My kingdom

For this horse

Of a different color

Tonight, we mount the

Blue Pegasus and ride to

The edge of Andromeda’s heart

This mask

Of grief and

Happiness

Unveil this truth

Remove your mask

Anyway, enough oversharing :) and on to the business of sweet books that can ease your kiddos into the changes that school brings.

I remember my first day of Kindergarten quite clearly. It was 1976 and my grandmother had made me the cutest ABC dress in the history of dresses.

Oh, there was some drama - when my mother took me to get my haircut at the local beauty school and they had to cut most of it off because the girl cutting my hair was a bit too green.

But, going to school was not a problem.

I was out the door as fast as my legs would take me, hit the classroom with a smile and...missed my mom and dad so badly after about 20 minutes that they had to come and get me.

The drama kicked in trying to get me out the door for day #2.

Starting school - whether preschool or that remarkable first day of Kindergarten - is such a huge moment in kids lives (ours too). There's a lot that comes with the freedom of learning and making friends on their own.

Stories can often be a great way to plug kiddos into how things will play out, let them feel like they aren't alone and give them some special connections to family that go anywhere with them.

We are not quite ready for school around here. But, I set out on a mission recently to collect some of the great stories parents and kiddos are digging these days as they set off into classrooms everywhere for the first time.

Always the critic, I read through more than a dozen of them the last couple of weeks and found six absolute gems that range from the sentimental to the hilarious - all available at the library, your local independent book seller or other locations (which I'll mention as we go through them) right now.

Here they are, in no particular order:

1. Wemberly Worried by Kevin Henkes.

Wemberly is worry wart. She's a little nervous when it comes to just about everything in her life and caution is key as far as she's concerned. This sweet pea is particularly nervous about fitting in the first day of nursery school. The charming story never quite finds Wemberly unworried. But, all is good after friends help her find her way.

2. The Kissing Hand by Audrey Penn.

I am a big sucker for sweetness. So, when Chester Raccoon's mom gives him a kiss on the hand to take with him everywhere, I am forced to tears. Penn's classic about overcoming separation anxiety is my number one favourite ever. We read it all the time, using the kissing hand as a great tool for when the tiny person is upset about anyone she loves going away.

3. Miss Bindergarten Gets Ready for Kindergarten by Joseph Slate.

The whole Miss Bindergarten series is absolutely charming. But, this story is all about turning the blahs into something beautiful when Miss Bindergarten (who is particularly upbeat and funny) turns a dark classroom into a bright, cheerful learning centre. All of the kiddos are getting ready too. So, this is a perfect story for getting kids into the routine of school.

4. Don't Eat The Teacher by Nick Ward.

Every time I read this story I think of our pal Kaden, who would think it one of the funniest ever. Sammy the shark, well, he has a bit of an issue with biting things when he gets all excited. This silly story is all about him trying to maneuver through the first day of school, with some biting-related bumps along the way. I love it.

5. How Do Dinosaurs Go To School by Jane Yolen, illustrated by Mark Teague.

Written by one of the great young adult sci-fi authors, this hilarious story about a crew of dinosaurs who are having a tough time figuring out how to fit in at school, is an absolute winner for the kiddo crowd that is in need of something funny instead of gushy. I find this a particularly good read for the boy crowd who doesn't REALLY want anyone to know that they will be missing mom and dad, but need a little extra reassurance that school will be great. Pam over at Planet Kids in downtown Comox has this one in stock.

6. The Little Engine That Could by Watty Piper

If you lean more toward the classics, this one is the ultimate timeless back-to-school story. What better way to get nervous kiddos prepped for the big day than to give them such a positive mantra and lots of hope to help them make it over the hill. I love this story and the original illustrations. You can't go wrong.

7. Stay Away from the Beauty Queen attack. I really mean this. For many reasons, it's a loser. In the most base sense, I'll remind you that people do in fact, love Beauty Queens. Also, she's smarter than that, and has already proven she understands how to manipulate her opponents, who think to attack her this way thinking that she won't have the brain-power to respond. She does, and she will. Also, there's that whole winger thing of pretending to care about women who are being 'attacked' for being women; they do it (sadly) better than many on our side do. While we should recognize that her looks will play a role in the election, we should be very careful to treat her as a corrupt, Republican politician, and nothing about her gender or appearance. Short version: wingers long for and follow with religious conviction, their "Joan of Arcs." Palin could be one.

The willingness to portray oneself as the pour beleaguered victim even when they have so many advantages (10 houses, 500 shoes) is one of the zealots stock in trade. Look at history and all the underestimated morons that humanity has put in power then had to endure; a tragic mistake to think in terms of having an inherent moral superiority over someone, or think that superiority will lead you to easy victory even as right as you might be in terms of goals. , SUN TZU ON THE ART OF WAR

I. LAYING PLANS

18. All warfare is based on deception.

20. Hold out baits to entice the enemy.  Feign disorder,
and crush him.

II. WAGING WAR

19. In war, then, let your great object be victory,
not lengthy campaigns.

You never know who commenters are. So the derisive comments about Palin on some sites that are laden with sexism could be trolls. Otherwise whether it the big name media columnists, blogs or the Obama campaign no one should be mistaken in thinking this is anything other then a war against two worthy adversaries. Just judging from a couple of videos on the net, Palin is media savvy and knows how to use it to her advantage. She has been caught pandering and is currently caught up in a scandal that involved using her political position as means to extract revenge in a personal matter. Hammer her on the issues.

art of war. should have titled it victims everywhere.

Maybe there are too many drugs in the water supply. The Wall Street Journal doing a good review about Emily Dickinson's friend/editor Thomas Wentworth Higginson, Emily's Ambassador

Higginson (1823-1911) has long been exiled to the underworld of Dead White Males: He was the establishment prude who co-edited Dickinson's work for publication after she died at age 56 in 1886 -- only a handful of her nearly 1,800 poems had been published in her lifetime. He shepherded two volumes of them into print in altered form, grammar and punctuation conventionalized, slant-rhymes rewritten to rhyme. Perhaps Higginson deserves a reprieve. After all, co-editor Mary Todd Loomis was the more avid prettifier ("Let us alter as little as possible," he scolded her)

This is from a book review by Bill Christophersen of 'White Heat: The Friendship of Emily Dickinson and Thomas Wentworth Higginson' by Brenda Wineapple. There is an excerpt from the book here. While Dickenson has always had her fans, she has been underestimated by many. Often times assigned to the order of chic writers as in chic flicks. She was too big, too expansive to be assigned to a little corner of the literary world. Christophersenin his introduction,

"Parting is all we know of heaven / And all we need of hell." Who but Emily Dickinson would hijack the meter of the hymnal ("Our God, our help in ages past / And hope for years to come") to doubt the afterlife? Gnomic and subversive, her poems are shots of triple-distilled whiskey that jolt going down, then radiate, leaving us wide-eyed and slightly fuddled.

