The Bloody Rose

Disclaimer: This is a story. My way of relieving stress before finals. Thanks.

Old, musty brick covered in the dust of cement and construction-work, a brown dilapidated building doing its best to stay tall and strong. I admired it for that as I ducked beneath an ancient clothes-line which mysteriously contained long shreds of what had once been long underwear flapping in the wind. I knocked at the door, peered through the dusty glass plate, and made out the figure of a kind-looking man with bewildered brown eyes. He carefully walked toward the door and opened it.

“Hello. What can I do for you?” he asked politely.

“I understand this is a shop?”

He swept his hand toward the cluttered shelves behind him. I noticed a stuffed parakeet, an emerald ring, a spread of various stained fabrics, a shiny red India rubber ball, a distinguished-looking Bible, and several other odds and ends on the one immediately to his right. I smiled.

“Yes, this is perfect,” I answered. He stepped aside to let me enter. Settling his pince-nez back onto his nose, he sat down at the bench, studying the cluttered table in search of an important manuscript. I heard him shuffling papers and coughing softly under his breath; the crackling sound of paper as he ran his hands over the aged parchment.

I decided to explore.

Clutter and disorder, scattered papers, gifts, shiny new or terribly old. This was a treasure trove of opportunities; so many things were hiding here! I found a treasure chest which contained a single glass plate, a mousetrap that shimmered iridescently, a bag of marbles, several pairs of dentures, old bottles of expired pills, a glass slipper residing on top of a mound of feathers, several dried peas, seven-league boots, various wands and scepters imposing and impressive books, and finally the costumes.

The costumes were just as rich and varied as the other items. The golden armor of the doomed Joan d’Arc, the mysterious snakes that made up Medusa’s coiffure, the single sandal of Jason, the rich robes of various kings and queens, all nestled together in a single mahogany closet. I nearly tripped over a pile of rags, only to realize that they were actually a pauper’s garments. I found five robes for the Virgin Mary, Joseph’s coat of many colors, Cinderella’s breathtaking gown, Jasmine’s sexy outfit and even several masks of beaten gold, apparently taken by tomb-robbers. I fingered the clothing, velvets and rags, the rich, sensual plush feeling as opposed to the scratchy, rough cloth that chafed my fingertips. I held the clothes close, bundled them into a kind of pillow as I thought how strange it was, how completely ludicrous, that I should have the opportunity and privilege to lie upon all the figures of history at once in this relaxed fashion. Tears prickled in my eyes, but did not fall. I was not, after all, that sentimental.

I sat upon the floor, surrounded by shoes, crowns, hats, wigs, and clothes. I was the queen apparent, ruling over my departed subjects, issuing orders to the knight who knelt beside me, smiling graciously at the leper who begged admission to my presence. I found a gown of rare beauty with intricate buckles, only to discover these were the very buckles with which Oedipus had blinded himself. I danced through the clothing and ran pieces of fabric through my fingers, wore scarves of washerwomen and ‘girls with pearl earrings’ in my hair. I fingered my earlobe as I looked at the blue and yellow confection that held my hair back, and I laughed, laughing and laughing at the beauty that was mine.

The kindly old gentleman heard my laughter and entered the back part of the store, where I was delightedly gazing at my reflection in the gothic, fantastically designed mirror. The mirror’s sides held images of deer and game running, the hunters in hot pursuit. There was a beautiful woman with a unicorn on one panel. I spared no gazes for them; I was concerned with myself and my finery; the borrowed plumage that turned the raven to a peacock.

I saw him come toward me in the reflection of the mirror. Laughing, I spoke to the mirror, and thus to him-“How I love all of this!”

His answering smile seemed to say, And how I love you, child.

“How did you come to have all this?”

“O,” he said, his craggy face splitting into a kind of smile. “I was not always as old as I now seem.”

“Were you a wizard?” I asked excitedly, tempted to believe in the miraculous, in that which defied reality.

“Not quite a wizard,” he said sadly. “Though perhaps a little like. I loved a woman, the daughter of a wizard.”

I stopped suddenly, compelled by his sadness. “Oh,” I said, and gently took his hand, creased with lines and cares; his skin worn thin and grandfatherly.

“Don’t worry, child,” he smiled at me. “It was a long time ago.”

“Do tell me!” I said, fascinated. “I’m an avid listener.”

He laughed. “Well, I suppose you are,” he said. “Perhaps I shall tell you. Perhaps I shall.”

He bid me be seated on the cushions that scattered the floor, though I pulled several of the costumes toward me as well. I was wearing a ballerina’s costume, a delicate creation all of white, with a large tutu made of tulle. The bodice was speckled with small diamonds, and the leotard was sleeveless. I had attached the crown of white flowers to my hair, and I looked like a lost princess in my finery. Beautiful white ballet slippers encased my feet, though they did not hurt as I had decided not to be en pointe.

I smiled up at him with my large brown eyes, my brown curls tumbling down my back, and he looked at me thoughtfully, sadly, as though touched by tragedy. “I knew that ballerina,” he said. “You do her honor by wearing that costume.”

“Tell me!” I cried, breathless with anticipation. “Tell me your story?”

“I believe I shall,” he said. After pouring himself a mug of tea, and settling himself in a convenient rocking-chair, he began to tell me.

*

I was not always as old as you see me, child. I was once a young man, foolish, naïve, infatuated with the world and all that it meant to me, a prince of the realm. For I was a prince. A prince of the ancient world, a prince of Atlantis, that lost city that disappeared into the darkness of the water. In the days that Atlantis existed- o! There was no city to compare to it; no island half as beautiful. We were the pinnacle of existence, of society, of beauty. I had been raised with all the qualities of the learned man- raised to read, to speak, to dress, to converse, to act in all ways the gentleman. I was a prince and a man, and though raised with all these delicate graces, I was not satisfied. I am a man, as I have said, and so I lusted after things- lusted after knowledge that was forbidden me, lusted after that which could not be mine.

I had been betrothed, you see, to a maiden whom I thought I could never love. I was a sulky, petulant boy, a prince of a boy, and as I’ve said, my graces were to some extent a sham. Moody, cynical, opinionated, I could not think well of my parent’s views. I was certain they had chosen some pitiful flower of a princess for me; that I would suffer for it. She came to meet me and greet me. She was exquisite. Black hair, black hair swept upward and pinned to her hair with a glittering butterfly. Her eyes were fiery, persuasive, passionate. I hated her. I thought at once that she was a fool, that for all her beauty I would have to court and woo a fool.

Of course she was not. In fact, she played a great trick on me- I will never forgive her for it! She had a maid, also beautiful, a girl with a grace and art that escapes most women. Her hair was golden and her eyes blue, and she worked in the scullery. Of course, I did not know this girl was her creature. I thought, as all would think, that she was a mere scullery maid. As a prince, I decided I would have her- to defy my parents, to defy the realm, to defy any and all who would have me marry a woman I knew I could not love. It is easy to win the love of a scullery maid. Flowers, chocolates, roses and the like- what else could she desire? But she tormented me! Oh, she would evade me; she played the elusive flirt. I would corner her in flowerbeds and she would smile monstrously up at me with her golden hair and grace, turn on her heel and flee. I swore I would have her. At last, tired of waiting, I commanded her to attend me in my bedroom that night. She paled, but agreed.

Of course, this entire time, I believed that I had been making a fool of my betrothed, perhaps had forced her to realize that I could never love or respect her, and hence she had best leave. I had no idea that my scullery maid was in her employ. That night, I left the door to my chamber unlocked. I stood near the tower window, the picture of a moody prince. O’ how I laugh to remember it now! My long hair blowing in the wind, my eyes dark, my brows furrowed, staring into the darkness. I heard the creak as the door opened. I did not turn. At last she stood behind me, her tender hands upon my shoulders. I smiled. “You capitulate, then?” I asked without turning.

“No.”

The voice was queenly, beautiful, deeply rich and throaty. I turned to see my scullery maid, only to realize it was my betrothed who had entered the room. Her hair was unbound, long and black, trailing down her back. She was in a night-dress, all in white. She was tall and regal and proud; all that I was not. She would never have tried to shame me in front of her people. I stood chastised.

“Madame,” I said, and bowed low to her.

“Sir,” she answered, but did not curtsy.

“What, Madame,” I said, turning back to the window, “is the meaning of this?”

“Why,” she said coyly, “I believe you invited my lady-in-waiting to attend you tonight, and I came to explain why that could not be.”

“Your lady-in-waiting?” I exclaimed.

Her smile was beautiful. “Of course. You did not know?”

“I should bloody well think not!” I said, embarrassed, my face flushed in the light of my own stupidity.

“Ah,” she said, and moved closer to the window. “Perhaps you could explain to me what you find so distasteful about the prospect of our union?”

“Distasteful!” I spluttered. “Why, Madame, you have the nerve to ask that while you attend me- here-in my bedchamber- when we are not yet wed!”

“At your command,” she pointedly said. “Rather, to defend my maidservant.”

