Tag: fiction

Contributor Post Created with Sketch. Recommended by Ricochet Members Created with Sketch. Group Writing: The Cards

 

I heard Tommy arguing with Dad in the den. Tommy was shouting. Dad’s voice was flat and sad.

“It’s not fair,” blurted Tommy. “Everyone else has Whack-o-Man cards. If I don’t have some all the kids will think I am a nerd.”

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I write a weekly book review for the Daily News of Galveston County. (It is not the biggest daily newspaper in Texas, but it is the oldest.) My review normally appears Wednesdays. When it appears, I post the review on Ricochet on the following Sunday. Seawriter Preview Open

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Chapter 4 — Mr. Corbett, Mr. Crocker & Mr. Crain The repeated clanging of the passing cable cars on Market Street never distracted Henry Crain from his work. He wasn’t one to daydream and spend his time gazing out at the throngs of passersby, the cable cars, and the other traffic on Market Street and […]

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Welcome to the Celestial Harvard Lunch Club Political Podcast for August 22, 2017 it’s the Liberal Eclipse edition of the show with your hosts Todd Feinburg, radio talk show host, and Mike Stopa, nanophysicist. This week, beneath ominous and foretelling skies we bring you ominous and foretelling tales both ancient and modern of the fates of our times. We will talk about the following Orwellian premise: how can you sort out truth from fiction when all messaging is biased? Whatever happened to unbiased journalism? Was it ever more than a myth?

And then we will discuss the defection (I almost wrote another similar-sounding word there that would have been more appropriate) of one Julian Krein from (so he says) the Trump defenders over to the Bill Kristol/Jennifer Rubin/Bret Stephens/etc. etc. wing, the so-called “irrelevant wing” of the conservative movement. Krein writes:

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The Curious Globe of Cornelius Crain – Chapter 1 December 31, 1899 – Long Island, New York “I’m going to tell you a story, Cornelius.” The man was dressed in a tuxedo and white tie. He ignored the muffled sounds of his New Year’s Eve guests downstairs. He looked down at his nephew as he lay in […]

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Contributor Post Created with Sketch. Book Review: Hitler in Hell

 

“Hitler in Hell” by Martin van CreveldMartin van Creveld is an Israeli military theorist and historian, professor emeritus at Hebrew University in Jerusalem, and author of seventeen books of military history and strategy, including The Transformation of War, which has been hailed as one of the most significant recent works on strategy. In this volume he turns to fiction, penning the memoirs of the late, unlamented Adolf Hitler from his current domicile in Hell, “the place to which the victors assign their dead opponents.” In the interest of concision, in the following discussion I will use “Hitler” to mean the fictional Hitler in this work.

Hitler finds Hell more boring than hellish—“in some ways it reminds me of Landsberg Prison”. There is no torture or torment, just a never-changing artificial light and routine in which nothing ever happens. A great disappointment is that neither Eva Braun nor Blondi is there to accompany him. As to the latter, apparently all dogs go to heaven. Rudolf Hess is there, however, and with that 1941 contretemps over the flight to Scotland put behind them, has resumed helping Hitler with his research and writing as he did during the former’s 1924 imprisonment. Hell has broadband!—Hitler is even able to access the “Black Internetz” and read, listen to, and watch everything up to the present day. (That sounds pretty good—my own personal idea of Hell would be an Internet connection which only allows you to read Wikipedia.)

Hitler tells the story of his life: from childhood, his days as a struggling artist in Vienna and Munich, the experience of the Great War, his political awakening in the postwar years, rise to power, implementation of his domestic and foreign policies, and the war and final collapse of Nazi Germany. These events, and the people involved in them, are often described from the viewpoint of the present day, with parallels drawn to more recent history and figures.

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Over the last fifteen years, CIA counter-terrorism operative Mitch Rapp (warning—the article at this link contains minor spoilers) has survived myriad adventures and attempts to take him out by terrorists, hostile governments, subversive forces within his own agency, and ambitious and unscrupulous Washington politicians looking to nail his scalp to their luxuriously appointed office walls, chronicled in […]

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I write a weekly book review for the Daily News of Galveston County. (It is not the biggest daily newspaper in Texas, but it is the oldest.) My review normally appears Wednesdays. When it appears, I post the review on Ricochet on the following Sunday. Seawriter Preview Open

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I write a weekly book review for the Daily News of Galveston County. (It is not the biggest daily newspaper in Texas, but it is the oldest.) My review normally appears Wednesdays. When it appears, I post the review on Ricochet on the following Sunday. Seawriter Preview Open

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It is the depth of the great depression, and yet business is booming at Warren Sons and Mortimer, merchant bankers, in the City of London. Henry Warren, descendant of the founder of the bank in 1750 and managing director, has never been busier. Despite the general contraction in the economy, firms failing, unemployment hitting record […]

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Contributor Post Created with Sketch. Recommended by Ricochet Members Created with Sketch. Book Review: Soumission

 

«Soumission» par Michel HouellebecqIf you examine the Pew Research Center’s table of Muslim Population by Country, giving the percent Muslim population for countries and territories, one striking thing is apparent. Here are the results, binned into quintiles.

Pew Research: Muslim Population by Country, Quintiles

The distribution in this table is strongly bimodal—instead of the Gaussian (normal, or “bell curve”) distribution one encounters so often in the natural and social sciences, the countries cluster at the extremes: 36 are 80% or more Muslim, 132 are 20% or less Muslim, and only a total of 20 fall in the middle between 20% and 80%. What is going on?