Some of her stuff because of the rhymes can go down as quaint Hallmarkish poetry. Hardly relevant in our modern world, but on taking a closer look Dickinson's work is a "jolt" and sometimes a dark one at that.

Fishing line,

We captured

A metallic blue

Sailfish, with

Blazing red eyes

He thrashes

Fin and tail

Against the

Pull of these

Ocean hands

In the vastness of

These raging waters,

He refuses

To become bounty,

Aboard this

Sacred vessel

Serada followed her older sister’s lead, but she was very much intrigued by the notion of UFOs, and when Addison started talking on how this particular presidential candidate was a believer in UFOs, Serry took notice. Whenever there was a Kucinich commercial on the tube, or the candidate appeared on the news, the youngest Salston refocused her attention towards the television.

For his part, Tim loved to get involved in the shared stories that sprang from his daughter’s imaginations. Ronnie was the lone hold out on UFOs; she believed that no irrefutable evidence existed, and until then she would remain a sceptic.

The four family members were playing Go Fish on the living room floor; at the moment, Tim seemingly had half the deck of cards in his hands. All except Addison sat cross legged; Addie sat with one leg tucked underneath her, resting on her right foot.

The television was on in the background, facing Serry, though the sound was muted. She glanced up to see an ad for Kucinich running, triggering her to exclaim “Kucinich!”

The others turned out of automatic curiosity, but quickly returned their focus to the card game. Serry persisted on the newly triggered Kucinich subject. “Dad, do you really think he saw a UFO?”

“Well, he says he did, so I am sure he believes that is what he saw. Whether it actually was, no one else can say. Do you think he saw one?” Tim knew of Serry’s deep interest in this, and encouraged her to continue.

“Yup! He says it was shaped like a triangle and was watching him or the area. He is a candidate for president, and isn’t that who they would watch?”

Hearing this, Addie felt an urge to comment “Precisely who they should avoid. I’d go for say… Angelina Jolie or George Clooney!” After pausing briefly, she turned to Tim. “Dad, can we use the ‘scope tonight, we haven’t in a couple of weeks!”

“It’s a clear night, cool enough so that mosquitoes will not be out. Not sure on phase of the moon though. Last time we used the telescope it was almost a full moon and that made it harder to see. So it should be closer to a quarter moon now. Sure, we can go play with it some once it is sufficiently dark out.”

At this, Addie smiled while Serry inquired “can I go too?”

“Of course you can, Serry!” Ronnie piped in. “You know that you always get to go out and look.”After the card game wrapped up – Addison won again – Tim went and fetched the telescope from it’s basement berthing, and carried it out doors onto the back deck via the full basement door. Tim set it up, and then returned inside for his daughters.

Within minutes, the now clad in jackets young women were taking turns looking around the sky. Polaris, the North Star came first, followed by Vega, Arcturus, Mars, Saturn, and Antares.

Each new view brought questions on how big and how far, and Tim admitted he was unsure, but that they would look it up upon going back inside.

The night viewing ended with the obligatory look to 51 Pegasi. This was the first star positively identified as having at least one planet orbiting, and as such all three of the stargazers extrapolated that information into fodder for their imaginations. This was somewhere they could look and ponder that perhaps, just perhaps… someone there was looking back at them.

Once inside, Tim let Addie and Serry go search the net for information. He sat down next to Ronnie, and both smiled as they listened to the conversation emanating from across the room, imaginations run wild. Tim said nothing, but 51 Pegasi seriously and tangibly triggered the minds of Addie and Serry, almost as if there was some natural pull in that direction. This was not a whimsical or throwaway thought - for they were his daughters - and there are some things which are passed from generation to generation socially and genetically.

     Have at it.

Most Ineffective Father

• Mr. Bennett
• Henry Woodhouse

Most Ineffective Mother

• Mary Dashwood (mother of Elinor, Marianne, and Margaret)
• Mrs. Price (mother of Fanny)

Most Annoying Woman

• Augusta Elton
• Mrs. Bennett

Most Annoying Man

• William Collins
• Sir John Middleton

Most Wicked Woman

• Fanny Dashwood
• Lady Catherine DeBourgh

Most Wicked Man

• George Wickham
• Mr. Price (Fanny's father)

Noblest Man

• Colonel Brandon
• Edmund Bertram

Most Interesting Woman

• Marianne Dashwood
• Elizabeth Bennett

Most Perfect Woman

• Jane Bennett
• Anne Elliot

Most Appealing Man

• George Knightley
• Mr. Darcy

In a previous post, when half way through reading Auserlitz by W.G. Sebald, I wondered whether this book was a biography, an autobiography or a pure fiction and suggested that it most likely was a mixture.  It is not autobiographical, however much it reads like it: Sebald  was born at the very end of the second world war, while Austerlitz was sent to England on a children’s transport in 1939.  Sebad studied German language and literature in Switzerland and Manchester.

The book is beautifully written, highly literate, and it is only after page 200 or so that we suddenly realise where it is going, what it is really all about.  We could of course have guessed it: Austelitz is not really a Welsh name and all through the first chapters there is the mystery about who he really is, brought up by foster parents in the little country town of Bale in Wale ‘in the house of a Calvinist preacher and former missionary called Emyr Elias who was married o a timid natured English woman’ and he has ‘never liked looking back at he time I spent in that unhappy home.’

Austerlitz has suppressed all memory of his previous life and it is only when he wanders into the disused Ladies’ Waiting room of Liverpool Street Station, when he is in his sixties, that he realises he has been there before, that is where was met by the preacher and his wife.  Then his search begins, taking him back to Praque and his roots.

The story unfolds behind the layers of stories about places and people, narrated to the mysterious first person character who in the second half of the 1960s ‘travelled repeatedly from England to Belgium, partly for study purposes, partly for other reasons, which were never entirely clear to me, staying sometimes for just one or two days, sometimes for several weeks.’  This is part of the opening sentence of the book and the reason for wondering who this book is about.   He meets Austerlitz for the first time in the Salle des pas perdus in Antwerp central station and before relating this meeting with Austerlitz there is an elaborate account of Antwerp Station, which again leads one astray as to what this book is about.  The story is interspersed with such descriptions of places in Belgium and England and Prague, and the book has black and white photographs dotted throughout, which enforce the suggestion that this is a biography or an autobiography.  In fact, what we have here is a lovely approach to a novel, a kind of meditation on life on being a European, on trying to find back what has been lost and the inevitability of that loss through the passage of time. 

I have loved reading this book – there is no solution, no ‘happy ending’, just life in all its tragedy and because of that the story is heartbreaking, delivered in beautiful writing that is a wonderful mixture of travelogue, biography and fiction with an undertone of serious philosophical discussions.

I will definitely read more Sebald – it is a style of writing that I feel hugely drawn to.