I blushed a deeper red. “It is no sin to woo a maidservant.”

“Even when your betrothed is in the castle?”

I heard her voice falter a little. Could it be? Perhaps she was not made of stone. I looked into her eyes, fiery eyes that flamed as though she were the blood of fae-creatures, and noticed a little crack, a little shard of hurt. In an instant, all the remorse and regret in the world flooded through me, and I fell at her feet.

“I have hurt you, my lady,” I said. “I see that I have hurt you.”

“It is no matter,” she said, her hand lightly brushing away my apologies.

“No, no, it matters-“ I said. “I am- I was- not less than a moment ago I was a boy, with all a boy’s stupidities and confidences. Now I am a man, and I am sorry for your hurt- I am sorry for what I have done you.” I drew myself up, confident, and reached for my sword, the sword that stood ever-ready near my bed. “I pledge to you,” I swore, “upon this sword, that I will wed, marry and love you should you allow me the honor, and never think of anyone but you.”

It should have been ridiculous; I in my night-shirt, a raw youth, she in her night-dress. But the gesture was made with honorable intentions, and she accepted it as such. She bent and kissed the blade. “With this kiss I do mark thee true,” she said, looking at the blade, but I knew she meant me.

She glided out of the room and left me to a sleepless night as I thought over what I had done and said and what I ought to have done. The next day I resolved to treat her with all the kindness I had sworn to give her. She was, after all, mine. No one else would have her or touch her. With this possessive thought, I turned upon my pillow and fell promptly asleep.

I awoke to the sun’s rays across my face, an uncomfortable sensation rather than an accustomed pleasant one. My immediate thought was of the night before, and as my servants attended me, I looked upon my sword, musing on the promise I had made. I thought I would amuse my betrothed today, perhaps take her to the gardens, show her the wonders of Atlantis. For this day, I would endeavor to be everything that I should have been to her from the moment she arrived.

As I lightly stepped down the stairs, I heard an urgent voice calling for me. “My lord Prince!” a messenger cried, urgently running up the stairs, panting as he did so. “My lord Prince!”

“Stay!” I commanded, and bid him be seated, although I yet stood. He sat upon the steps and struggled to catch his breath. When he was not yet recovered he stood up and with great agitation exclaimed, “Your brother, my Prince!”

“What of him?” I asked, scornful. My younger brother was a willful, capricious man, someone whose actions did not generally impress or concern me.

“He has claimed the kingdom! He makes war on you now- he does not call it war, but war it is. His servants run before him in the streets and proclaim him king. He scatters largess and the crowds follow in his wake, suffused in admiration. He claims your betrothed as his own. No one has dared inform the king and queen of his actions- we are terrified, my lord.”

I had stood in a kind of stupor while I heard these words. Only when he mentioned that my brother desired my betrothed did I stir, anger growing in my heart. “He claims what is mine so that he may destroy it!” I exclaimed, then paused. “He claims my bride.”

“My lord, I fear it is so,” the messenger answered. “I grieve to have brought you such news.”

“Do not grieve,” I said absently. “I must go to my lord Father and lady Mother. They must be informed of what is to come.”

I quickly started outside, walking through the jewel-encrusted pillars and past the bazaar. Hawkers, peddlers and merchants mingled there; the stink of sweat and the aroma of spices mixed enticingly in the air. I heard shouts and cries, saw the rich fabric that covered their booths and tents, observed our beautiful women dancing in the streets for coin. And yet none of this held pleasure for me. I walked steadily, my mind racing. What to do? What action to take? How to defend against my brother?

I fingered the bracelet on my wrist, made of overlapping links of gold. It shone against my brown, sun-kissed skin. It was the bracelet of authority, the mark of the true prince. It was both a bracelet and a chain, for it was meant to suggest the yoke of authority and responsibility I bore, the responsibility I must have for my people. All my decisions must be for their good.

I knew my brother would not care for the people. He desired only power, the trappings of kingship without the responsibilities. He was the kind of man who would take from the people but would not give back, would order all that was lush and beautiful and golden to be given to him, offer promises and repay them with harsh, cruel actions. I dared not allow him command of my kingdom. He would not have my bride.

Startled from my reverie, I awoke to the sound of trumpets as I was announced and introduced. I knelt before my lord Father. “Father,” I said gravely. I turned to my Mother and bowed. “Mother. I bring ill news.”

My father looked shaken and torn, suddenly old, the simple gold circlet he wore a heavy burden upon his head. My mother looked frightened. “We know the news, son. It is worse than we thought.”

She motioned me forward. I could then see the scroll of parchment they held, fine parchment with beautiful blue writing. I leaned over my father’s shoulder in order to see the words better.

‘The True King, Adonijah, bids Atlasian to submit to his will and bring him his betrothed to make his, Adonijah’s, own bride. The True King, Adonijah, commands his father and mother to offer their support and love in all his endeavors, and to anoint and accept him as king. He has something very precious to offer them should they join him in this endeavor.”

My mother’s face was white. “He has Sarai.”

“Sarai!” I exclaimed, and my face darkened. “She is only a child! Our sister!”

“He has threatened,” my father continued brokenly, “to kill her if we do not submit.”

“Surely he will not make good that threat,” I countered. “All the realm would know him for a child-killer. No one would accept a child-killer as king. We will rescue Sarai.” I looked at their faces and read their fear. “We must try,” I said firmly. “We cannot abandon our people into Adonijah’s hands.”

“Atlasian,” my mother said, and her hands shook, “they have chosen him over us.”

“It cannot be!” I said, shocked. “It cannot be!”

I looked around the room for a moment. Then I saw it, what I had not seen before- how abandoned it was. The room was in disorder, but I had set that down to the news of the moment; perhaps my father had become angry and thrown the objects about or anxiously juggled them from hand to hand, frustrated. I had not noticed the dust on the walls, the darkened look, the lack of fresh flowers or rushes.

“What is the meaning of this?” I asked, my tone dark.

“The servants have left us for him,” my mother answered.

“The servants?” I asked, wholly confused. “What use has Adonijah for servants? What use can he have for our people? What of the messenger who came for me?”

“That messenger,” my father answered, “is one of the few men yet loyal to us. Adonijah has taken our servants, our guards, our very people. It is a well-planned move; no rash or stupid action. He has thought this over, determined the best way to bribe men, to promise them riches and lavish feasts beyond our dreams. We cannot win them back.”

“Are you telling me,” I asked in horror, “that we must submit?”

“I would not tell you this,” my father answered, tears forming in his eyes, “but for the fact that he has Sarai.”

Sarai was a darling child, a golden girl. Her hair was long and thick, curly and beautiful, her eyes brown and shaped like almonds. Her skin was dewy, touched by the sun. Her laugh was young and sweet; her hands and feet small and delicate. She was a precious child, had done no wrong. Surely she must have trusted her brother when he asked her to come with him. She may not even know that anything is wrong. And yet, he threatens to kill her.

“Have you considered an assassin?” I asked calmly.

“He is surrounded,” my father answered. “Besides, I will not have them kill my son.”

“It is your son or your daughter,” I answered firmly.

His eyes were lit with a strange glow. “It will not be my son.”

My mother began to weep, and I realized that all was lost. “Submit if you must,” I said, my face growing warm with anger at their lack of courage, “but give me time. I must take those few men who are still loyal to me and plan an attack, some way to infiltrate his castle and overthrow him. Buy me time.” My voice was pointed, sharp like a dagger. I was angry, but I tried not to show it. “And I must keep Yasmine safe. Where is she?”

“Here,” she answered, and padded softly into the room. She wore the garb of an Arabian princess in the style of our women; the shining embroidery glittering on her otherwise white trousers, her shoes pointed upward and made of gold. Her eyes were lined with kohl; her lips red, and a small diadem rested on her head. She had bound her long black hair up so that it formed a circular crown about her head. A golden sash was cinched around her waist; there was a small sheath for a dagger, and she wore the traditional ring on her finger, the one which held the original poison with which our first princess had drugged the evil Vizier.

“Yasmine,” I said, and bowed. “Please walk with me.”

“I will be honored, Atlasian.” She dipped her head low, then signaled her maidservants. “Follow me at a distance,” she commanded.

I took her to the golden gardens, where I paced as I looked at the sparkling fountains, the cool water playfully jumping from one basin to the next. “You have heard,” I said, and bowed my head.

“I have heard,” she said, and gently raised my chin so that she looked into my eyes. “I have heard, and I have planned.”

“Planned?” I asked, astonished. “What could you possibly have planned?”

“You will take me to Adonijah,” she said quietly. “I will be your sacrifice.” She stilled my lips with a finger as I began to protest. “He will imagine he is safe with me. How could a woman disarm him? I will play the part. He will find me obedient, serviceable, willing and docile. I shall await my opportunity. I will help Sarai escape. And I will assassinate your brother.”

I looked at her, admiration in my gaze. “A brave plan, Yasmine,” I answered, “but I will not let you do it. You underestimate my brother if you think he will be so easily swayed. You cannot know him as I do. He will force you to prove your devotion, and prove it again and again and again.”