Contributor Post Created with Sketch. Recommended by Ricochet Members Created with Sketch. Hope and the Deep State

 

“Hope” by Aaron Zelman and L. Neil SmithI post reviews of every book I read here, but this post is about a novel I read fifteen years ago, Hope, by Aaron Zelman and L. Neil Smith, which, although I considered it a thriller bordering on fantasy when I read it in 2002, I now consider prophetic and highly relevant to events now playing out in the United States.

Alexander Hope, a wealthy businessman with no political experience, motivated by what he perceives as the inexorable decline of the U.S. into a land where individual liberty and initiative are smothered by an inexorably growing state, manages, defying all of the pundits and politicians, through a series of highly improbable events, to end up elected president of the U.S., riding a popular wave of enthusiasm he generates in large rallies where he tells crowds things they’ve never heard before from the lips of politicians of the Locust and Quisling branches of the unified party of the ruling class, or from their mellifluous mouthpieces in the mainstream media. Crowds find themselves saying, “Wait—that makes sense!”, and the day after the election finds America with a president unlike any in its history.

Hope arrives in Washington with no political allies: members of both purported parties see him as an interloper and potential destroyer of their comfortable and lucrative racket. The minions of the bureaucracy and the “Beltway bandits” who feed at the federal trough are in a state of abject panic: here is a president who understands that about 95% of what they’re being paid for is not among the enumerated powers of the federal government. Never before has there been such a threat to the welfare/warfare/surveillance/nanny/spy empire, and this “deep state” reacts and begins to draw its plans against this elected interloper.

Recommended by Ricochet Members Created with Sketch. Stellar Gifts

 
http://www.rgbstock.com/bigphoto/oPyWtV4/Stars+and+Hearts+3

Mark finished filling out the credit card form, submitted it, and once approved he sat there for a minute while he pondered what name he should give the star. Should he just put in her name? Maybe her nickname instead? How about his pet name of “Bubbles”? No, he would stick with her own name. After all, he was purchasing immortality for her and that requires proper solemnity. “Claire Kingman”. Done and done, star Meissa S39c to be forevermore known as Claire Kingman. Now to just wait for the official gift packet and the big day. Good thing he paid for expedited shipping.

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This is the final novel in the trilogy which began with Blue Gemini and continued in Blue Darker than Black. After the harrowing rescue mission which concluded the second book, Drew Carson and Scott Ourecky, astronauts of the U.S. Air Force’s covert Blue Gemini project, a manned satellite interceptor based upon NASA’s Project Gemini spacecraft, hope […]

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I write a weekly book review for the Daily News of Galveston County. (It is not the biggest daily newspaper in Texas, but it is the oldest.) My review normally appears Sunday. When it appears, I post the previous week’s review on Ricochet. Seawriter Preview Open

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Bishop Robert Barron had an interesting response to Scorsese’s new movie Silence. The article contains spoilers which I will not recount here. But in it Barron submits a provocative comparison of religious loyalty with national loyalty under extreme circumstances. In the following hypothetical scenarios, consider multiple objects of devotion — loyalty to God, loyalty to nation, […]

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Promoted from the Ricochet Member Feed by Editors Created with Sketch. Me and My Brother’s Kid – Thanksgiving Fiction

 

2016_11_21_10_53_01_001I hadn’t seen my brother in a couple of years, not since everyone got home from the war. We’d had a big dust-up, you see, over trying to settle Ma’s affairs, which had been a mess after Pa died in ’44. My brother didn’t exactly appreciate my wanting to go off to school and thought I should stay home to help look after her so he and Alice, he wife, and their boy, could move out into one of them new houses getting put up at the end of town. We had some words, a few punches were tossed, and I found myself with the winos at the bus station at 3 in the morning. At least I had someplace to go as soon as the bus to Cleveland rolled in.

So I went off to school, and since I had a good head for numbers I found myself leaving school as an accountant, then I was on the move again to St. Louis, leaving Ohio way behind me. For that first year at school I was still too ticked to write home, even to Ma, and then working some night jobs in the second year kept me too tired, and well, you know how it goes. I’d left home angry, leaving behind a black eye on my brother, and I figured if he’d stopped being angry too, he’d have written. You stop writing letters and you just get out of the practice. I’d sometimes get a letter from Ma, letting me know how things was at home, and for a day or so I’d be all hot to write her back. I’d started a few, just never finished them. The only one I posted was a postcard from St. Louis, letting Ma know where I was.

By ’50 I was doing pretty well. I’d gotten hired to keep the books at a department store, and since I was on my own, I got myself a shiny new Buick that summer. I’d always loved the Buicks. Pa had just gotten one for the family a year or so before the War, though he never got to drive her much with the gas rations. I wondered, as I was driving this shiny black beauty with whitewalls away from the dealer, if my brother still hung on to Pa’s old one. It’s funny, but I’d kind of forgotten him in the last year or so, so it caught me off guard remembering him then, right when I was driving away in that new car. I gave my head a shake, pulled onto the main road and put the pedal down to see what she could do. I had a dinner date that evening with Susan, from down at the makeup counter, and I couldn’t wait to show her around in the new wheels.

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Almost there. The electoral altar loomed over the town like an epitaph, high on a hill once holy, crowded by perched harpies and half-drunk baboons. Skeletons and immodest aliens lined the steps as a harpy and judge quibbled over a suited man scandalously sketching the scene on a pad. On each stone step, the etched […]

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