Right, I'm now going to get The Rings of Saturn, which actually is (partly?) about Norfolk. 

It doesn't do to be too dogmatic about culture. For example, right now I am eating a Moroccan-style lentil soup whilst dressed in a Scots tartan shirt. (Real cosmopolitan, innit?) Nevertheless, there is something to be said for the mission statement of Magnetic North. My own roots are a mix of Anglo-Saxon and Celtic, and for reasons I cannot explain I have always felt a great affinity for the North - all them forests, Protestant catechisms, dark winters and stories about goblins. Please take a moment to think about the nations who brought you Lego, Ikea, Father Christmas and salami. The Bolshoi Ballet and Moomins too.  

Now that there is once again a trickle of capital collateral bleeding into my bank account, I have been thinking about the next excursion. I can't believe it has been nearly two years since I went abroad - purely because I have been too poor, too busy, too stupid. Thinking Stockholm or Helsinki perhaps. Since a number of you have felt the urge to write in and say nice things to me, I just wondered if anyone out there had any suggestions for where to go or what to do after I have unpacked my little suitcase and brought out the tinted specs. Equally, I welcome suggestions for places elsewhere in the world, but bear in mind this will require a change of wardrobe.

Anyway, now is time to confess that the prospect of leaving the country is a little bit frightening now. Often I do not care for leaving the house (y'know, 'cos doing so inevitably brings you into contact with other human beings - raw humanity, unfiltered by the cathode ray tube). It makes me wonder whether Jonathan Meades's television persona is something of a protective cocoon shielding whatever lurks inside (operating the Meades-control) from the horrors. I also wonder whether the persona also has some kind of chameleon function - if, for example, the Meades found himself doing a programme on the nomadic tribes of the Sahara, he would still be done up like Don DeLillo's professor of Hitler Studies in White Noise? Somehow I can't picture him wearing shorts and flip-flops (the Devil's own footwear).

Meades has had quite an effect on me, worming his way into the old 'three men you'd turn gay for' list. (The others, of course, are Morrissey and myself - narcissistic erotomania, go figure). But looking at it logically, I have to conclude that the Meades I have admired is probably a construction for the cameras. The same goes for Morrissey really. Which leads me to wonder how accurate Magnetic North's depiction of Europe is, whether the nations, like Meades have a TV-friendly side and all.

I guess the only way to know for sure is to go there in person.

Experiences taught me to look beyond life's circumstances. It's sad to hear such statements like, "Life was never fair. It wasn't their fault that they were born poor. If only they were given the pre-birth choices, if only they had a say on where to be born and on what kind of predicament to be born into..." Obviously, this is wishful thinking. Who would want to be raised in a third world country when we can chose to be born in a posh, comfortable environment? We all would have chosen to be, and to have the best of everything.

These days, there is an apparent overwhelming sense of bitterness and resentment radiating from everywhere. It is because Life is hard and getting harder; or so it seems.

This is very real in a third world country like the Philippines. I see its manifestations to be so alive in every expressed and implied frustrations, complaints of people. Mostly on how Life's been recently treating the world. Allegedly. True, the present is overwhelmingly demanding. However, it is already a given. We cannot change that overnight.

In fairness to people, it must be truly hard to make a choice, especially with all the hardships that looms and hinders people to live beyond the elements defined and required by the present times. These "demands of the present" squeezes out the life of most people , especially those who cannot see beyond this overly exorbitant clout.

And so, it happens that everybody wants something. The best of everything so to speak. Does it mean that success is everything? What could have been the connection of this to life and living?

From what I learned so far, hard work is but a part of success, or getting what we want. It is not altogether the reason of being. Success is not the ultimate purpose of life and living.

Most people just couldn't realize that.

For me, success is but a word, a terminology that puts one above many others. In reality, we do different things, in different ways, with different goals. Therefore, no one is greater than the other, as implied by similar terminologies created to divide humanity, although it may not have been the intent. Correct me if I you think I am wrong.

For folks who might be on the verge of giving up, it is important to remember this. Whatever predicament we might have been born into, rest assured that it was not intended as either a reward or punishment to us. It isn't an unjust will of nature intended to make life harder for us.

Look beyond the hardship and take the challenge instead. The hard life could have been essentially designed in connection to what we ought to do in our adult life.

We can turn the tables to reverse our predicaments, no matter how hard would that be. The best way is to strengthen our faith and at the same time, learn to draw clarity from within. Just as Socrates said, "know thy self". It would pretty much give us a stronger sense of being and understanding on why we are who we are, on why we are where we are. It will unite our faith and willpower to go on, to do the best we can to live in the best possible way.

Every experience, every hardship that we endure will most likely lead us to where our passion lies.

I say this based on how I understand life. Despite and inspite of any situation or predicament in life, I will always be thankful for everything, both the challenging and happy times.

Copyright: Leofina Jane G. Galleta
All Rights Reserved. ©2008leofinajanegalleta

This is the second installment of my Torn From the Dead narration of the text based zombie survival game Zafehouse. Find the first part here.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________

The following excerpts were found in the township of Salem, in the State of Maine. Here is the unedited texts from that journal. It has yet to be confirmed whether the people in question are still with us, or have turned. The town itself was reclaimed two months ago, one of the last to be contained after the initial outbreak.

7:00pm: We’re all in for the night, it seems. I keep on strengthening the barricades on the building, but I don’t like seeing a house of God turned into a fortress. Kim helps where she can, but her injured leg makes things difficult. She tells me I’m the only person who doesn’t have a weapon. Well, at least I’m setting an example. If I live through the night.

September 4th

12:00am: The waiting was killing me, but this was worse. We heard panicked voices on the radios, first Mel at the store, and then Louise at the Mansion. It seems they were just gathering in these last few hours, not merely wandering aimlessly. No one was hurt, but the shock of it was enough. I’m redoubling my efforts to get the Church safe, but there isn’t much else I can do but wait and tend to Kim.

2:00am: Again the muffled voices on the radio. I was half asleep when they came through, trying to get enough shut eye to allow Kim to doze while I stood guard. It was the hospital and the workshop this time. Again no one was hurt, but just the knowledge that they are out there, waiting to strike is more terrifying than the actual moment they attack, I think. I’ve lost count of the amount of times I’ve said the Our Father.

4:00am: Oh God, they attacked. I don’t know how we survived, but I can just thank the Lord that Kim seems to know her way around that shotgun. I know now that these people aren’t sick; they’re damned. They came at my barricades with a fevered frenzy that was enough to shake my faith. I don’t know how we held them off, but I’m still here, although my barricades lie in ruins. Dawn comes soon, and then we can forage for more. Please Lord, see me through this ordeal.

6:00am: We’ve made it, the sun has risen like the light of God and dispersed the hordes. I survived the night thanks to Kim’s steady aim and my makeshift barricades. I won’t leave the church today, the tower serves as a beacon for those yet to find us. Stephanie is being sent over to prepare the building for the survivors while the others go out for supplies. Where is our Government now?

