The Return Of The Russian, Ottoman, Persian, And Chinese Empires - The Marvel Of The Greatness Of Higher Order Cultures

Vladimir Putin has made no bones about his desire to restore the greatness of Russian Imperial history, the history of the Tsars, the royal courts, the influence, the elegance, and the reign. 

Recep Tayyip Erdogan of Turkey has made similar claims.  The Ottoman Empire was one of the world's most extensive, influential, and durable; and it was preceded by sultanates, parochial kingdoms, and Islamic fiefdoms.  In the fourteenth century the  Mongol-Turkic armies of Genghis Khan rode down from the high central Asian steppes and conquered the world from Europe to East Asia. 

The Shah of Iran in exile, is impatiently waiting for the final deposition of the usurping ayatollahs and mullahs of the Islamic revolution of 1979.  His father, Shah Reva Pahlavi ruled the kingdom of Persia just as his ancestors did.  The glories of Persepolis were never forgotten, nor was the magnificence of the imperial courts. Once the Islamic regime has been routed, he will return to Tehran as the legitimate heir to Persian history and will reset the cultural compass to imperial rule. 

President Xi of China looks to his country's dynastic past as he leads the nation to world power.  He is but the latest in the line of emperors who ruled China with determination and thousands of years of cultural import.  Although China is a modern, Communist-Capitalist hybrid, it hearkens back to its Confucian, dynastic, imperial roots.  Its dominance today is a result of its profound moral rectitude, the conviction that China is indeed the center of the world, and its consistently patriotic ethos. 

Arnold Parker was a royalist - an admirer of Louis XIV, the Sun King, the architect of Versailles, the most influential monarch of all of Europe, and the regent who expanded France's cultural influence to the ends of the known world.  He was a devotee of the imperial Tsars of Russia who, building on a foundation of Orthodox Christianity, Slavic pride, and the might of royal military power, extended Russian influence from the borders of Europe to the Far East. 

He was a student of Turkic history and was awed by the power and influence of a small tribe from Western China that came to conquer the world.

He was a student of Chinese dynasty, and while imperial China limited itself to influence within its traditional borders and was closed to outside influence until 1857, it was unmatched for courtly elegance, sophisticated learning, and profound religious, ethical, and moral values. 

Japan under its emperors and shoguns had created a disciplined, martial, culturally secure, and powerful nation.  While Hirohito overreached, and imperial Japan arrogated world authority to itself while the West had grown equally determined and influential, after the war it regained its confidence, respect for history, and imperial destiny. 

Arnold understood popular uprisings - the beheadings of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette, the murders of the last Tsar, Alexander and his family, the revolutionary zeal of Mao Tse Tung, and the democratic reforms of Ataturk - but he still hewed to the principle of empire, inherited, aristocratic, regal, imperial rule.

Which is why he was appalled at the influx of African immigrants to Europe and the progressive diffusion of central Christian, European cultural values.  These immigrants, more at home in a tribal, primitive rainforest than any civilized, cultural environment bring nothing to the continent.  There was no positive cultural influence and assimilation as there was when the Frisians, Jutes and later Normans and Romans came to Britain.  There has been nothing but an extension of tribal primitivism overlaid with Islamic redemptive cant. 

The migrants were not becoming European - Europe was becoming African to the detriment and destruction of the cultural integrity of the continent from the British Isles to the east. 

'An invasion of the most savage, incontinent, insular, and ignorant migrants in Europe's history', Arnold wrote in Foreign Affairs; a result of Europe's own glandular malfunction - some deformed notion of Christian kindness cynically accepted by immigrants who wanted nothing of European culture but all of its wealth. 

'Have you ever been to Africa', asked an Afro-centric, credulous supporter of open immigration to which Arnold replied that of course he had.  And there he had seen nothing but primitivism, tribalism, and ethnic divisions, all of which were co-opted by Big Men who turned post-colonial independent nations into corrupt, venal fiefdoms. The slums of Lagos alone - rotting, fetid, miserable excuses for community - should have been enough for Europeans to say 'Basta!' when a shipload of Nigerians landed in Cyprus or Sicily, but they welcomed them with open arms, credulous, ignorant, and historically vacant. 

Needless to say royalism is not the theme of the day, and Arnold was arbitrarily cancelled as a racist and anti-democratic demagogue. Yet France was in flames, their inclusive, equitable policies of diversity gone bad - St. Germain des Pres in flames, shops in the Rue de Rivoli vandalized, cars in the 7th overturned and set on fire, the northern suburbs as inchoate, undisciplined, and riotous as any inner city ghetto in America. 

American progressives have made clear their intention to place the black man on the pinnacle of human society where he belongs.  A denizen of the forest, attuned to the vibrations of nature, living a sentient, proto-intelligent existence, he above all should be recognized as the next generation of human genius. 