“Yes,” she answered, agreeing with me. “And that will be your torment. But it must be.”

I nearly choked. She understood- she understood what she was saying. “You are telling me you will let my brother wed you.” My tone was dangerous.

She was silent, her eyes simply looking into mine, neither confirming nor denying that it was true.

“You are telling me that you will allow my brother to have you, to make you happy, to act as a husband to you in all the ways that he desires. As well give him the kingdom! Are you mad? Do you mean to ingratiate yourself with me by perpetrating this humiliation, this treason? Do you think I can stand it?”

“You must stand it,” she answered. “You will stand it because you will realize I am betrothed only to you. No matter what I must say, or am forced to do, I am yours.”

I was pacing now, my hands angry and moving, twisting at the air. “This is not a woman’s war,” I said. “I will not allow you to do it. I will not have you used. I will not have you sacrificed.”

“You have no other hope.”

Frantically, I wracked my brains. It could not be. It must not be. She could not be his, his, to lie with him, to run her fingers through his hair, to smile at him and dance for him, to act as his agent and his queen. I would not have it. “I could summon a force and march on him-“

“You know that will not work.”

“We can flee.” It went against my pride to admit this. “We can flee Atlantis, flee the island, take one of the ships with the few who remain loyal to us.”

“If we leave in disgrace, you will not forget it.”

“Oh, and this I will forget?” I looked at her again. “I cannot allow it.”

“Atlasian. You have no choice.”

I did not have a choice. I could not see another way. “What will you do if there is no opportunity? What will you do if he bids you wed him, and you cannot find a way to kill him?”
“Why, I suppose I shall live with him for a time, and then I shall die.”

“Die?” I pounced on the word, anxious for hope.

“Certainly. I would not live if I did not keep my word.” She turned away, the sun glittering on her hair. “Come. Arrange for my retinue.”

Wordlessly, I followed.

I am ashamed to admit it to you, but in a way I was relieved. I knew I did not have the men to face my brother, and I thought that perhaps she would succeed in her mission. I personally brought her to my brother. When he saw me, he laughed. My sister Sarai knelt at his throne, bathing his feet and laughing. She did not understand the danger she was in. Yasmine entered, all elegance, fire and steel and mystery. She breathed a kind of calm that I knew to be dangerous, but my brother took for submission.

“Oh, and you are come, are you!” he exclaimed, running his hand over his black beard. He was a strong man, muscular and well-built. “Well, Atlasian, I am glad you see the sense in this. Come forward, my beautiful bride.”

Yasmine took a step toward him, and knelt coolly at his feet. I struggled to keep the grimace from my face.

“Up, my sweet,” Adonijah said, motioning her upwards. “Come closer.” He looked upon her face, her exquisite eyes, stroked her hair. “Ah, you’ll do,” he said, and smiled, a wolf’s smile, possessive and covetous. “You’ll do very well.” He laughed appreciatively as he motioned to his guards. “What do you think of your Queen?”

The men smiled. I saw their eyes as they looked at her, and I wanted to kill them.

“Yasmine,” he said, and her name sounded strange on his tongue. “Yasmine, you are mine now. What have you to say to that?”

“I am pleased my lord is satisfied with me,” she answered coolly and correctly.

“Did you ever hear such an answer!” he exclaimed in wonder. “Why, I am not satisfied with you, I am madly in love with you.” He looked once again toward his guards. “Am I not, my men?” and smiled. Oh, Adonijah was the darling of the people, a brave and handsome man, a man of power and strength. I felt bitter as I witnessed the power of their regard for him.

“She’s a beautiful Queen, my lord,” one of the men said boldly, and Adonijah laughed.

“That she is,” he answered. “Perhaps one day I shall have you look upon her charms, so that you may judge them and see that she is fairer than any other.” I gritted my teeth. “But that day is not yet come, my sweet,” he said, slyly looking at Yasmine to see if he had shocked her. She had not reacted at all. Her face was calm, controlled, expressionless.

“I know we are not yet married,” he said, “but I desire for you to give me a favor.”

“A favor, my lord?” Yasmine answered thoughtfully. She offered up one wrist and her handmaiden began to untie the golden ribbons that laced around it.

“No, no, not that kind of favor,” Adonijah answered. “I desire a kiss.”

In public? I almost roared. We did not shame our women that way, never demonstrated intimacy in public. I watched as Yasmine stepped forward and Adonijah swept her into his lap. He kissed her soundly, and I was forced to watch. If this was feigned, it was artfully done. I could not tell. My insides roiled as I watched her, and I struggled to be calm when Adonijah released her. I knew this was part of his show of power. She was truly his.

I cursed myself for acceding to her plan, and wondered how to extricate myself from it.

“Atlasian,” he commanded. “I ought to arrest you and imprison you. But as you have no men,” he laughed, “I see no purpose to it. You may, if you like, enjoy my hospitality here, or, if you desire, you may return to comfort our parents.”

“I would remain with my parents.” I would not call him ‘lord.’

“Atlasian, I am king now. Kindly refer to me as such.”

“I would remain with my parents, king.” It cost me to say it. Perhaps it cost too much.

“Very well.” He clapped his hands. “Let no one say the king is not benevolent.” A servant stepped forward with a small chest, filled to the brim with priceless treasures, rubies and emeralds, ropes of silver and gold. “A small token of my thanks,” he said. “You have made this decidedly less bloody than it could have been, and prevented me from engaging in the act of fratricide, cursed by the gods.”

I bowed stiffly.

“You may go, brother,” he said, and turned back to Yasmine. I saw him caress her, his arm slowly moving along her shoulder, his hand resting lightly on the arch of her back. I turned away and shuddered.

After at time, I grew accustomed to them. I saw Adonijah and Yasmine walking, arm in arm, giving each other looks that spoke of a love that ought to have been mine. I saw Sarai running playfully in their wake, dancing through the streets. I saw him court her; I saw him woo the bride who was mine. I saw it all, and I remained silent, thinking, as ever, that she would keep her word, that she would slay him.

I remained with my parents in the other castle, and did what I could to govern the realm. As Adonijah had not yet completely assumed leadership, he left this largely to us. His plan now was to make an exhibit of himself, to parade proudly through the city with Yasmine on his arm, dangerous and beautiful. He allowed her to walk armed because it pleased him to say that he did not fear a woman. He permitted Sarai to see our parents, but only in his presence. He would not allow them to keep her.

I tried once to whisper to her that she must try to escape if she could. Her eyes became very wide and she looked up at me sorrowfully. “How can you say such a thing, Atlasian!” she exclaimed. “To run from my brother, the True King!”

I had not realized how much he had influenced her, and made her swear, though it pained her, to keep this conversation from Adonijah. She thought perhaps to reunite us; she could not realize what he had done. Her eyes were wide with astonishment and disillusionment, and it angered me that I was the one who had brought this to her; that to her, as to everyone else, Adonijah was the golden man, the one who could do no wrong.

It pained me to see him with Yasmine. I think he knew it, though I struggled to hide it. He would come near me; if he saw me in the market he would hail me and bid me pay my respects. I would kneel to him and simultaneously swear to release Yasmine, somehow, some way. He was driving me mad.

I was forced to attend their wedding. It was a magnificent affair, involving the whole of the kingdom and many foreigners who came, bearing rich gifts and royal promises. The wedding was held outside, in the crystal gardens. Each leaf was carved of crystal, glittering and sparkling in the sun. All was translucent, transparent, tinged with the rainbow light that was its beauty. Amidst this grandeur, all would have been near-blinded, if not for the beautiful canopy that had been specially constructed to house the guests. Made of cloth interwoven with crystal and gems, it was supported by four black pillars, made of the most precious obsidian. There was a podium, where the King and Queen would meet and seal the marriage.

We were seated in chairs of stone, inlaid with mother-of-pearl and opal. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. Someone had seen to it that I was near the front of the room, able to bear witness to all. I heard an unearthly choir, the sounds of the angels perhaps, singing in terrible unison. The musicians played, and the King emerged.

Adonijah wore cloth-of-gold and black, the traditional marriage garments. He carried a tiara and a ring, each of which were made of three types of gold- the white color, the yellow, and the dark, brassy one. The three were united to demonstrate the strength of the marriage. He stood, serious, impressive, a grave expression on his face, looking to the crowd. Cheers and shouts went up and he smiled for a moment, then turned back in deference to his queen.
When she entered, I caught my breath. Adorned head to foot in vivid red cloth, she was an enchantress, her hair unbound and wavy, a single ruby around her throat. Her maidens had placed small rubies at the corners of her eyes as well, almost as though she wept blood. Her hands were bare but for one large ring, also with a ruby in the center, but her anklets were of gold. She wore only thin golden slippers as she walked, staidly and sedately, toward Adonijah, who was visibly moved.