7:00am: The barricades are almost restored. Stephanie didn’t come, leaving me with Kim. Her leg means she can’t walk too much, so staying back here is probably the best thing for it. Paul is leading a mob around the town, killing all the damned they find and pillaging whatever may be of use. It should all be over soon; the army must be clearing townships methodically. It’s the only explanation as to why they aren’t here yet.

8:00am: Thank God, help is on it’s way. The old wireless in the warehouse picked up a military signal claiming that they army was just under a day and a half away. We just have to survive long enough to be rescued. More survivors keep joining us, and joining Paul’s mob. The man is cold, I can see that now. I think he’d sacrifice any one of us to survive.

9:00am: We were told to watch out by Paul, the groups are getting larger and he expects an attack on one of the buildings soon. I don’t think I can handle seeing the townspeople like that again, and our barricade barely held them back the last time. I’ve half a mind to ask Paul for a weapon, just in case.

11:00am: Every time they go out there are reports of larger groups of them. Jessica is swamped with minor injuries, keeping everyone functioning. Apparently a few of them are showing signs of fever and infection. Is whatever turned these good people infectious? We can only pray that isn’t the truth.

3:00pm: Still no attack. I’m not sure if that’s a good thing. At least if they kept coming we’d be thinning out their numbers before dark. Paul has a small army outside now, too many to house tonight. I don’t know what he’s going to do with those who have nowhere to go. I have a horrible feeling that he’s just going to leave them to die.

5:00pm: I... I’m not sure what to write. Jessica is dead. I guess that’s as good a place to start as any. They attacked the hospital with at least a dozen, and the sounds of her screaming will haunt me till my dying day. I think they ate her. I’m not sure what to think anymore. Other places were attacked, but they were better fortified. Better manned. Poor Jess, I’d known her since she was 4 years old. I hope Paul knows what he’s doing.

6:00pm: It’s all falling apart. We were attacked again, worse than before. Kim held them back, but my barricades are in tatters. God, I don’t know what to do. I need a weapon, something, anything. There’s no way I’ll allow my body to be used for such evil. I’ll radio Paul and ask for something to arm myself with. He must have something. Lord, see us through.

___________________________________________________________________________________________________

More to come. Art credit goes to www.aneyeoni.com

“A reasonable man adapts himself to the world while an unreasonable man tries to adapt the world to himself, so all the the progress depends on the unreasonable men”
(George Bernard Shaw)

Its not just today,
That I’ve been scorned,
For venturing into,
A land; unseen.
That I’ve been shunned,
For flouting the norms,
Set by those who
call themselves 'normal'.

I have been criticized,
Penalized,
For defying the logic,
Of the logical,
Since eternity.
I’m endowed with instincts,
Of liberty; hence my evolution,
And evolution of the world,
Is dependent,
On each deviation,
And each of my exploration,
Of the unseen.
Yet there are those,
To whom I’m insane,
If I conform
They will embrace me,
But doing so,
Will be a disgrace,
On my part, to the instincts,
I carry; of liberty and creativity.
Thus, I’d gleefully take,
The tag of insane,
The unreasonable!

Banned Books Week has been noted every year since 1982 in a long-running campaign from the American Library Association. Why?

Because ideas matter.  The right to express ideas, and the right to be able to read ideas, are at the foundation of our liberties.

Again in 2007, books most frequently targeted for banning include And Tango Makes Three, a delightful children's story about two penguins taking care of an orphaned egg (too much like homosexuality), and Mark Twain's powerful, essentially-American novel that makes the case against racism, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn (ironically, because complainants claim to find the book racist).

People who ask that these books be pulled from the shelves often fail to recognize the irony -- why should we ban a book about caring for orphans, or the book that makes the case against racism?

The Tattered Cover Book Store in Denver sponsors an annual Banned Books Week essay contest for Colorado teens, in conjunction with the Colorado Freedom of Expression Foundation.

How will your school and local public library commemorate Banned Books Week?  Which banned books will you read, and urge others to read?

Which banned books are on your reading lists for classroom use? Does that strike a little too close to home?  Then you need to get informed, and get active.

When we bury the old, we bury the known past, the past we imagine sometimes better than it was, but the past all the same, a portion of which we inhabited. Memory is the overwhelming theme, the eventual comfort.

But burying infant, we bury the future, unwieldy and unknown, full of promise and possibilities, outcomes punctuated by our rosy hopes. The grief has no borders, no limits, no known ends, and the little infant graves that edge the corners and fencerows of every cemetery are never quite big enough to contain the grief. Some sadness are permanent. Dead babies do not give us memories. They give us dreams.

...

Because I would not keep in stock an inventory of children's caskets, I'd order them, as the need arose, in sizes and half sizes from two foots to five foot six, often estimating the size of a dead child, not yet released from the county morgue, by the sizes of my own children, safe and thriving and alive. And the caskets I ordered were invariably "purity and gold" with angels on the corners and shirred crepe interiors of powdery pink or baby blue. And I would never charge more than the wholesale cost of the casket and throw in our services free of charge with the hope in my heart that God would, in turn, spare me the following grief of these parents.

Il pezzo esordisce dicendo (cito testualmente):
"Pubblicati a Torino a partire dal 2004 i volumi della serie antologica ALIA editi da CS libri si presentano come un caso quasi unico nel panorama editoriale italiano".
Wow...
Lo ammetto, sono colpito!

Ok, se vi capita leggetelo perche' fornisce un'ottima chiave di lettura per il volume. Inoltre interessante puo' pure essere leggere la recensione di Elvezio Sciallis uscita a fine luglio.
Ed ovviamente leggete anche ALIA!!!

It had been several months since Horatio’s creation had exposed itself

upon Chunderland beach front, and subsequently been blown to

smithereens by a detachment of heavily armed Royal Prancers on nuclear

manoeuvres. Now it was a perfect summers’ day, and Horatio’s

indiscretions had been forgotten.

***

The pastures around the pleasing country town of Hamster Heath were

ablaze with the colour of flowers, and awash with the singing of crickets

and the accompanying cacophony of other creepy-crawlies.

With his mother, Molly, at his side, Horatio the young hamster stepped

daintily through the long grass of Farmer Niblet’s field. They both carried

over night bags. This could mean only one thing: Farmer Niblet was in

for a tough weekend.

Horatio began whistling a happy tune, and he took to skipping.

After five minutes of listening to the same tune over and over, Molly

kindly asked Horatio to desist.

“Oh, but Mum – it’s my favourite song.” Horatio complained,

“Everyone at school is singing it. It’s currently number Seven on the

Hamster Hit Parade – down from Five last week. It’s a former Number

One. It’s bound to appear on the Festive Season CD of ‘Now, Let Me

Think: Is This Music?’
50

“Everyone is singing it, are they?” Molly cocked an ear to the soft

summer breeze, “I don’t hear nothing.”