The reality of the African diaspora as well as the millions of Africans still living either in abject urban poverty or rural tribal backwardness belies this assumption. 

Arnold's royalism has nothing to do with racism, Euro-centrism, or historical envy.  It is only a recall of the foundational principles of cultural supremacy.  Sophocles, Euripides, Aeschylus, Plato, and Aristotle were not accidents, nor were Augustus, Trajan, and Marcus Aurelius.  They were products of culture, of civilizations which honored intelligence, spirit, creativity, and moral rectitude. 

Cato the Elder's triptychs - the foundational texts for the education of the next generation of Roman leaders - focused on governance, military strategy, and colonial rule; but they also included lessons on civility, honor, courage, patriotism, fidelity, respect, and compassion. 

Such multiparous, comprehensive lessons are gone - not only from schoolrooms but from political and civic life. 

'I am a Roman', said Arnold. 

And so it was that Arnold was cancelled for anti-democratic, seditious, even treasonous sentiments; but he never demurred, never once wavered, never gave an inch to multiculturalism.  Neither a Cassandra, a man of principle, or a voice crying out in the wilderness, he was simply a student of history, suspicious of received wisdom an the cant and true belief it allows. 

Wine, Women, And Song, The Poetry Of Donald Trump - And Why Democratic Socialists Hate The Idea

Rebecca Fielding was unhappy about the concentration of wealth in America.  Too many haves and far too many have nots.  As a good socialist she wanted to dismantle the American capitalist system and replace it with more fair and just redistribution of wealth - take from the rich and give it to the poor, a transfer which would create equal wealth for all. 

 

All well and good, but just like Democratic Socialist Senator Bernie Sanders, a loud and outspoken champion of economic 'recalibration', Rebecca had three houses - her rambler in Bethesda, a beach cottage on the Eastern Shore and a cabin in West Virginia.  

These last two cannot be considered homes in the socialist sense of the word, that is the large, imposing mansions that Bezos, Zuckerberg, Gates, Trump, and Huang have; so she had nothing to be ashamed of, and nothing to hide.  The cottage and the cabin were little more than lean-tos, modest little refuges from the hectic urban life of Washington. 

Of course she was being disingenuous - the housepainters, leaf blowers, handymen, and tree-trimmers servicing her neighborhood could barely afford the mortgage on their Gaithersburg split-levels - but no one expected her to live like a pauper just because of vital political convictions. 

Rebecca was no different from her fellow progressives, wealthy enough to enjoy a modestly good life while publicly tearful over those who don't have it.  Money is an obsession for progressives who whine about the poor, envy the rich, feather their own nests while taking other people's money for their redistributive ambitions.  

Elizabeth Warren, a far-left liberal colleague of Bernie Sanders when asked about her multi-million dollar portfolio and homes in the Caribbean and the south of France, she said, 'Irrelevant...a nonstarter...a diversion...a conservative ploy...I have worked tirelessly for the American people, and if my success is worth anything, it is as an example of the dedication and service in the name of the public good I have given throughout my political career'

In other words, 'Do as I say, not as I do' quacked Warren and Sanders as they feathered their nests for retirement, and enjoyed the perks of office while still serving. 

They have no time for pleasure, no wine, women, and song for them - that is for the rutting, dishonorable, libertines of France for whom governance plays second fiddle to hedonistic pleasures. 

Democrats - solidly progressive, boundlessly committed to social reform and the best aspirations of us all, and deeply honorable men and women - cannot smile let alone enjoy themselves when the climate is changing for the worse, the black man is still living in poverty, and gays, lesbians, and transgenders are still suffering hatred and exclusion.

So it is no wonder that progressives are such a dour, unpleasant lot.  The problems of the country are so severe that they cannot afford a laugh. 

Of course the transgender vaudeville act is hilarious - men in drag have been caricatures of women for centuries.  Falsies, rouge, and eyeliner are the stock in trade of clowns, mountebanks, fading movie stars, and gay men and a parade of them all down Fifth Avenue, let alone the Castro or Miami Beach, is a spectacle worthy of the best of Barnum & Bailey. 

Who doesn't find these swishy, prancing, do-dadded, tricked out men hilarious?  Or the gold-grilled, dreadlocked, pimp-walking ghetto bro' worthy of a carnival side show? Or the uppity, high-shelved ghetto ho' turned politician running for office, a caricature straight out of a Reconstruction era Georgia legislature cartoon. 

Are there any Bernie Sanders in Renoir's The Boating Party or Fellini's La Dolce Vita? Where are their harems, their darkly beautiful women from The Arabian Nights?  Sanders does not want to be Sultan Ahmed living in sybaritic bliss, fed sweetmeats by Turkish courtesans, the Shahs of Persia living in unimaginable luxury, or the Ptolemies of Imperial Egypt. 