They began the ceremony. I was fascinated, felt that I must watch although it hurt me, pained me beyond expression. I watched them seal the marriage. I watched as she raised the cup of ceremonial wine to her lips. And then, quicker than could have been expected, so that I was the only one who saw, she twisted her ruby ring for a moment. I saw a small stream of powder slip inside the cup. Of course. If he died now, she could claim the gods themselves had struck him down, had prevented the marriage. She kissed the rim of the cup and handed it to Adonijah.

He raised it to his lips, smiling—then dashed it to the ground. His eyes were cruel for a moment, and I knew, I knew, that despite the care she had taken, he had seen it too. “I find that I need no wine to dizzy me with desire,” he announced sweetly, but I saw his lips curve as he contemplated his savage revenge. I knew I had to save her.

I stepped forward. Her eyes were on me, quick as a cat’s, savage. Her lips formed a single word, quickly, quickly, but it was clear- No. She forbade it. She had failed, but she would find another way.

I did not care. I stepped forward. “I protest this marriage,” I exclaimed. “I protest it.” I was half-mad by now, too frightened for Yasmine to care what I did next. I drew my sword and made for my brother. “To me!” I heard him call, saw him clutch Yasmine closer to him. I felt strong arms around me, and then I could not see, could not think, could not breathe. I continued to move forward but felt another person reach for my hands. I stabbed upward and felt the blade connect. I heard a horrible groan. Then darkness, and I knew no more.

*

“Well, brother.”

I awoke in chains, inside of a cold dungeon. My brother looked at me malevolently, still in all his finery. “So she was your accomplice, was she?” He smiled. “Oh, I suspected you. I knew she would not be this fickle. I knew what you were.”

I looked at him with eyes like daggers.

“No matter,” he said. “She is mine now, mine in every way that matters. And to torment you, I will bring her here. She has been told she must do whatever pleases me—or I will kill you.”

I writhed in my chains, my eyes unforgiving.

“If you close your eyes for a single moment, I will have you killed.” He clapped his hands. Yasmine entered. They had stripped her of her finery, given her only a sheet to cover her nakedness. My brother advanced on her. I thought he would hit her, and strained to prevent the blow. Instead he kissed her. I tried to turn my head away, and received a powerful slap across the face.

“You will watch,” he commanded, and his voice was icy with contempt and rage.

He forced me to act as an unwilling viewer. In my naïve, innocent manner, I told Yasmine I would rather die, begged her to stop. She did not. I told her that I hated her, that I knew she could not love me and simultaneously act as she was acting. I accused her, called her vile names. Something broke within me when I saw her so obedient, so subservient to my brother. I wanted to weep.

It was a kind of torture unlike any other. He did not physically hurt me- oh, I was bruised, but that was not the pain I felt. He did not even hurt her. He made me hate her- hate her and love her simultaneously, so that I was mad with pain and anger. I could not watch, yet I must watch. I must live. I could not live.

At last, I closed my eyes.

He laughed. “I have broken you,” he said, his voice barbaric. “Remember that I have broken you.”

He dismissed Yasmine, then turned back to me.

“I have heard rumors,” he said softly. “Disquieting rumors. I have heard that Atlantis is to be destroyed, that an ocean will come and flood the island. I have heard there is a mad prophet in Athania who preaches this.”

I shook my head dumbly. This was what concerned him? The mad prophets of the world?

“I will release you. You are to go to Athania and discover this prophet. You will find out the truth of this prophecy, and what must be done to stop it. Before you go, I will brand you, so that all will know that you are mine, my emissary, a lowly servant. I will strip you of your finery. You must return to me after the period of a year, as I will ensorcell you; it is part of the brand. The brand will call to me, and to Atlantis. You are not free.”

I was too weary to think, too pained to concentrate.

He took one of my chained hands, and ordered a small table be brought. He forced my hand upon the table.

Then he reached for the brand.

It was in the shape of a rose. An iron rose that he would press against my flesh, burn upon my hand so that it would remain there forever, a rose spelled with magic so that I must return, could not control my own body. I screamed as I saw the iron, hot with fire, press against my skin. I screamed and screamed and heard his diabolical laughter as he spoke words, words I could not hear or understand. At last, I fainted.

When I awoke all I could think of was the pain. The pain, the dead heat, the scorching smell of flesh, the ruined hand. It was cruel to make it a rose, the symbol of so much beauty. I saw that he had made it beautiful; his tattoo artists had come whilst I had fainted- perhaps they had drugged me or spelled me to remain asleep- and they had made it beautiful, its petals inked deep with red, red hues. A needle had been at work within my flesh, and all I could feel was the shards of pain that remained to me, the horror that was this rose. I saw it shimmer and felt how much it longed for Atlantis. I would always feel pain upon being far from my home.

He saw me off. He gave me a beautiful ship, sea-worthy and spry, rich and spelled so that I could sail it myself. He would not give me men, for fear that I would turn them to me. People were told that I was desirous of exploring the world; none of them informed of the prophecy that spelled the end of their lives.

I was many days at sea. Tossed by the storms, the gails, the rage and wrath that was Poseidon’s anger, I existed in a half-dazed, half-dead dream state. I could feel the call for home constantly, felt the pain prickle within my flesh. I stared at my hand and hated myself, hated myself for my lack of courage, for abandoning Yasmine, for having allowed her her plan. I hated the lust for power that my brother displayed, and even hated the fact that he had spared me when I closed my eyes.

At last I reached a port. I did not know where I was, but pulled into the dock. I had grown a beard and was wearing travel-stained, grimy clothes. No one would know me for a prince. I was a fool, the son of a fool, a wandering man with little to no profession.

“Who ye be?” a gruff voice asked as I disembarked.

“I am—“ my voice was rusty with disuse. “I am Ulysses,” I answered, “son of pain.” It was the name that I had decided upon, the only name that truly fit my damned state. Ulysses, Odysseus, men of pain, a man who was parted from his wife, though she remained constant. Yasmine had not that ability, I thought, and stiffened.

“Ulysses?” he asked, and his voice was cynical. “Why, have you left your Penelope?”

“Perhaps I have, at that,” I answered, “though that’s none of your concern. Is there a tavern hereabouts?”

His wrinkled face looked up at me, cunning. “Oh, there’s a tavern, but you don’t want to be going there.”

“And why not?” I questioned.

“Why, because them who goes there is most frequently robbed and plundered, that’s why,” he answered. “My lord Atlasian.”

“You know me!” I gasped, horrified. “You know me in these rags!”

“Why, sure I know you,” he said, and stood up, throwing off his rags and cloak, revealing himself to be a strong, true man. I realized then that the wrinkles were painted on; that it was merely Ben, aged, it is true, but not nearly as old as the man who had first appeared, who had utilized these cosmetics. I saw a sword’s jeweled hilt winking at his belt, and could not help but laugh.

“Oh Ben, sweet Ben, best bard that ever was!” I exclaimed. “You know of my misfortunes?”

“That I do,” he answered, “though not of the details. I wonder what you seek?”

“I seek a man,” I answered, “a man who prophecies the destruction of Atlantis.”

“Ah,” Ben nodded sagely. “Yes, such a man I have seen, but he wanders far and wide. Come home, sup with me, my lord, though I have little. Perhaps I will be able to help you.”

“You have little?” I questioned, looking pointedly at his sword-hilt.

“Oh, that?” he laughed. He pulled out the sword, and I was shocked to realize it was merely made of wood. “Paint and gaudy jewels,” he answered. “I work in a theater now. Bard I once was, but the wandering life has grown too harsh for me, so now I work at designing costumes and practicing plays, applying myself to art. And with such a muse as I have, how could I not succeed!”

By this time we were walking; he quickly and I rapidly, striding through a town made of drab wooden houses and small cottages. “A muse?” I asked politely.

“Yes, my daughter Vanessa. You have never seen a prettier maiden,” he beheld proudly. “She is the pride of my life, my every joy. She sings and acts, but her talent is in her feet. Her dancing is…well, I need not praise her. She will, of course, perform for you.”

“Ben?” I reached forward and caught his sleeve before the door. “I do not want anyone to know who I am. I am ashamed.”

“Your brother is a wretched man,” he answered. “He ought never to have seized the throne. It will only bring him grief.”

“Grief?” I questioned in wonder.

“Come, come in,” he said, and opened the door to the wooden house. “Be seated.”

I entered. It was plain, and simply furnished, but serviceable. A single lamp hung from the ceiling, and the walls were decorated only with amateur drawings and paintings, but they were very beautiful and spoke of talent. I saw animals leaping about, hinds and harts cavorting with gazelles, trees as though in a forgotten wood, a small hut ensconced within. I was mesmerized by the paintings.

“They are beautifully rendered,” I said as he took my cloak, and sat down to his table. “You are talented.”

“Me?” he laughed. “Why, my lord, I can but sing, as you know- if you recall. You were only a lad of twelve at the time, I believe. These paintings are my daughter’s work.”

“Your daughter?” I asked, and rose to inspect them. “They are very fine,” I told him. “Very fine indeed. She has a gift.”