Ignoring Molly’s double negative, Horatio looked about him. They had

long since left the sleepy sanctuary of Hamster Heath, and were now

heading into true agricultural country. Not a sentient soul stirred.

“Well, that’s because there’s no one here.” he stated the obvious.

Molly could recognise a good argument when she heard one. “Well

alright: Sing it if you must – but cease that infernal whistling. It’s

tuneless, and it’s boring.”

Horatio paused: He couldn’t believe it: His mother had actually invited

him to sing. She had – hadn’t she? This was serious: He needed

confirmation…

“What’s that, Mum?” he called, running to catch up.

“I said, sing if you must, but…” Began Molly.

Horatio rudely interrupted her, “That’s alright, I heard the first time.”

He burst into song, “Oh, no - Oh, no, no, no - Oh, no, no, no – Oh, no,

there’s caterpillar poo upon my shoe. Oh, no…”

One of Molly’s infamous backhanders caught him across the back of the

neck – knocking him into temporary oblivion.

“I’ve changed my mind,” Molly said, picking him up again as he

51

regained consciousness, “Whistling is preferable after all.”

Horatio wasn’t going to argue. He wasn’t go to whistle either.

***

After several minutes of walking, the silence got to Molly. “Go on,” she

ordered. “Whistle.”

“No thank you: I’ve had enough for now.” Horatio replied politely.

“Don’t sulk.” Molly instructed.

“I’m not sulking: I’m just not whistling. There is a state of being

somewhere between whistling and sulking, you know.”

Molly allowed the subject to ride for a few minutes more. She was

determined to out-wait her son.

But her determination was no match for Horatio’s...

“Why did you whistle in the first place?” she said, breaking the

awkward silence.

Horatio felt obliged to respond. “Because Tommy Stickleback taught

me. He said that I need to practise.”

“Practise?” Molly scoffed, “Whistling is like riding a bike: Once you

know how to do it, you never forget.”

“But I can’t ride a bike.” Horatio replied. Then he had a thought: “Do

you suppose that if I whistle enough – I should be able to ride a bike?”

“No,” Came Molly’s curt reply, “you’re confusing us both. Shut up.”
52                ***

Again they walked on until Farmer Niblet’s pretty farm hove into

view. “Is it fun?” asked Horatio.

Molly was quick on the uptake, “Riding a bicycle? Yes – very.”

“On a scale of one-to-ten?” Horatio pushed.

“Oh, I don’t know.” Molly couldn’t be bothered. “It’s different for

different hamsters.”

“...As much fun as staying with Farmer Niblet for the weekend?”

“Yes very probably.” She then added a proviso; “Once you’ve learned

how to do it properly.”

Any further conversation upon the subject of bicycles and whistling was

interrupted by their arrival at the farm gate.

They could see Farmer Niblet, and her daughter, working in the

farmyard.

“Who is that with Farmer Niblet?” Horatio asked, opening the gate for

his mother.

“That’s Constantinople: Her daughter. She’s older than you – so don’t

go getting any ideas.”

Horatio didn’t know what sort of ideas he was supposed to avoid, so he

decided that the best course of action was to completely blank his mind,

and place himself in a trance. Consequently, when at last they arrived in

53

the yard, and were greeted by the two friendly hamsters – Horatio walked

like an automaton, and talked like a banana.

***

“Hello, Horatio,” The beautiful Constantinople sighed at Horatio, “It’s

wonderful to see you again.” She then added seductively, “My how

you’ve grown. You really are a big boy now, aren’t you!”

She hugged him close, and blew gently into his ear.

“Yuh!” Horatio responded.

Like Molly, Farmer Niblet firmly believed in corporal punishment. The

net result of this was that Constantinople  received  blows to both ears.

“That’ll teach you for being suggestive.” Niblet chastised her, “Horatio

is a nice boy: I don’t want you corrupting him with your rural wiles!”

Constantinople was a very beautiful hamster. Had Horatio not been in a

trance, it’s certain that he would have been more than keen to have

sampled a little corruption. And Rural Wiles were his favourite subject at

school. But he was in a trance; and therefore unaware how close to

heaven he might have come.

“Yuh!” he grunted.

Molly recognised this condition. “He’s very shy.” she explained, “This

is his way of dealing with difficult social situations. Would you be so

54

kind as to pass me a bucket of water? It must be cold.”

***

A few minutes of standing in a bucket of cold water had the desired

effect upon Horatio. As the cold slowly crept up his legs, then into his

pelvic region, physiological alterations caused actual discomfort to

certain parts of his anatomy. It was a sense of returning to a pre-

embryonic state, but in an chill northerly wind.

Shocked by this retrogressive action, Horatio quickly returned to the

real world. He jumped from the bucket, and found a nice wall – warmed

by the sun – to sit upon.

Meanwhile Molly had been chatting to Niblet and Constantinople.

“My, your cheek pouches are almost full-sized!” Molly exclaimed,

looking inside the younger hamster’s mouth. “I bet you can get a whole

month’s worth of sunflower seeds in at one go!”

“I’ve been doing stretching exercises.” Constantinople explained

proudly.

“You must teach them to Horatio.” Molly said. Then she noticed her son

upon the wall – his teeth still chattering: “Over here, my treasure.” She

called to him.

Horatio joined them. Molly indicated Constantinople to him:

“Would you like Conny to show you around the farm?” Niblet asked him.
55

Now, finally,  he really saw the young female hamster for the first

time. His teeth continued to chatter; but not because of the cold.

“If, if, if it’s not too, too, too much tr, tr, trouble.” he said eloquently.

“Excellent.” Niblet clapped her paws together in delight, “Your mother

and I can have a nice cup of tea, and a slice of my famous earwig pie.”

The two adult hamsters then left the youngsters to their own devices.

***

Sorry, that’s all for now. Hopefully you’ll be able to read the remainder of this exciting/inspiring/highly entertaining/rip-snorting/hilarious/bloody awful/pile of dung (delete as applicable) tale at a later date. That is when a publisher of great vision and intellect recognises its true worth, and makes it available to all and sundry as either an E-book or the good old-fashioned paper version.
Until that time (or when I give up, throw up my hands with despair, and place the complete work here, free-of-charge) please peruse other chapters of my Hamster Britain stories: You may not know how the stories end, but you can enjoy the bits leading up to it. Oh, and please leave a comment. Tell me if you liked it (or thought that it should be thrown out on the compost heap). Suggestions are always welcome. Well, not always welcome. Nice suggestions: That’s what I’m looking for. And adulation too, of course. That goes without saying. You show me one author who doesn’t seek adulation..…

I was reading a book called Buckley: The Right Word back in the 90's which was a collection of writing excerpts and interviews by William Buckley.   One of the interviews was a transcript of one of his favorite writers, Jorge Luis Borges, whose name I knew, but whose work I had never read.   So after reading that excerpt, I went to a bookstore and bought my first Borges collection Labyrinths: Selected Stories & Other Writings. The first story, Tlön, Uqbar, Orbis Tertius, completely caught me off guard.  I was so completely blown away I had to read it twice just to make sure I really read what I had read.  I finished the book and bought several other works and collections including 7 nights and the one on imaginary beings.

