Friday 19 August 2016

French Lesson Number One

The hypocrisy of the French nation never ceases to amaze me.

I’ve touched on this phenomenon in the past, and I won’t repeat what I’ve said there, except to make this point: the British might be perfidious, and the Imperialist States of Amerikastan has both hypocrisy and perfidy in its DNA, but neither of them can hold a candle to la belle France.

Several years ago, I wrote an article on the French ban on the niqab, pointing out that it was an arrant piece of idiocy which would do nothing to “emancipate” French Muslim women but do everything to play into the hands of Muslim radicals...which is, of course, what happened. In fact so obvious was this that one can hardly avoid the conclusion that this is exactly what was intended all along, and that the entire idea was to create a racial and religious divide in order to exploit it politically.

Racial, did I say? Yes. France is probably the most institutionally racist nation – possibly the only institutionally racist nation – in the world today (since I do not recognise the existence of the Zionist apartheid colonial settler entity in Occupied Palestine, also known as the so-called state of “Israel”, I’m not considering it). This racism finds a convenient way of expressing itself in “secularism”, that is, by targeting the Muslim minority in the name of secularism. Since almost all French Muslims are brown-skinned people of Arab descent, and since almost all brown-skinned people of Arab descent in France are Muslims, this is a nice, convenient excuse.

And the French aren’t just racist against Muslims- they’re happy to blatantly racially discriminate against other brown people...Indian (non-Muslim) air passengers inadvertently stuck in an airport, for instance. And despite their alleged aversion to Islamic practices, they’re very, very happy to openly and aggressively back the worst jihadi cannibal headhunters they can find, so long as those jihadi cannibals target secular brown Arab societies. Remember who took the lead in overthrowing Muammar Gaddafi in Libya? Who was it that openly and aggressively backed jihadis in Syria, to the extent of saying President Assad “should not be on this earth”?


Let’s take a look at the latest item of French hypocrisy – the ban on the “burkini” swimsuit. Now, there are a lot of things wrong with going in the sea covered in clothing except for one’s face, hands and feet – for one thing, it’s probably uncomfortable as hell, and, for another, it must be less than easy to get cleaned up afterwards. But that’s entirely the business of the person who’s wearing it, and nobody else’s. Certainly, it is as ludicrous to ban wearing it as it would be to compel women to go skinny dipping.

Also, there is no dispute that the burkini is legal even under the niqab-banning French law, since it does not conceal the face. As such, the French had to come up with peculiar justifications for it – such as the “maintenance of hygiene”. That’s especially rich seeing the number of overloaded boatloads of refugee corpses now rotting under the Mediterranean as a direct consequence of France’s leading role in the destruction of Libya and the partial destruction of Syria.

And here we come to the crux of this whole “burkini ban” thing. Obviously, women who will wear burkinis on the beach are women who won’t turn up in bikinis if the burkini is banned. Instead, they simply won’t go to the beach at all. And that means, in turn, that what this “ban” is aimed at is to cleanse the French beaches of brown-skinned women. I’ll go so far as to say that if Islam advocated that women go topless, the French would have banned bare breasts instead.

Not that only Muslims cover up on the beach, by the way. In fact, except for the Japanese, who have been so systematically Americanised over the last seventy years that their culture is endangered, I don’t know of many non-white people of any religion where the women feel comfortable in bikinis. If one steps on the beaches of India, for example, one will find women in everything from saris to salwar kameez to tank tops and shorts...but not bikinis. In fact, a minister in the government of the state of Goa (a state which is completely tourism dependant for its income) recently demanded a ban on bikinis, on the grounds of “immorality” and “cultural pollution”. Can one see the parallels to France? Fortunately, Goans are brighter and less hypocritical than the French, so the ban was never implemented.

That this ban is a gift to ISIS goes without saying; of course the Islamic radicals will, and correctly, see it as an attempt to squeeze the Muslim population of France even further into a corner. Is it just possible that the intention is to deliberately invite ISIS or other jihadi attacks, in order to extend the state of emergency which was allegedly declared to “fight terrorism”, but has come in handy to crush free speech and trade union protests?

Surely not! Surely I’m being too fanciful there!

Anyway, here’s a beginner’s lesson in the French language, for anyone who might be interested.

Knock yourselves out.

Monday 15 August 2016

Independence Day

I wonder how many completely-missing-the-point trolls this will attract.

I'll be doing a Hindunazistan update in a couple of days to put this in context.

The Ending Story

There’s a special feeling to finishing writing a book. I don’t know how to express it, though I’ve felt it several times before.

The first book I wrote, eleven years ago, was Rainbow’s End. That was a monster effort, taking me a year and a half. I’d write in longhand first, and then after I’d got a few days’ worth of material ready, I’d shift to the desktop and rewrite at the same time as getting it on Word. It was a very time consuming process, not helped by the fact that I literally made every single first time author’s error, starting off with assuming that this was my one chance ever to write a book, so I should put in everything I could.

I still recall the day I finally completed it. I’d taken the day off work owing to the death of a relative. By that time I’d given up writing on paper first, and begun tapping away directly on the keyboard. I wrote all the morning and into the afternoon, and, suddenly, before I quite knew it, I was within striking range of finishing the whole thing. So I did.

I didn’t sleep for two days afterwards.