I heard a light step on the stairs and turned. This was Vanessa, a lithe, slender, tall woman; her hair a deep brown, soft tendrils framing her heart-shaped face. Her eyes were wonderfully expressive, deep brown as well, while her lips were full and tender. Her air was one of contemplation; as though she sought a kind of fulfillment, but did not know what it was she looked for. She wore a beautiful white leotard and white slippers; a tutu of white tulle. She was utterly unself-conscious. She was enchanting.

When she saw me she stopped in shock and I realized how I must appear- an old, sea-ravaged man, with the grime upon me and my beard, a long shock of hair framing my face. I saw her stop in dismay, her eyes turn toward Ben for assurance.

“This is my dear friend, Vanessa. He has come to dine with us.”

She smiled, a clear, delighted smile. “Then I shall be happy to have him here.” Her voice was light and musical, tinkling as a brook does when it trickles over pebbles and stones.

She set out bowls with a thin, watery soup, and I was so hungry that any food tasted good to me. I appreciated the warmth of their fire, the sweetness of our conversation. It was only the rose on my hand that called me, and that I took care to hide. Alas, as I bid Vanessa good night and moved to climb up the stairs, my sleeve fell away and she saw it.

She gasped, both in amazement and horror. Her eyes met mine; hers filled with a great deal of compassion and sorrow. “Who did that to you? Or did you do it yourself?”

“My brother,” I answered, and my voice was cold. I turned for the stairs, not caring that I had disturbed her peace, only hating myself for inflicting my presence upon such simple, kind people.

Ben did not allow me to leave, however. He had me stay, telling me that he would seek out news of the prophet. I remained there, and began to heal, began to return to myself as I once was, regain my old strength. I hired myself out for odd jobs, tended sheep, worked in a mill, learned that there was no such thing as demeaning oneself. Sometimes, Ben took me to the theater.

One time I had the privilege of attending a rehearsal. Vanessa was to perform, was to dance in a ballet. I had never seen her dance before.

For her, dancing was more natural than walking. She was exquisite, beautiful, supple and agile, lithe and kind. She floated in the air, leapt lightly and fell, dancing as though dance were her life. She spun and twisted and twirled and allowed her arms to fall beside her with a kind of helpless, terrible grace that moved me. When at last she knelt upon the floor, almost insensible, she raised her head and caught sight of me. Her eyes met mine and I felt a kind of connection, a bond that caught me and held me. I could not let go. Her eyes shone with a kind of glow that I had once known, an innocence and sharp beauty that had been beaten out of me.

I think Ben was aware of how I felt about her, and how much I tried to hide it. One day, I put my foot down, and informed Ben that I was leaving; that I must go, though he could not understand why. He bid me wait until that evening.

I went to his chamber in the evening only to find a sorcerer’s room. Magical items littered his desk; even the covers of his bed seemed to shimmer with an otherworldly sort of quality. I looked upon this in wonder and fear. I saw Ben, but shining, a glowing Ben I had never before beheld.

“Know,” he said, and his voice was both terrible and wonderful, “that I am the prophet you seek.”

At that moment, I did not know him, and stood, transfixed. His voice held power, a power that bound me to the floor and bid me listen.

“For the crimes your brother has committed, Atlantis will fall. Poseidon is angered at his excesses, at the way he sucks the land dry, bleeds his people of their wealth. He has decided to flood Atlantis, to cover it in waves and submerge it beneath the water. The riches of Atlantis, its beauty and jewels, will all be forfeit. There is nothing for you there. Better to remain here.”

At these words, the rose on my hand burned painfully, so that I almost fainted.

“Atlantis will be swallowed up. There is no saving Atlantis from its doom. You will remain here.”

There was an instant darkness that swept the room, and I was forcibly cast out, terrified and amazed. I went back to my room, half-grieving but also wild with joy. My brother, dead! My brother, submerged in the sea!

But what of the people? What of Yasmine, whom I had betrayed? What of the rose on my hand that burned and forced me to return?

I resolved to leave that very night. I began to pack my things. Under the cover of darkness, I would slip out of my room and away, toward the wharf, the pier. I could sail the ship, as it was still charmed so that one man could steer it. It was what I must do.

At dinner that night, my glance was troubled. Vanessa detected it, and rested her slender hand on mine. I felt dirty, unclean, for stealing her trust. She believed me to be good, when I knew I did not warrant that belief. I felt cruel.

It was late at night when I stole from the house. As I slung my pack across my shoulders, dressed once more in my seafaring garb, I heard a light, quick step behind me. I turned, only to see her. She was dressed in a white robe, her dark curls spilling across her shoulders. Her eyes were alive with a strange resignation and determination.

“I know,” she whispered.

“Do not try to stop me, then,” I answered. “I must return.”

“I know it all. I know who you are. I know of your Yasmine, your country, of all that you are and that you have been.”

I looked up at her in wonder, for her eyes still expressed her high regard for me. “I made it my business to know. It was not my father who betrayed you,” she continued.

“Vanessa, if you know—“ I paused. “You must know that I am forced to return.”

“What?” she asked, confused, and I saw she had not found out this piece of information.

“This rose-“ I said, “this rose upon my hand- this rose is spelled so that I must return. I do not think the charm can be broken; I doubt your father has the ability to lift such dark curses. I must, therefore, return, if only to die on Atlantis.”

“And I will go with you.” She raised her chin pointedly. “You must know that I love you.”

I had not wanted to speak the words, to make them true. “You cannot. You must not.”

“But I do.”

She was proud, her back straight and proud beneath her white robe. She had slung a pack over her shoulder and her white hand sought mine. “I love you, and my father knows I love you. I am sure he has foreseen this. He has left the choice to me.” She looked at me, and there was so much tenderness in her eyes that I thought I might break into pieces. “I choose to go with you.”

I opened my mouth to speak but she stopped me. “I know,” she said, and flushed, “that you may never love me. I know, too, that you are a prince—“

“Vanessa,” I said, and took her in my arms, “you are far, far more than I deserve.”

I spent the happiest days of my life aboard that ship. Vanessa sang to me, recited poetry for me, and I amused her in all the ways I was capable. She kissed the rose upon my hand and smoothed my hair. She told me entertaining stories, but was also able to be quiet and grave, to realize when I was moody and what that moodiness meant. She shared herself with me in more ways than I knew possible. I realized that I was being unfaithful, I knew that I had sworn to love Yasmine. And yet- and yet- now that I knew Vanessa, I could no longer value Yasmine as I once had. Her beauty, her pride, the foolish promise of a boy who thought himself a man- her sacrifice- I could not think on it without a sense of humiliation and shame to remember how much she had once hurt me.

I wanted to hide Vanessa. I wanted to steer away from Atlantis. We tried. We fought the storm, but always my tattoo remained, pulling us forward, pulling us closer to our deaths.

When we finally arrived, I bid Vanessa remain on the ship, laughingly handing her a single red rose I bought from a peddler as a token of my love until I returned. I went to confront my brother. Yasmine was twined on his lap, smiling and laughing at him. I caught her eyes, and I smiled, believing that perhaps she had found a kind of love with him. She looked at me in suspicion and tossed her hair, almost as though she wanted to bewitch me. I smiled because of how useless it was.

“Brother,” I said loudly, “I am come to tell you my news.”

He summoned me to a private chamber, where I cheerfully lied to him, informed him that the prophet had been a foolish madman and that I had killed him dutifully. My brother tugged at his beard thoughtfully, then paused.

“The rose on your hand is glowing. You are not telling the truth.”

I gathered my wits and said, “You are quite right. Here is the truth. Your barbaric actions and your tormenting me have caused your own doom. You will all die here, here upon this island, when Atlantis is flooded.’

“If that is so,” he said, “then you will die as well.”

He flung me in his dungeons, certain that I could not escape. But this time I had planned for this, had enclosed pins and masterkeys within the sleeves of my coat. I knew he would be too angry to check me properly; he would think I could not possibly have had the foresight to know my lie would be detected. I picked my locks and carefully left my cell. I made for my ship. Perhaps, perhaps, I would be able to remain a small distance away from the island, if no further, and thus save myself and Vanessa.

I climbed onto my ship. I heard noise, a kind of commotion. Shallow breaths, a gasp, an angry cry. I ran, terrified, my heart pounding. Yasmine blocked my way.

She held a knife high, and it was bloody. Her hair was unbound; her teeth gleaming and white; she wore a red shirt that fastened beneath her breasts, and her pants were black with red dragons embroidered upon them. Her face was terrible to behold, angered beyond measure.

“You swore,” she hissed, and I realized she was mad, driven mad by a bitter jealousy which I could not undo. “You swore to be true to me. You left me to your brother, to his advances and lovemaking. Do you know how he tormented me? He left poison within my reach and dared me to take it. He knew I would not. At first I told myself that it was the right thing to do, that someday I would kill him. But later, I turned cowardly. I had a good life with him. I even, perhaps, began to love him a little. I always knew that you were somewhere in the world, dying for the lack of me, loving me, returning for me.

“But you did not come. You did not come. And when you return, you do not claim me- you care nothing for me. I see it in your eyes; you are happy, happy, and happy without me.