Many years before, sometime in the 80's I read The Name Of The Rose by Umberto Eco.  Sometime after starting to read Borges I was  watching the Sean Connery movie version on TV of the book was when I put 2 and 2 together and saw that Eco's main sinister character, the blind old monk protecting humanity from the library Jorge of Burgos was Eco's homage to Borges.   As you know, Borges was the director of the national library of Argentina and also blind.   Only Borges could live something he could have created in a story.  I remember when I came to the realization during the movie I yelled out "OH MAN"

So if you want to make your brain hurt, in short bursts, read some Borges.  If you can get your hands on the Buckley book, read the interview...no matter how you feel about Buckley, its really about Borges and it was a great interview.

For details, read Trish's post.  Entries must be in before September 10 - Just read the post.

রহস্য জাতীয় ব্যাপারগুলিতে আমার তেমন বিশ্বাস নেই। তবু প্রায়ই এ রকম কিছু গল্প-টল্প শুনতে হয়। গত মাসে ঝিকাতলার এক ভদ্রলোক আমাকে এসে বললেন, তার ঘরে একটি তক্ষক আছে - সেটি রোজ রাত 1টা 25 মিনিটে তিনবার ডাকে। আমি বহু কষ্টে হাসি থামালাম। এ রকম সময়নিষ্ঠ তক্ষক আছে নাকি এ যুগে? ভদ্রলোক আমার নির্বিকার ভঙ্গি দেখে বললেন, কি ভাই বিশ্বাস করলেন না?
জ্বি না।
এক রাত থাকেন আমার বাসায়। নিজের চোখে দেখেন তক্ষকটা। ঘড়ি ধরে বসে থাকবেন। দেখবেন ঠিক 1টা 25 মিনিটে তিনবার ডাকবে।
আরে দুর! কি যে বলেন?

ভদ্রলোক মুখ কালো করে উঠে গেলেন। চারদিন পর তার সঙ্গে আবার দেখা। পৃথিবীটা এরকম, যার সঙ্গে দেখা হবার তার সঙ্গে দেখা হয় না। ভুল মানুষের সঙ্গে দেখা হয়। আমাকে দেখেই ভদ্রলোক গম্ভীর মুখে বললেন, আপনি কি দৈনিক বাংলার সালেহ সাহেবকে চেনেন?
হ্যাঁ চিনি।
তাকে বাসায় নিয়ে গিয়েছিলাম। তিনি নিজের কানে শুনেছেন। বলেছেন একটা নিউজ করবেন।
ভালই তো। নিউজ হবার মতই খবর।
আপনি আসেন না ভাই, থাকেন এক রাত।
আমাকে শোনালে কি হবে?
আরে ভাই আপনারা ইউনিভার্সিটির টিচার। আপনাদের কথার একটা আলাদা দাম।
তাই নাকি?
আপনারা একটা কথা বললে কেউ ফেলবে না।
এই জিনিসটা নিয়ে খুব হৈ-চৈ করছেন মনে হচ্ছে?
না, হৈ-চৈ কোথায়? অনেকেই অবশ্যি শুনে গেছেন। বাংলাদেশ টিভির ক্যামেরাম্যান নাজমুল হুদাকে চেনেন?
জ্বি না।
উনিও এসেছিলেন। খুব মাইডিয়ার লোক। আপনি আসুন না।
আচ্ছা ঠিক আছে, একদিন যাওয়া যাবে।

ভদ্রলোকের চোখ মুখ উজ্জ্বল হয়ে উঠল। তিনি মুখভর্তি করে হাসলেন। টেনে-টেনে বললেন, চলেন চা খাই।
না, চা খাব না।
আরে ভাই আসেন না। প্রফেসর মানুষ, আপনাদের সঙ্গে থাকাটা ভাগ্যের ব্যাপার।
ভদ্রলোক হা হা করে হাসতে লাগলেন। যেতে হল চায়ের দোকানে।
চায়ের সঙ্গে আর কিছু খাবেন? চপ?
না।
আরে ভাই খান না। এই এদিকে দু'টো চা দে তো। এখন ভাই বলেন, কবে যাবেন?
আপনার সঙ্গে তো প্রায়ই দেখা হয়, বলে দেব একদিন।

চা খেতে খেতে ভদ্রলোক দ্বিতীয় একটা রহস্যের কথা শুরু করলেন। নাইনটিন সিক্সটিতে তিনি বরিশালের পিরোজপুরে থাকতেন। তার বাসার কাছে বড় একটা কাঁঠাল গাছ ছিল। অমাবস্যার রাতে নাকি সেই কাঁঠাল গাছ থেকে কান্নার শব্দ ভেসে আসত। আমি গম্ভীর হয়ে বললাম, সেই কান্নারও কি কোন টাইম ছিল? নির্দিষ্ট সময়ে কাঁদত? আপনার তক্ষকের মত?
ভদ্রলোক আহত স্বরে বললেন, আমার কথা বিশ্বাস করলেন না?
বিশ্বাস করব না কেন?
আমি কান্নার শব্দ গোটাটা টেপ করে রেখেছি। একদিন শোনাব আপনাকে।
ঠিক আছে।

বরিশালের ডিসি সাহেবও শুনেছেন। চেনেন উনাকে? আসগর সাহেব। সি এস পি। খুব খান্দানী ফ্যামিলি।
না, চিনি না।
ডিসি সাহেবের এক ভাই আছেন বাংলাদেশ ব্যাংকে। বিরাট অফিসার।
তাই বুঝি?
জ্বি। উনার বাসায় একদিন গিয়েছিলাম। খুব খাতির-যত্ন করলেন। গুলশানের বাসা। তিন তলা। উনি থাকেন এক তলায়। ওপরের দুটো তলা ভাড়া দিয়েছেন।
ভদ্রলোক আমার প্রায় এক ঘন্টা সময় নষ্ট করে বিদায় হলেন। আমার মায়াই লাগলো। ইন্ডেন্টিং ফার্মে সামান্য একটা চাকরি করেন। দেখেই বুঝা যায় অভাবে পর্যুদস্ত। চোখের দুষ্টি ভরসাহারা। বয়স এখনো হয়তো ত্রিশ হয়নি কিন্তু বুড়োটে দেখায়। বিচিত্র চরিত্র।