The act of finishing that book was so draining that I felt as though I had been scooped out from the inside. Now, elsewhere, I’ve described how, at that time, I was under the insane delusion that one had only to write a book in order to find a publisher. After all, that’s what publishers were for, right?

It took me two full years to acknowledge to myself that I was wrong.

Today, I am no longer proud of Rainbow’s End. It’s execrably overwritten, crammed with pointless subplots, and fairly stuffed with purple prose. I am not exactly broken hearted that it sank without a trace. Someday, if I’m ever famous enough for someone to ask me for a book, any book, I might totally rewrite...and drastically curtail...Rainbow’s End, and get it published. But until then, may it stay buried.

For a few years after the crushing disappointment of Rainbow’s End I wrote nothing in the way of long fiction. For a fairly long period I wrote nothing at all. And it was only after joining (a wonderful website, now sadly murdered by corporate greed) did I start blogging, and then writing stories, again.

It was at some point during these years that I read a story by Lucius Shepard, The Man Who Painted The Dragon Griaule, about a gigantic buried dragon and an artist who sets out to murder it with paint. My reaction was instant – I hated, hated, hated every word of it. To this day, I hate it. And, somewhere in my mind, there rose a desire to write a story specifically as a Take That to Shepard.

It was somewhere during those years, too, that I saw a snippet of a film – I think it was The Neverending Story – which featured a laughing child atop a furry flying beast. The two ideas came together in my mind to make a short story – it was all of some 5000 words long – called Dragonsdawn. I wrote it, exorcised my bile, and thought I’d forget about it.

                                            Yes, this was it.                                  [ Image Source]

Only my readers didn’t. My readers, especially one young lady, insisted on knowing what happened next. And so, against my better judgement, I wrote a sequel. And in order to justify that sequel, I had to expand the original story to about double its length.

And of course that sequel raised the demand for another...

To date I have written four novels. I have already spoken of Rainbow’s End. That was planned from the start, as was my third novel, Fidayeen. In between I wrote The Call Of The Khokkosh – a lighthearted little book of which I’m quite fond, and which took all of three weeks to write, from start to finish. That, too, started with what I imagined would be a one-off short story, and then gathered additional chapters due to reader demand. And, that, too, took like forever before it found anyone willing to publish it.

And when that was over, I remember sitting back from my computer with a feeling of being emptied –I’d written a chapter a day, every day, for three weeks, and I needed the rest. But I’d not worked on the book for nearly as long as Rainbow’s End, and I had correspondingly less of a reaction of feeling drained when I finished it.

Fidayeen was a different matter altogether. This was a book I had worked hard – very hard – over. I’d researched everything I could, and actually kept the first draft sitting in my computer for years...years!...while I decided whether I should continue it. By then I’d no illusions left about publishers, and the repeated heartbreak of pro forma rejection notices wasn’t something I was willing to put up with anymore. But unfinished business has a way of preying on one’s mind, and unfinished business about a topic that’s dear to your heart, much more. At that time I’d no way of knowing it would be my big break.

So I finished Fidayeen, and as I expected, all I got was rejection notices. I remember telling a friend then that I’d never again write anything expecting or hoping for it to be published; I’d rather put it all online because then at least it would be read. But when I finished it, once again, I felt drained and exhausted.

But the next day I was back at my keyboard, writing.

Today – this morning – I finished writing The Day Of The Dragon, which began merely as a fit of pique against an author who’d never, ever, read it. This is the first time I have ever written anything (anything at all) with the clear knowledge that it would be published, because, as I said, my publisher has taken it on, in advance, sight unseen. I am pleased with the results, with my account of the adventures of Batali and the dragon Yamond, but whether it will be popular with readers...well, time will tell.

But what are my feelings now? Do I feel drained? No. I am glad to get this one over with, and I hope it does well with readers. But I’m now thinking of the next two books.

My next novel to go to a publisher will be The Chronicles of Chheechkaduni, which is actually a series of linked stories featuring the adventures of the titular, and very conceited, character...which also grew out of what was intended to be a one-off short story and then caved in to readers’ demands. I’ve already written eleven of the stories. I intend to do a baker’s dozen, and in all likelihood future volumes as well. But since it won’t be a real novel, just stories written over a period of time, I doubt I’d react to it as a novel, even if everyone else might.

So my next writing project- the next full novel – will be the sequel to Fidayeen, tentatively titled Black Flag. I did not intend a sequel. But apparently everyone else expects one. And, reading the book, it seems to me that I apparently had expected to write a sequel as well, given the number of characters whose fate I left uncertain.

And, of course, Kashmir has not been resolved, and maybe never will.


Word Of The Day: Flawed

Flawed , adj .

Definition: "Someone I can no longer deny to myself is a mass-murdering, blood-soaked, child-droning, nation-destroying, Nazi-loving, jihadi-training, terrorist-enabling war criminal, but whom I'm committed to worshipping because of the melanin content of his skin."

Modifier: Deeply

Deeply flawed 

Definition: "This guy is such a bastard even my liberal state of denial is unable to sustain itself any longer, but I'm a liberal , dammit. I can't admit that I was conned into worshipping an evil mass murderer just because of the high melanin content of his skin!"

Related words: Liberal, hypocrite, Nobel Peace Prize recipient, Killary Voter.