“She-the cause of it, the cause of it! could not live. She could not live.

“What have you done?” I screamed. “Let me pass!”

I struggled with her, tore the dagger from her hand. She laughed, a terrible, high, keening laugh. I ran inside the cabin. I saw her motionless feet, I saw her lying upon the floor. She was wearing the white leotard, the beautiful white slippers. She held the rose I had given her, the single red rose, now red with her blood, the bloody rose. Little gasps escaped her lips. I gave a choked sob and knelt on the floor before her, kissing her and begging her to live. She fluttered her eyes.

“That’s right,” Yasmine jeered from the doorway. “Entreat her. Entreat her to live. Much good may it do you!” she spat.

I went wild. I ran for her and seized her by the throat. She laughed at me as she turned blue in the face, and I let go. I bodily lifted her and threw her, threw her into the sea. She laughed again, a terrible, awful laugh, and I returned to Vanessa.
I laid my hand upon the bloody rose, allowing the thorns to prick me. “Vanessa, Vanessa,” I wept brokenly. I knelt there, insensible.

I awoke to find the rose on my hand had disappeared.

The tattoo, the brand, was gone. New flesh appeared in place of the old, clean, firm skin. I stared at it in amazement, and then at the bloody rose that lay upon Vanessa’s breast. “Her love for me,” I breathed. “Her love for me. She died for me, she died, and her blood coated the rose I gave her. Her rose took the place of mine.”

I could almost see her before me, and knew what she wanted me to do. I was free, and I must get myself away. I turned to the ship and forced it to my will. I made all speed away from the island, far from Atlantis, as far as I could go. I heard a tremendous noise, a sound like thunder and hail and brimstone combined, and trembled. I witnessed the earthquake, the roiling sun. I saw the waters boil and churn, the sea turn against Atlantis. I heard the shouts and screams. I saw Yasmine’s drowned body, saw men who fruitlessly tried to command ships and escape. I watched, horrified, as the water covered my home, my former kingdom. I watched the island disappear from the world. I was present at the greatest act of destruction the world had ever seen; the utter erasure of a country because of Poseidon’s act.

And yet, all my tears were for Vanessa. I could think only of her, of her beauty and goodness, the purity of her heart. I went to her and wept, realizing that I mourned a corpse, a woman who had once lived and was now dead.

I thought perhaps that my tears might resurrect her, that my pain might bring a faint blush to her cheeks, might allow her life. But it was not to be. She had come with me, and given her life, so that I could be free.

*

He sighed. An elderly man in a rocking chair; I a young girl at his feet. Mesmerized, terrified, I knelt before him. “So much suffering,” I said softly. “So much sadness.”

He opened his eyes for a moment and saw me, looked once again upon the leotard I was wearing. “You are a child of her spirit,” he answered me. “You are the only one she has permitted to wear her leotard.”

He raised his eyes wearily to the sky. “I know she watches me. I feel her presence. How much the world has changed since the days she and I knew! I am entrusted with these possessions, these costumes and items that some dismiss as mere junk. I have gathered them from around the world. Oh, some of them are hers and Ben’s. But others…well…I have been many places and many things. Junk, they call these things! Junk! But you and I know better. We know that the costumes hold the past, that it is objects like these that spell our future. We know what it is to love, and to behold magic.”

He smiled. “My dear, I am going to her.” Pure delight crossed his face. “She has given the shop to you, as she has allowed you to wear her costume. Do not worry. You can still live with your parents; you needn’t fear. This shop will always be waiting; it cannot be seen by those who are unworthy. The people who understand, the people like you and me, will come to you.”

My eyes opened wide. I did not know if he could possibly mean what he said. To give the shop to me! For me to own the shop, to meet the people who would enter here, who could enter here…it was too incredible. I opened my eyes wide, and he met them for just a moment, his eyes twinkling. He gave a sigh, and contented, leaned back in his chair. I did not even realize he was dead at first. I thought he was only sleeping.

Fight Club

Fight Club.

Fight Club is perhaps the most fascinating movie I've ever seen.

Fight Club is such a smart movie. It's a psychedelic, disturbing, screwed up, dark picture of our present, perhaps our future. The soundtrack is fantastic. The cinematography is brilliant. Acting is superb. And the dialogue- well, the dialogue is the epitome of all dialogue.

All the futuristic books you've read; the ones with the frightening visions of the world as it could be- well, they all culminate in Fight Club.

Edward Norton is incredible in the role of the Everyman, whom we can call 'Jack' because of a notebook he finds in which organs of the body are spoken of with regard to Jack. "I am Jack's medulla oblangata," or "I am Jack's colon." Edward Norton as narrator describes himself in this pattern throughout the movie- "I am Jack's broken heart" and the like. His voice is serious, important, matter-of-fact. We listen to him because of this.

Fight Club is a movie about consumerism, identity, the corporate world, cynicism, the mundane and pointless nature of life, living and pain. It's a movie which terrifies and intrigues; a movie which fascinates and disturbs. It's based on the book by Chuck Palahnuik, which I have never read and now very much want to read.

Who are the men of this generation?

In the words of Tyler Durdan, Jack's supposed friend,"Right. We're consumers. We are by-products of a lifestyle obsession. Murder, crime, poverty-these things don't concern me. What concerns me are celebrity magazines, television with 500 channels, some guy's name on my underwear. Rogaine, Viagra, Olestra. "

Who makes up Fight Club?

"Man, I see in Fight Club, the strongest and smartest men who've ever lived. I see all this potential. And I see it squandered. God damn it, an entire generation pumping gas, waiting tables- slaves with white collars. Advertising has its taste in cars and clothes. Working jobs we hate so we can buy s--t we don't need. We're the middle children of history, man. No purpose or place. We have no Great War, no Great Depression. Our Great War's a spiritual war. Our Great Depression is our lives. We've all been raised on television to believe that one day we'd all be millionaires and movie gods and rock stars. But we won't. We're slowly learning that fact. And we're very, very pissed off."

What aren't they?

"You're not your job. You're not how much money you have in the bank. You're not the car you drive. You're not the contents of your wallet. You're not your f--g khakis. You're the all-singing, all-dancing crap of the world."

What does Tyler want them to become?

"In the world I see - you are stalking elk through the damp canyon forests around the ruins of Rockefeller Center. You'll wear leather clothes that will last you the rest of your life. You'll climb the wrist-thick kudzu vines that wrap the Sears Tower. And when you look down, you'll see tiny figures pounding corn, laying strips of venison on the empty car pool lane of some abandoned superhighway."

And what is the underlying theme of this entire philosophy?

"This...is chemical burn. It will hurt more than you have ever been burned, and you will have a scar. Stay with the pain. Don't shove to center. Look at your hand. The first soap was made from the ashes of heroes like the first monkey shot into space. Without pain, without sacrifice, we would have nothing. Stop it! This is your pain. This is your burning hand. It's right here. No! Don't deal with it the way those dead people do. Come on! No. What you're feeling is premature enlightenment. This is the greatest moment of your life, man, and you're off somewhere missing it. Shut up. Our fathers were our models for God. If our fathers bailed, what does that tell you about God? Listen to me. You have to consider the possibility that God does not like you. He never wanted you. In all probability, He hates you. This is not the worst thing that can happen. We don't need Him. F--k damnation, man. F--k redemption. We are God's unwanted children? So be it! Listen! You can run water over your hand and make it worse, or- look at me- you can use vinegar to neutralize the burn. First, you have to give up. First you have to know, not fear, know, that someday you're gonna die. It's only after we've lost everything that we're free to do anything."

Watch Fight Club. It's fantastic; there are no easy answers to the questions it raises, and it serves to complement almost every disturbing book I've ever read- Brave New World, Lord of the Flies, The Wave, A Clockwork Orange and so on and so forth. It's got it all. Mob mentality, confusion of purpose, belief in letting things go- letting everything go. Turning the world into chaos, and letting chaos, self-destruction and violence rule the world. Freeing people by killing them. Freeing people by forcing them to live when otherwise they would come up with excuses as to why they can't do the things they most want to do. This is the message for the anonymous people of the world. Your very anonymity surrounds you and protects you. You are all mediocre and average, and together you're going to do something about it.

And of course...when all this spins out of control...

You're in for the wild ride. It's the ride of your life. This is philosophy, psychology, wit, humor, mob mentality and ideology mixed together in one of the most disturbing, compelling, dark movies of our time. This is a classic. Anyone who says ideas aren't for the masses has never seen Fight Club. It should be standard viewing in various high-schools across the globe. I can see it as applying to everything from history to psychology class.

Fight Club. Welcome to Jack's life.

I'm on the radio tonight! :)

Hey people-

(for those of you who'll see this)

I'll be on the YU radio tonight at 10 (New York Time.) I have no idea what we'll be talking about as I was just asked to come out and be a cohost, so I guess we'll muddle through. *smiles*

Maybe you'll want to listen?