মাস খানেক তার সঙ্গে আমার দেখা হল না। তার প্রধান কারণ, যে সব জায়গায় তার সঙ্গে আমার দেখা হওয়ার সম্ভাবনা সে সব জায়গা আমি এড়িয়ে চলতে শুরু করেছি। নিউমার্কেটে আড্ডার জায়গাটিতে যাই না। কি দরকার ঝামেলা বাড়িয়ে? এই লোকটি পিচ্ছিল পদার্থ, সে গায়ের সঙ্গে সেঁটে যাবে। আর ছাড়ানো যাবে না। কিন্তু তবু দেখা হল। একদিন শুনলাম সে ইউনিভার্সিটি ক্লাবে এসে খোঁজ নিচ্ছে। ক্লাবের বেয়ারা বলল, গত কিছুদিন ধরে নাকি সে নিয়মিতই আসছে। কি মুসিবত।

একদিন আর এড়ানো গেল না। ভদ্রলোক বাসায় এসে হাজির।
কি ভাই আপনি তো আর এলেন না?
কাজের ব্যস্ততা ...
আজকে আপনাকে নিতে এসেছি।
সে কি?
কবি শামসুল আলম সাহেবও আসবেন।
তাই বুঝি?
জ্বি। চিনেত তো শামসুল আলম সাহেব কে? দু'টো কবিতার বই বেরিয়েছে। পাখির পালক আর অন্ধকার জ্যোত্স্না।
তাই বুঝি?
জ্বি। আমাকে দু'টো বই-ই দিয়েছেন। খুবই বন্ধু মানুষ। বাড়ি হচ্ছে আপনার ময়মনসিংহ, নেত্রকোণা।
ও।
উনার ছোট ভাইও গল্প টল্প লেখেন। আরিফুল আলম।

গেলাম তার বাসায়। ঝিকাতলার এক গলিতে ঘুপসি মত দু'কামরার বাড়ি। মেজাজ খুবই খারাপ। রাত দেড়টা পর্যন্ত বসে থাকতে হবে সময়নিষ্ঠ তক্ষকের ডাক শোনার জন্য। কত রকম যন্ত্রণা যে আছে পৃথিবীতে!

ভদ্রলোক আমাকে বসার ঘরে বসিয়ে অতি ব্যস্ততার সঙ্গে ভেতরে চলে গেলেন। বসার ঘরটি সুন্দর করে সাজানো। মহিলার হাতের সযত্ন স্পর্শ আছে। ভদ্রলোক বিবাহিত জানতাম না। এ নিয়ে তার সঙ্গে কখনো কথা হয়নি। কিছুক্ষণের মধ্যেই তার স্ত্রী ঘরে এসে ঢুকলেন। খুবই অল্প বয়েসী তরুণী এবং অসম্ভব রূপসী। আমি প্রায় হকচকিয়ে গেলাম।

আমার স্ত্রী লীনা। আর লীনা, উনি হুমায়ূন আহমেদ। এর কথা তো তোমাকে বলেছি।
লীনা হাসি মুখে বললো, জ্বি আপনার কথা প্রায়ই বলে।
লীনা একটু চায়ের ব্যবস্থা কর।

লীনা চলে গেল ভেতরে। ভদ্রলোক নিচু গলায় বললেন, লীনার গল্প-উপন্যাস লেখার শখ আছে। কয়েক দিন আগে সাপ নিয়ে একটা গল্প লিখেছে। মারাত্মক গল্প ভাই। আপনাকে পড়ে শোনাতে বলবো। আমি বললে পড়বে না। আপনিও কাইন্ডলি একটু বলবেন।
আমি বললাম, গুণী মহিলাতো!
ভদ্রলোকের চোখ মুখ উজ্জ্বল হয়ে উঠলো।
তা ভাই, কথাটা অস্বীকার করব না। গানও জানে। নজরুল গীতি। ভালো গায়। বাড়িতে টিচার রেখে শিখেছে।
তাই নাকি?
জ্বি, শোনাবে আপনাকে। একটু প্রেসার দিতে হবে আর কি। আপনি একটু রিকোয়েস্ট করলেই শোনাবে। কাইন্ডলি একটু রিকোয়েস্ট করবেন।
ঠিক আছে, করব।

চা এসে পড়ল। চায়ের সঙ্গে বড়া জাতীয় জিনিস। বেশ খেতে। আমি বললাম, কিসের বড়া এগুলি? ডালের নাকি?
ভদ্রলোক উচ্চস্বরে হাসলেন, নারে ভাই, কুলের বড়া। হা-হা-হা। কত রকম অদ্ভুত রান্না যে জানে! মাঝে মাঝে এত সারপ্রাইজ হই। খেতে কেমন হয়েছে বলেন? চমত্কার না?
ভাল, বেশ ভাল।
আরেক দিন আসবেন, চাইনীজ সুপ খাওয়াবো। চিকেন কর্ন সুপ। চাইনীজ রেস্তোরাঁর চেয়ে যদি ভালো না হয় তাহলে কান কেটে ফেলবেন। হা-হা-হা।

আমি মেয়েটার লেখা একটা ছোট গল্প শুনলাম, দু'টি কবিতা শুনলাম। ভদ্রলোক মুগ্ধ ভঙ্গিতে তাকিয়ে রইলেন। বার বার বললেন, ইস শামসুল আলম সাহেব আসলেন না। দারুণ মিস্ করলেন, কি বলেন ভাই?
রাত এগারোটার দিকে বললাম, তা হলে আজ উঠি?
তক্ষকের ডাক শুনবেন না?
আরেক দিন শুনব।
আচ্ছা, ঠিক আছে। ভুলবেন না যেন ভাই। আসতেই হবে।

ভদ্রলোক আমাকে এগিয়ে দিতে এলেন। রাস্তায় নেমেই বললেন, আমার স্ত্রীকে কেমন দেখলেন ভাই?
ভাল, গুণী মহিলা।
ভদ্রলোকের চোখ মুখ উজ্জ্বল হয়ে উঠল। ধরা গলায় বললেন, বাঁদরের গলায় মুক্তার মালা। ঠিক না ভাই?
আমি কিছু বললাম না। ভদ্রলোক কাঁপা গলায় বললেন, গরীব মানুষ, স্ত্রীর জন্যে কিছুই করতে পারি না। কিন্তু এই সব নিয়ে লীনা মোটেই মাথা ঘামায় না। বড় ফ্যামিলির মেয়ে তো। ওদের চাল চলনই অন্য রকম।

আমি রিকশায় উঠতে উঠতে বললাম, খুব ভাগ্যবান আপনি।
ভদ্রলোক আমার হাত চেপে ধরলেন। যেন আবেগে কেঁদে ফেলবেন।
ভাই, আরেকদিন কিন্তু আসতে হবে। তক্ষকের ডাক শুনতে হবে। আসবেন তো? প্লীজ।

তক্ষকের ডাকের মত কত রহস্যময় ব্যাপারই না আছে পৃথিবীতে!

