nor in dream or deed.

Yea, I know this well: were you once sealed mine,
Mine in the blood's beat, mine in the breath,
Mixed into me as honey in wine,
Not time, that sayeth and gainsayeth,
Nor all strong things had severed us then;
Not wrath of gods, nor wisdom of men,
Nor all things earthly, nor all divine,
Nor joy nor sorrow, nor life nor death.

I had grown pure as the dawn and the dew,
You had grown strong as the sun or the sea.
But none shall triumph a whole life through:
For death is one, and the fates are three.
At the door of life, by the gate of breath,
There are worse things waiting for men than death;
Death could not sever my soul and you,
As these have severed your soul from me.

You have chosen and clung to the chance they sent you,
Life sweet as perfume and pure as prayer.
But will it not one day in heaven repent you?
Will they solace you wholly, the days that were?
Will you lift up your eyes between sadness and bliss,
Meet mine, and see where the great love is,
And tremble and turn and be changed? Content you;
The gate is strait; I shall not be there.

But you, had you chosen, had you stretched hand,
Had you seen good such a thing were done,
I too might have stood with the souls that stand
In the sun's sight, clothed with the light of the sun;
But who now on earth need care how I live?
Have the high gods anything left to give,
Save dust and laurels and gold and sand?
Which gifts are goodly; but I will none.

O all fair lovers about the world,
There is none of you, none, that shall comfort me.
My thoughts are as dead things, wrecked and whirled
Round and round in a gulf of the sea;
And still, through the sound and the straining stream,
Through the coil and chafe, they gleam in a dream,
The bright fine lips so cruelly curled,
And strange swift eyes where the soul sits free.

Free, without pity, withheld from woe,
Ignorant; fair as the eyes are fair.
Would I have you change now, change at a blow,
Startled and stricken, awake and aware?
Yea, if I could, would I have you see
My very love of you filling me,
And know my soul to the quick, as I know
The likeness and look of your throat and hair?

I shall not change you. Nay, though I might,
Would I change my sweet one love with a word?
I had rather your hair should change in a night,
Clear now as the plume of a black bright bird;
Your face fail suddenly, cease, turn grey,
Die as a leaf that dies in a day.
I will keep my soul in a place out of sight,
Far off, where the pulse of it is not heard.

Far off it walks, in a bleak blown space,
Full of the sound of the sorrow of years.
I have woven a veil for the weeping face,
Whose lips have drunken the wine of tears;
I have found a way for the failing feet,
A place for slumber and sorrow to meet;
There is no rumour about the place,
Nor light, nor any that sees or hears.

I have hidden my soul out of sight, and said
'Let none take pity upon thee, none
Comfort thy crying: for lo, thou art dead,
Lie still now, safe out of sight of the sun.
Have I not built thee a grave, and wrought
Thy grave-clothes on thee of grievous thought,
With soft spun verses and tears unshed,
And sweet light visions of things undone?

'I have given thee garments and balm and myrrh,
And gold, and beautiful burial things.
But thou, be at peace now, make no stir;
Is not thy grave as a royal king's?
Fret not thyself though the end were sore;
Sleep, be patient, vex me no more.
Sleep; what hast thou to do with her?
The eyes that weep, with the mouth that sings?'

Where the dead red leaves of the years lie rotten,
The cold old crimes and the deeds thrown by,
The misconceived and the misbegotten,
I would find a sin to do ere I die,
Sure to dissolve and destroy me all through,
That would set you higher in heaven, serve you
And leave you happy, when clean forgotten,
As a dead man out of mind, am I.

Your lithe hands draw me, your face burns through me,
I am swift to follow you, keen to see;
But love lacks might to redeem or undo me;
As I have been, I know I shall surely be;
'What should such fellows as I do?' Nay,
My part were worse if I chose to play;
For the worst is this after all; if they knew me,
Not a soul upon earth would pity me.

And I play not for pity of these; but you,
If you saw with your soul what man am I,
You would praise me at least that my soul all through
Clove to you, loathing the lives that lie;
The souls and lips that are bought and sold,
The smiles of silver and kisses of gold,
The lapdog loves that whine as they chew,
The little lovers that curse and cry.

There are fairer women, I hear; that may be;
But I, that I love you and find you fair,
Who are more than fair in my eyes if they be,
Do the high gods know or the great gods care?
Though the swords in my heart for one were seven,
Should the iron hollow of doubtful heaven,
That knows not itself whether night-time or day be,
Reverberate words and a foolish prayer?

I will go back to the great sweet mother,
Mother and lover of men, the sea.
I will go down to her, I and none other,
Close with her, kiss her and mix her with me;
Cling to her, strive with her, hold her fast:
O fair white mother, in days long past
Born without sister, born without brother,
Set free my soul as thy soul is free.

O fair green-girdled mother of mine,
Sea, that art clothed with the sun and the rain,
Thy sweet hard kisses are strong like wine,
Thy large embraces are keen like pain.
Save me and hide me with all thy waves,
Find me one grave of thy thousand graves,
Those pure cold populous graves of thine
Wrought without hand in a world without stain.

I shall sleep, and move with the moving ships,
Change as the winds change, veer in the tide;
My lips will feast on the foam of thy lips,
I shall rise with thy rising, with thee subside;
Sleep, and not know if she be, if she were,
Filled full with life to the eyes and hair,
As a rose is fulfilled to the roseleaf tips
With splendid summer and perfume and pride.

This woven raiment of nights and days,
Were it once cast off and unwound from me,
Naked and glad would I walk in thy ways,
Alive and aware of thy ways and thee;
Clear of the whole world, hidden at home,
Clothed with the green and crowned with the foam,
A pulse of the life of thy straits and bays,
A vein in the heart of the streams of the sea.