He wants to be Cotton Mather - or better yet the Potter and Putnam clerics who presided over the Salem witch trials.  Pleasure is for the weak, the uninspired - men of desultory morals with the will of sheep. 

If there could possibly be any more reason to hate Donald Trump, it is this.  He is a man of outsized appetites, a man of glitz, glamour, yachts, and arm candy.  A squire of beautiful women, a man of virility, confidence, and unalloyed sybaritic desires  

Not only has he razed the federal bureaucracy, depriving Americans of their caretakers; not only has he closed the borders to worth, destitute political refugees; and not only has he rolled back the most significant social advances in modern history; and not only is he a lowbrow, bourgeois pig...he is serious about nothing, nothing at all. 

Life is a jamboree, says the President, not Hobbes's short, brutal, and ugly affair.  It is an act to be enjoyed.  'Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we die' is his meme, his ethos, his personal zeitgeist; and who except the likes of Bernie Sanders and Elizabeth Warren are there to object?

Conservative measures to free the private market, to energize the economy, to shed restrictions on enterprise and individual achievement are the means to Jefferson's pursuit of happiness.  And the path to such happiness for those who have not yet enjoyed it need not be somber, dire, mournful, and grieving.  Enterprise, ambition, and desire are themselves happy expressions of human vitality, says the President. 

Progressives laugh at Mar-a-Lago, the President's resort-mansion, Florida White House.  'Garish, in absurd bad taste, a temple of Florentine sconces, Carrera marble, chintz and grotesque gold embroidery, a fun house of horrors'.  There are no Jewish philosophers, classical musicians, prodigies, thinkers, or reformers there.  Instead of the likes of Gompers, Lafollette, and Brandeis there are only blonde bimbos, tarts, and Las Vegas prima donnas. 

Rebecca winced at the images of the Trump White House ballroom, the triumphal Trump arch, the makeover of the Kennedy Center and the Field of Heroes.  She could not believe that so many Americans voted for this boor, this Candyland fool, a caricature of all that was holy and sacred; but there he was for a second term, unbridled, vengeful, and seemingly unstoppable in his rush to quash every sensible progressive notion which preceded him. 

Donald Trump is the first real American president - a man of glitz, arm candy, and bourgeois glamour; a man of Hollywood, Las Vegas, and the streets of New York.  A brawler, a snake oil salesman, a vaudevillian.  In other words, one of us. 

He is the first president to understand and embody our deliberately illogical preferences, our passionate anti-intellectual populism, and our anti-establishment rectitude. Issues never mattered for either him or his supporters.  No logic, issues, or moderation.  The way forward was visceral and absolute.  There was no on the one hand, on the other dispassionate consideration. 

Progressives hate Trump's America for all its lowbrow instincts. They hate every sequin, every strand of tinsel, every waft of cheap perfume, every high-bosomed line dancer, ever bit of glitter.  They do not hate Trump because of his alleged and presumed crimes and misdemeanors, but because of who he is.  

He has had all they ever wanted - wealth, women, yachts, and la dolce vita.  They, squirreled away in their carrels, on marches, in conferences, and in confessionals, have had none of it and can only dream of such abandon.  A life of good causes is dire, gloomy, and dark. 

Not only has Trump reset the compass and returned the country to its originalist conservative bearings; and not only has he acted on his reformist principles, but he has brought back the American spirit of optimism, delight, and universal ambition that was lost during the dark, morose days of the former President. 

Folly, Fancy, And Food - Cuisine, The Idle Pastime, A Tale Of The Conversion Of A Foodie

Henry Badger had grown up on meat and potatoes, Mom's pot roast, canned peas, and peach cobbler. Dinner was part of the day no different from getting up, milking the cows, chasing the crows from the corn, and wringing the necks of chickens.  It was filling, welcome, and plentiful, a hearty meal for the family - sustenance, replenishment. 

He never thought twice about making more of food than it was until he left Ohio for the East where the mix of Jews, Italians and a raft of other immigrants introduced him to fettucine, lox, tacos, and innards.  It seemed like these foreigners ate everything that crawled.  A colleague told him of his first trip to rural Africa where when served a plate of unrecognizable food, was told it was bush meat - field rat, monkey, snake, bat.  'If you can catch it, you eat it', his African companion added. 

This is what it was like for Henry Badger from Bolivar, Ohio, small farm community which had neither the time, the interest, or the resources for anything other than what grew or was raised on the farm.  This array of unidentifiable ethnic foods was indeed bush meat. 

The same colleague had been invited out for dinner and dancing in the neighborhoods of Kinshasa.  Food was cooked in large cauldrons, scooped up by bandanaed mamas and heaped onto palm leaves. 'It looked like caterpillars', he said, lost in the bubbling sauce but floating to the top, netted and served; and so it was that Henry picked and poked at the food he found everywhere until he got used to the surprise and began to differentiate.  