Ayn Rand and the Rav: On Sexual Theory

I don't think I could ever like or understand Ayn Rand- if not for the Rav, whose work tempers, corrects, and fixes her philosophy and beautifies it.

One of the most disturbing aspects of Ayn Rand, and the only one I really can't reconcile even to her black-and-white world, is her attitude regarding the relationship between men and women. Her scenes between men and women are all about posession, domination, conquering and even rape. It's disgusting and incredibly disturbing, and I think it's the one great flaw in her work. I understand what she was aiming at, but she went about it the wrong way- at least, I think so.

Consider this description of a scene between Dominique and Howard Roark of The Fountainhead:

She fought like an animal. But she made no sound. She did not call for help. She heard the echoes of her blows in a gasp of his breath, and she knew that it was a gasp of pleasure. She reached for the lamp on the dressing table. He knocked the lamp out of her hand. The crystal burst to pieces in the darkness.

He had thrown her down on the bed and she felt the blood beating in her throat, in her eyes, the hatred, the helpless terror in her blood. She felt the hatred and his hands; his hands moving over her body, the hands that broke granite. She fought in a last convulsion. Then the sudden pain shot up through her body, to her throat, and she screamed. Then she lay still.

It was an act that could be performed in tenderness, as a seal of love, or in contempt, as a symbol of humiliation and conquest. It could be the act of a lover or the act of a soldier violating an enemy woman. He did it as an act of scorn. Not as love, but as defilement. And this made her lie still and submit. One gesture of tenderness from him- and she would have remained cold, untouched by the thing done to her body. But the act of a master taking shameful, contemptuous posession of her was the kind of rapture she had wanted [...] (220)

A little later on-

They had been united in an understanding beyond the violence, beyond the deliberate obscenity of his action; had she meant less to him, he would not have taken her as he did; had he meant less to her, she would not have fought so desperately. The unrepeatable exaltation was in knowing that they both understood this.

And last-

She thought, if they knew...these people...that old life and that awed reverence before her person...I've been raped...I've been raped by some redheaded hoodlum from a stone quarry...I, Dominique Francon...Through the fierce sense of humiliation, the words gave her the same kind of pleasure she had felt in his arms. (223)

This scene never made any sense to me. It completely disgusted me and disturbed me, and I was unable to understand how it came into being. Of course, it happened to be that today I was reading Family Redeemed, which contains various essays by the Rav. The most fantastic thing happened- what I knew and sensed was described by him beautifully, evaluated, and laid aside and I can now understand both my distaste and dissatisfaction with what Rand wrote, and the remedy and correct way to go about what she was trying to prove.

What kind of a person emerges from this hedonic sexual experience? A pandemic one, vulgar and carnal! Let us not forget that this type of sexual actiivty is fraught with the demonic desire for power. I enjoy the satisfier and ipso facto I dominate it. The hedonist becomes egocentric, self-loving and self-adoring. His egotism reaches such proportions that his pleasure manifests itself not so much in the discharge of physical tension as in the knowledge that he dominates the other person who is just as dedicated exclusively to the comfort and enjoyment of the selfish self. Pleasure sensation is identical with teh exercise of power over the other person. De facto he converts the partner into an it. One of the partners becomes the master-persona and the other the slave-object, since the institution of slavery converts people into objects, personae into the neuter it. This type of dominion is distinguished by its ruthlessness and insatiability. No barriers are strong enough to stop the demonic person from engaging in his aggressive designs. He does not recognize any other existential area except his own and his liberation from all restrictions, a liberation which expresses itself in the depersonalizations of others, in transforming them into satisfiers.

[...] The best illustration of such an I-it relationship in the sexual realm can be found in the institution of prostitution. The man who avails himself of the insitution considers the woman as an object which serves one purpose only- the gratification of his need. She is an it, a satisfier, a source of animal pleasure and nothing else. At the aphrodite-pandemic level, either the he or the she forfeits personal worth and sinks into oblivion. Sexual function, if performed at the pandemic level, depersonalizes either the man or the woman under the impact of an overwhelming force with which either he or she is identified.

[...] If the sexual impulse is not redeemed and is left in its crudity, the participants in the drama are guilty of an act of mutual exploitation and vulgarization. The corruptions are interlaced and compounded with enslaving a human being, with denying him the most elementary right of personal existence. The person is depersonalized, desensitized and de-emotionalized. The climax of the hedonic sexual union is ipso facto an act of objectification of the personal, intimate and unique.

and then the redeeming notion, the elevation of sexual union-

If you should inquire as to the essence and meaning of the institution of marriage, I would say that through marriage the miraculous transition from the I-it contact to an I-thou relationship occurs. Marriage personalizes sexuality as the joint experience of the I and the thou, as a community of two individuals driven by loneliness and metaphysical despair to give up their independance and commit themselves to each other. Basically the same drive that brings man to God makes him quest for his companion. Judaism hated promiscuity in sexual life: zenut, promiscuity, is perhaps the most abhorrent phenomenon of the heathen world against which the Bible mercilessly fought, because in every form of indiscriminate sex-activity the personal moment is lost and the element of dominion emerges. The I enjoys the it. The experience is not shared with another I; it remains an isolated dreary experience, animal-like in seclusion and loneliness. The pandemic I never emerges from his hiding even though he is physically attracted by the woman.

(This is all from Family Redeemed, 89-94)

Ayn Rand was trying to differentiate between Dominique the figurine, the woman put on a pedestal and made of chiseled marble, the woman loved and courted but never truly touched, and Dominique the person feeling as a person. She thought, perhaps, that for Dominique to submit- unwillingly, have her submission wrested from her- would be fitting and demonstrate Dominique's true passion. I think, however, and it is substantiated by the Rav's view, that this only weakens Dominique. Dominique is the object, raped- that is the word she uses- by Roark. Howard Roark tears his pleasure from her, and it is at this point that many a person could lose sympathy for him. What kind of bestial egotist over-man is he? Rand loses the reader's sympathies here, when she goes in for some kind of sado-masochistic dominating relationship over Dominique. She does the same with Dagny and John Galt, possibly all of her heroes and heroines. Her theory of sexual love is truly sick, a perversion- in the same way that Dominique almost dying and killing herself for Roark is wrong, and does not demonstrate her love for him.

The Rav has the right of it- the marriage union describes the I-thou relationship rather than the I-it relationship. Dominique sacrifices all she is for Roark. She puts him up on a pedestal, almost worships him, rather than becoming his partner. She is not a partner or help-mate; she is a worshipper, someone who exists merely to help him to get to his goal, she is a possesion and though it is true that she can leave the one man for the other- she is posessed by Roark, while she dominates all her other relationships. Dominique never becomes Roark's equal-only someone willing to sacrifice for him, someone willing to be dominated. We admire Roark's sense of himself as creator, and we admire Dominique for finally allowing the world to destroy both her and Roark rather than destroying him herself, but it is difficult to admire Dominique- or Dagny- in their own right.

And this, I think, is the root of the problem and the reason why.

Perhaps it is all a subtle mockery, with our understanding leading us to read Howard Roark and Dominique as a tragic couple, and even though they win and are correct; they are still coupled in that tragedy of never being equals- but I think this would be beyond Ayn Rand and her bleak sureties. Perhaps in my revisionist reading of the book...

Rabbi Soloveitchik's philosphy in opposition to and complementing Ayn Rand's works is fantastic. I don't think anyone (who has the ability and the knowledge) should read her books without reading the Rav; in and of themselves her books can only be frustrating and disturbing.

But with his critique...her books are fascinating- because I wouldn't have understood what the Rav was saying if not for reading that scene, and wouldn't have understood why precisely that scene disgusted me so much without his differentiaton between the relationship of the I-it and the I-thou.

And so everything works together...Torah u'Madda, at its best.

Little Children: The Pedophile as Human

The movie Little Children is about humanity.

It's about humanity in all its forms- the lust for life, the drive to conquer, passion, responsibility, and shedding that responsibility. It's about mistakes and errors, about judgement- of the community, of society, of the individual. It's a movie that's disturbing and beautiful and eerie, the kind of movie that won't let you go. It's the movie that I'm still thinking about, even though I saw it over a month ago. It's probably the best movie of the year.

Little Children is about the hunger. The hunger, as Sarah (Kate Winslet) states, for an alternative.

To escape, to escape from the desperation that is daily life, to leave the society of those who are not your equals, to escape from the dreary everyday dull nature of suburbia- to escape into fantasies that cannot exist in reality, to escape into fantasies that are tinged with the aura of the forbidden and the beautiful- this is irresistable; this is the light playing across Kate Winslet's face as she sits by the pool, imagining her life other than it is.

This desperation and desire for escape is what the characters have in common. Different characters with different stories, but they all desire to be other than they are, and take refuge in fantasies, escape, or in anger- directed toward the outside when it truly seethes within. Sexual escape is part of it, but that is not all. All of the characters are 'little children,' the adults as well as the true children. They want to throw away responsibilities in search of the carefree, but they are forbidden to do this.

And this is what Little Children is about.