Fair mother, fed with the lives of men,
Thou art subtle and cruel of heart, men say.
Thou hast taken, and shalt not render again;
Thou art full of thy dead, and cold as they.
But death is the worst that comes of thee;
Thou art fed with our dead, O mother, O sea,
But when hast thou fed on our hearts? or when,
Having given us love, hast thou taken away?

O tender-hearted, O perfect lover,
Thy lips are bitter, and sweet thine heart.
The hopes that hurt and the dreams that hover,
Shall they not vanish away and apart?
But thou, thou art sure, thou art older than earth;
Thou art strong for death and fruitful of birth;
Thy depths conceal and thy gulfs discover;
From the first thou wert; in the end thou art.

And grief shall endure not for ever, I know.
As things that are not shall these things be;
We shall live through seasons of sun and of snow,
And none be grievous as this to me.
We shall hear, as one in a trance that hears,
The sound of time, the rhyme of the years;
Wrecked hope and passionate pain will grow
As tender things of a spring-tide sea.

Sea-fruit that swings in the waves that hiss,
Drowned gold and purple and royal rings.
And all time past, was it all for this?
Times unforgotten, and treasures of things?
Swift years of liking and sweet long laughter,
That wist not well of the years thereafter
Till love woke, smitten at heart by a kiss,
With lips that trembled and trailing wings?

There lived a singer in France of old
By the tideless dolorous midland sea.
In a land of sand and ruin and gold
There shone one woman, and none but she.
And finding life for her love's sake fail,
Being fain to see her, he bade set sail,
Touched land, and saw her as life grew cold,
And praised God, seeing; and so died he.

Died, praising God for his gift and grace:
For she bowed down to him weeping, and said
'Live'; and her tears were shed on his face
Or ever the life in his face was shed.
The sharp tears fell through her hair, and stung
Once, and her close lips touched him and clung
Once, and grew one with his lips for a space;
And so drew back, and the man was dead.

O brother, the gods were good to you.
Sleep, and be glad while the world endures.
Be well content as the years wear through;
Give thanks for life, and the loves and lures;
Give thanks for life, O brother, and death,
For the sweet last sound of her feet, her breath,
For gifts she gave you, gracious and few,
Tears and kisses, that lady of yours.

Rest, and be glad of the gods; but I,
How shall I praise them, or how take rest?
There is not room under all the sky
For me that know not of worst or best,
Dream or desire of the days before,
Sweet things or bitterness, any more.
Love will not come to me now though I die,
As love came close to you, breast to breast.

I shall never be friends again with roses;
I shall loathe sweet tunes, where a note grown strong
Relents and recoils, and climbs and closes,
As a wave of the sea turned back by song.
There are sounds where the soul's delight takes fire,
Face to face with its own desire;
A delight that rebels, a desire that reposes;
I shall hate sweet music my whole life long.

The pulse of war and passion of wonder,
The heavens that murmur, the sounds that shine,
The stars that sing and the loves that thunder,
The music burning at heart like wine,
An armed archangel whose hands raise up
All senses mixed in the spirit's cup
Till flesh and spirit are molten in sunder--
These things are over, and no more mine.

These were a part of the playing I heard
Once, ere my love and my heart were at strife;
Love that sings and hath wings as a bird,
Balm of the wound and heft of the knife.
Fairer than earth is the sea, and sleep
Than overwatching of eyes that weep,
Now time has done with his one sweet word,
The wine and leaven of lovely life.

I shall go my ways, tread out my measure,
Fill the days of my daily breath
With fugitive things not good to treasure,
Do as the world doth, say as it saith;
But if we had loved each other--O sweet,
Had you felt, lying under the palms of your feet,
The heart of my heart, beating harder with pleasure
To feel you tread it to dust and death--

Ah, had I not taken my life up and given
All that life gives and the years let go,
The wine and honey, the balm and leaven,
The dreams reared high and the hopes brought low?
Come life, come death, not a word be said;
Should I lose you living, and vex you dead?
I never shall tell you on earth; and in heaven,
If I cry to you then, will you hear or know?

 'The Triumph of Time' by Charles Algernon Swinburne

An old favourite... it still grips the heart and soul.

The Cult of My Emperor

I am a rather hopelessly sentimental being and thus true to old loves and old heroes in my own fashion, although I now concede that many of my old loves might not recognise themselves in the idealised mutated visions I myself created from the originals that inspired my love.

Napoleon, T.E. Lawrence and Cuchulain have been heroes of mine since early childhood.  The press of facts through the years has not eroded nor tarnished the brilliance of their images only because I did not allow fact or history to distort the ideal in any case.  Thus, my Napoleon is NOT the Napoleon that others know.  My Lawrence of Arabia is not the rather flawed, weak individual manifest in the man's own memoirs.  My Hound of Ulster is far more refined and profoundly spiritual than the original.

In 1969, I visited Paris with my family during the bicentennial celebration of my Emperor's birth.  Funding for sacred souvenirs of my Emperor was rather meagre but I did obtain a few inexpensive relics.  Later with my best friend, I managed to acquire a copy of the first Edition of the English translation of the Memoirs of St. Helena.  It rested upon an antique prie-dieu for a few years but alas, was lost in one of my many migrations.

It is only in the past few years that I have begun to obtain some fitting memorials to my Emperor, usually on the occasion of the anniversary of his birth or his death.   Recently, I chanced upon a Limoges porcelain flask created in 1969 to hold cognac.  Unfortunately, the cognac either evaporated or was consumed.  If the former, I hope that the spirit of the Emperor somehow benefited.  If the latter, I hope that a toast or two was tossed off to Napoleon.