It was all strange but in a way tempting.  Taste buds that had never been challenged by anything more than boiled meat and mashed potatoes suddenly were exposed to sweet, sour, bitter, salty, and acid sometimes together in mystifying but satisfying combinations. 

A foodie was born.  Food became artistry, innovation, uniqueness, and near ecstasy.  Where had he been all his life? Why had such Persian, Tuscan, Anatolian, and Greek delights not made it to his Bolivar, Ohio table? Squid, octopus, branzino, mahi mahi, and tile fish were on sale at the Grand Street fish market and Washington state oysters and Maine mussels next door.  The charcuterie on Hudson Street had foie gras, cervelle, and sweetbreads. 

The preparation and presentation of these foods was not simple - a Bolivar three-sectioned meal, ingredients partitioned, separated for space and convenience.  These foods were plated architecturally with height, dimension, and proportion.  They were garnished with springs of green shoots, fruit coulis, and an assortment of grains, nuts, and berries.  An artist's palette, a display of food rather than a meal. 

As he earned more - intern, adjunct, associate, then junior partner - he was able to afford more and was soon known as a connoisseur - a man who frequented the best restaurants with the most innovative chefs, the most interesting wine list, and a variety of dishes blending unusual traditions from Asia, Europe, and the Americas. 

By and by he furnished his kitchen with the most sophisticated five-star equipment, and began to prepare his own dishes.  He cruised the New York markets from the Upper West Side to Houston Street, meeting and greeting purveyors of the finest and most sought-after products and ingredients.  In a short time, her was a master of cuisine, knowledgeable about wine, expert in terroir, merroir, and climate. 

He foraged New Hampshire tide pools, Georgia marshes, and South Carolina low country wetlands and created dishes that were of the land but confected into his own creations.  His home became a salon for food sophisticates where the talk was of Azerbaijani, Kazakh, and Faroe Island cuisine. The conversation was diverse, high-toned, and deep. 

The farm boy from Bolivar, Ohio had been transformed - so much so that he felt he had come from another planet. Food - cuisine - had taken the boy out of Ohio never to return. 

Or so he thought.  One day as he was curating freshly foraged sea grass and periwinkles a la Rene Redzepi, deciding on their geometric arrangement, he was distracted - disturbed for a moment, his fingers delicately holding periwinkle, poised above a plate already artfully presented and arrayed.  

He sucked the tiny morsel of flesh out of its shell, opened the refrigerator, looking for that something that had disturbed him, and found nothing but odds and ends - devices, grommets, mini-hinges and bolts.  There was nothing to eat, snacking had become passe, an appetite intruder, an unwanted filler; but that niggling phantom of a thought had something to do with the growling hunger in his stomach.  His creations, as artistic and tastefully presented, as curiously inventive as they were, left one empty.  An hour of looking at Rothko and Miro and leaving the museum wanting Raphael. 

It was not an epiphanic moment nor anything like it.  The clouds did not part and he did not see Norman Rockwell's painting of a farm family's Thanksgiving dinner and did not go immediately back to basics, but something changed as he looked into his Bosch three story, deeply dimensioned appliance and saw nothing to eat - Rothko's tubes of cerulean and ochre. 

The meal went well, applause all around, especially for the periwinkle sea gras first course.  The conversation was lively and congenial but rarely strayed from food and wine. His table had become an altar, his kitchen a sanctuary, and his living room the nave. The scene was like Renoir's Boating Party but without the lambency, the pure, relaxed enjoyment of the simple food, the summer evening, the women, and the company.  It was an ironic inversion, a distortion, an intrusion. 

Again, Henry did not rush over to Zabar's for a pastrami on rye - again, epiphanies are for novels - but the refrigerator moment became amplified and again, borrowing from a Victorian novel, a metaphor for what he had become. An idler. 

Change is rarely abrupt, and so the reversion of Henry Badger back to meat and potatoes was gradual.  Little by little there was divestiture - the Bosch refrigerator and the Viking stove went on offer on eBay, the hours of foraging and cruising open markets became desultory and insignificant.  He made more trips home to Bolivar. 

Some people who grew up in a a time and place of simple food wonder how they got along without balsamic vinegar, Vietnamese fish sauce, harissa, tahini, and cold pressed olive oil; but these things simply crowded out the basics with which everyone was happy. They were clutter, unnecessary add-ons, displacement of essentials with nonessentials. 

Not only did Henry resign from haute cuisine, he left New York, another metaphor for his retraction from upscale clutter.  He didn't go back to Bolivar - that would have been a stretch - but he did move to somewhere smaller, more livable, and above all uncluttered.