গল্পটা পিডিএফ ফরম্যাটে (88.1 কিলোবাইট) ডাউনলোড করতে হলে ক্লিক করুন এখানে।

MONKEY RATING: FOUR MONKEYS

(For a brief explanation of the Monkey Review rating system, click here.)

ROME, JULY 6, 2007 (Zenit.org).- Here is a translation of a commentary by the Pontifical Household preacher, Capuchin Father Raniero Cantalamessa, on the readings from this Sunday's liturgy.

* * *

The Kingdom of God is at Hand!
14th Sunday in Ordinary Time
Isaiah 66:10-14c; Galatians 6:16-18; Luke 10:1-12, 17-20

Again we will comment on Sunday's Gospel with the help of Benedict XVI's book on Jesus. First, however, I would like to make an observation of a general nature. The criticism that has been made of the Pope's book by some is that it sticks to what the Gospels say without taking into account the findings of modern historical research which, according to them, would lead to very different conclusions.

What we have here is a widespread idea that is nourishing a whole literature like Dan Brown's "Da Vinci Code" and popularizing historical works based on the same presupposition.

I think that it is important to shed light on a fundamental equivocation in all of this. The idea of an historical investigation into Jesus that is unified, rectilinear, that moves unswervingly toward completely illuminating him, is a pure myth that some are trying to convince people of but which no serious historian today believes possible.

I quote one of the more well-known representatives of historical research on Jesus, the American Paula Fredriksen: "In recent scholarship, Jesus has been imagined and presented as a type of first-century shaman figure; as a Cynic-sort of wandering wise man; as a visionary radical and social reformer preaching egalitarian ethics to the destitute; as a Galilean regionalist alienated from the elitism of Judean religious conventions (like Temple and Torah); as a champion of national liberation and, on the contrary, as its opponent and critic -- on and on.

"All these figures are presented with rigorous academic argument and methodology; all are defended with appeals to the ancient data. Debate continues at a roiling pitch, and consensus -- even on issues so basic as what constitutes evidence and how to construe it -- seems a distant hope."

Often an appeal is made to new data and recent discoveries which would finally put historical research in an advantageous place with regard to the past. But the variety of the consequences that can be drawn from these new historical sources appears from the fact that they have given rise to two opposed and irreconcilable images of Christ that are still in play. On one hand, a Jesus who "is in all and for all Jewish"; on the other hand, a Jesus who is a child of the Helenized Galilee of his time, strongly influenced the philosophy of cynicism.

In light of this fact I ask: What was the Pope supposed to do, compose yet another historical reconstruction in which all the contrary objections debate and combat each other? What the Pope chose to do was to positively present the figure and teaching of Jesus as he is understood by the Church, taking his point of departure from the conviction that the Christ of the Gospels is, even from the historical point of view, the figure that is the most credible and certain.

After these clarifications, let us turn to this Sunday's Gospel. It is the episode of the sending out of 72 disciples on mission. After having told them how they are supposed to go out (two by two, like lambs, without money), Jesus explains to them what they must say: "Tell them: 'The kingdom of God is at hand.'"

We know that the phrase "The kingdom of God is at hand" is at the heart of Jesus' preaching and is the premise of each of his teachings. The kingdom of God is at hand, so love your enemies; the kingdom of God is at hand, so if your hand is a scandal to you, cut it off. It is better to enter the kingdom of God without a hand than to remain outside of it with both hands. Everything takes its meaning from the kingdom.

There has always been discussion about what, precisely, Jesus meant by the expression "kingdom of God." For some it would be a purely interior kingdom consisting in a life conformed to the law of God; for others, on the contrary, it would be a social and political kingdom to be realized by man, even by struggle and revolution if necessary.

The Pope reviews these various interpretations of the past and points to what they have in common: The center of interest moves from God to man; it is no longer a kingdom of God but a kingdom of man, who is its principal architect. This is an idea of a kingdom that, at the limit, is also compatible with atheism.

In Jesus' preaching the coming of the kingdom of God means that, sending his Son into the world, God has decided, so to speak, to personally take in hand the fortunes of the world, to compromise himself with it, to act in the world from the inside. It is easier to intuit what the kingdom of God means than to explain it because it is a reality that transcends every explanation.

The idea is still much diffused that Jesus expected the end of the world to be imminent and therefore the kingdom of God that he preached is not to be realized in this world but in the one we call the "hereafter."

In effect, the Gospels contain some affirmations that lend themselves to this interpretation. But if we look at the whole of Jesus' teaching this does not jibe. According to C.H. Dodd, Jesus' teaching is not an ethics for those who are expecting a rapid end to the world, but for those who have experienced the end of this world and the coming into it of the kingdom of God.

It is for those who know that "the old things are past" and that the world has become a "new creation," since God has descended as king. In other words, Jesus did not announce the end of "the" world but the end of "a" world, and in that the facts have not told against him.

But John the Baptist also preached this change, speaking of an imminent judgment of God. In what, then, consists the newness of Christ? The newness is entirely enclosed within an adverb of time: "now." With Jesus the kingdom of God is no longer only something "imminent." It is present. "The new and exclusive message of Jesus," the Pope writes, "consists in the fact that he says: God acts now -- this is the hour in which God, in a way that goes beyond all previous modalities, reveals himself in history as its Lord, as the living God."

From here flows that sense of urgency that is present in all of Jesus' parables, especially the so-called parables of the kingdom. The decisive moment of history has arrived, now is the moment to make the decision that saves; the feast is ready; to refuse to enter because you have just taken a wife or bought a pair of oxen or for some other reason, is to be excluded forever and see your place taken by others.

From this last reflection let us move to a practical and contemporary application of the message we have heard. What Jesus said to the people of his time is also valid for us today. That "now" and "today" will remain immutable until the end of the world (Hebrews 3:13).

That means that the person who today hears, perhaps by chance, Christ's word: "The time is fulfilled and the kingdom of God is at hand; convert and believe in the Gospel" (Mark 1:15), finds himself faced with the same choice as those who heard it 2000 years ago in a Galilean village: Either believe and enter the kingdom or refuse to believe and remain outside.

Unfortunately, the first option -- believing -- seems to be the last concern of many who read the Gospel and write books about it. Rather than submitting themselves to Christ's judgment, many judge him.

Today more than ever Jesus is on trial. It is a kind of "universal judgment" turned upside down. Scholars run this risk above all. The scholar must "dominate" the object of the science that he cultivates and remain neutral before it; but how is one supposed to "dominate" or remain neutral before an object when it is Jesus Christ? In this case one must let himself instead be dominated by, and not be the dominator of his object.

The kingdom of God was so important for Jesus that he taught us to pray every day for its coming. We turn to God saying, "Thy kingdom come," but God also turns to us and says through Jesus: "The kingdom of God is at hand, do not wait, enter!"