What is by far, however, for me, the most affecting and powerful performance, the performance I haven't been able to get out of my mind, the kind that disturbs you and shakes you and makes you feel even if you refuse, if you logically try to abstain- why, this is the performance of Jackie Earle Haley portraying the sex-offender and pedophile- Ronnie McGorvey.

The movie begins with Ronnie's return to the suburbanite neighborhood. We don't know exactly what he has done- we hear that he is guilty of indecent exposure to a minor- but for all that, who is he? What is he? We see how he is treated. They whisper about him in the streets. One ex-policeman takes it upon himself to paper the neighborhood with signs, Ronnie's face plastered across each one. His door is covered in these signs. The sidewalk in front of his house is spray-painted.

Ronnie lives with his mother, an elderly woman. We see the toll this takes on her. We see her, catching her breath as she tries to wash away the painted word 'Evil' in front of her doorstep.

Somehow, incredibly, the director is able to make us feel for Ronnie. There is one scene where all the neighborhood children are gathered at the pool. Splashing, playing, dancing through the water, we see Ronnie enter the area in black scuba gear. He enters the pool. The camera builds tension, as we watch him swimming underneath the water, looking at the little children. Then we hear a terrible keening noise. There is screaming, mass hysteria. Parents rush for their children and yell for them to get out of the pool. It is quickly abandoned. There is a terrible silence.

And we see Ronnie, all alone, in the center of the pool.

We see his embarrasment. We feel for him. He angrily comments, "I just wanted to cool off!" as policemen escort him from the pool.

We don't know whether he deserves this. We think maybe he's been falsely acccused. It tugs at us, hurts us, to see any adult reduced to that state- to that pleading, shameful state. We think that Ronnie might be a human being suffering without reason.

His mother, an elderly woman, desperately wants him to lead a normal life. She urges him to place a personal ad in the paper, to meet a woman who doesn't know him. He can start over. All will be well. In a poignant, awful moment, he explains that he doesn't want women. That's not who he's attracted to. His mother pushes him.

He goes on the date.

He meets a nerdy woman, a woman who was abused in her past. She's very sweet. Ronnie himself seems sweet, nervous, anxious to please; this thin man without the niceties of social graces but doing the best he can.

And then it all changes.

Because on the ride home, when she's giving him a ride home, he tells her to stop the car. And then there's a transformation. Ronnie- our Ronnie- the Ronnie we thought was suffering more than he should, the Ronnie we felt for- becomes evil. We see the expression on his face as he boldly removes his penis and proceeds to stroke it and masturbate. We cringe, paralyzed, as we see how he orders the woman, now-turned-little-girl, "never to tell." Or else he'll hurt her. She knows. We see Ronnie as he is.

But how to reconcile this Ronnie with our other exposure to Ronnie?

The ex-policeman causes more trouble. One night he takes a megaphone and proceeds to blast to the entire neighborhood that they are harboring a pedophile in their midst. Ronnie's mother, an old woman, righteously storms outside and begs him to leave them alone. She orders him off her property, in a frail voice. He responds angrily, unwittingly blasting into the megaphone. She accuses the policeman about his past, and he becomes violent. Ronnie and the ex-policeman grapple. It is at this moment that the woman cannot take it anymore, and she suffers a heart attack.

We see her in the hospital. We see her reach for a thin slip of paper that the nurse holds for her, and writing upon it.

We see Ronnie when he realizes she is dead. He is shocked, calm. He puts everything in order. Brings home her clothes. Washes the dishes. And then he opens the slip of paper, and reads the note.

'Ronnie, please be a good boy.'

His reaction to this is indescribable.

He shakes. He shakes and then he clenches his teeth and then he puts his head in his hands, and he is sobbing, sobbing and shivering and shaking and holding his head in his hands as though he has no choice, there is no choice for him, and you hear this horrible tinkling of the clocks, all the clocks in the house, all mocking him and mocking his grief. His mother appears to have collected clocks. And out of nowhere, he grabs the clocks and smashes them, as though to smash their oppressive existence, and slams them against the walls as he shudders with a horrible grief and anger that is so internal, all at himself. And he stands amidst the shards of the clocks and his face is awful, and that is when he goes for the knife. We see him stand there with the knife, with this sense of realization and fear, and we don't know what is going to happen.

We think he's going to kill the ex-policeman.

In an elegant and by no means happy ending, that refers back to the beginning comments, where these lovely suburban women superficially pass judgement and say that this pedophile 'ought to be castrated' we see Ronnie once again, and he has done the impossible. Because he didn't hurt anyone else.

He hurt himself.

He castrated himself, or so we are meant to understand.

So who is the monster, and who is the man? Is this ex-policeman to be rewarded for driving him to this point? Is Ronnie to be reviled? The movie doesn't tells us. The movie doesn't make judgements. They are up to us to make, and it is pretty damn hard to call the shots here. Because what we are seeing is a pedophile who is indescribably human, and who is fighting against his natural desires, who is fighting as hard as he can to prevent himself from hurting other people, and what we end up with is his hurting himself.

Now, I don't know if that is actually true. I don't know if there's science that supports this idea, whether people are born with desires so strong and so sickening to society; I don't know whether you can argue for this to be so. But imagine, for a moment, that it were. Imagine there was a man, engaged in the struggle of his life- to hurt or not to hurt? How hard must it be to restrain such desires, seemingly unnatural, certainly damned by society, and yet, for him, so powerful.

You may claim that Ronnie's character was overly romanticized, but I will disagree- I do not think that he was made either wholly good or wholly bad. He was made human. He is a sympathetic character in that he is human, akin to us as opposed to a monster, existing on a different side of the spectrum. We underestimate people if we imagine them to be monsters, even if it makes us feel more comfortable.

What is far more heinous, then, than the actual pedophile, is the pedophile who does not regret his actions, who hurts children and takes pleasure in it, or refuses to admit that he is sick. What is even worse, I might argue, is the institution that protects such a man, that allows him to continue in his sickness and claims that nothing is wrong. This institution enables the man, empowering him and allowing him access to children, feeding his sickness and behavior. Whoever ran that institution- well, I wonder how this person can live with himself.

The Gemara in Bava Basra, 64 states:

Rabha said again: An instructor of children, a planter, a butcher, a barber, and a scribe of the city are to be considered as if they were already warned (i.e., if they neglect their duties they may be discharged without previous notice); as the general rule regarding this is: All irreparable damage done by a specialist, who is appointed as such, is to be considered as if he were previously warned. (An instructor of children who has spoiled a child cannot repair this harm; and the same is the case with a planter who has spoiled the trees; a butcher who, through his neglect, has made the meat illegal for use; a barber who has killed a man by performing venesection; and a scribe who has written the Holy Scrolls fallaciously.)

Now, if I understand this correctly, this simply applies if a man teaches a child Torah incorrectly. How much more so if he hurt the child!

I have heard arguments that people want to protect the livelihood of teachers, even if those teachers are abusive or cruel. I have heard of schools that sweep the errors and transgressions of these teachers under the rug because it is important to provide them with a livelihood. I cannot understand how they can think this is all right, first from a logical perspective, and secondly, from the perspective of this Gemara.

But back to the original question. If anyone has seen this movie, I believe you will concur that it is probably one of the most controversial, powerful, fantastic movies of the year (and this is only one storyline of the many.)

So here we come to you. Are pedophiles human, and do you think of them and judge them as humans? Do they deserve any kind of sympathy or compassion? What if you absolutely knew this man tried as hard as he could to refrain from hurting children? And what about a man who took joy in hurting children, and didn't restrain himself at all? Does this matter in terms of your judgement of the situation?

I don't know if it matters in the eyes of the law.

But I think it matters to us as people.

Halakha vs. Hashkafa

First, over this past Shabbos I had the great pleasure of meeting my intellectual equal, if not my better, so I must mention how delighted I am by that.

Now, to address the topic of halakha vs. hashkafa.

I am coming to realize one of the main reasons that the Judaic studies classes I took at Templars (my first high school) were unsatisfying and often frustrating, why my arguments were never resolved, and why the teachers often struck me as being inept and incompetent.

I am coming to realize what I lacked simply because I now have it, I have now experienced it, most specifically in Rabbi Auman's class.

And that is exposure to the source. Exposure to halakha. Understanding the source of a law, how the different sages and Rabbeim derive laws, what it is that they are arguing about. I am talking, of course, about practical halakha. For halakha does not come from nowhere. It is written down, perhaps in the written Torah, perhaps in the Oral law, and from the way it is written, from the grammar used, the words specificed, the juxtaposition or similar verses throughout the Torah, laws are derived. Yet there is a logic to these laws. They are not the fanciful imaginings of a Rabbi who claims to be in touch with the Divine, they are a logical extrapolation, and as such, can be understood by the likes of you and me.

But this is what I was not taught at Templars. This is what none of us were taught. In part, I will argue it is because my school refused to teach Gemara. Had we learned Gemara, I daresay we would have had a much stronger knowledge base as to how the laws are derived, and how and why the opinions of various scholars and sages conflict. In part it is because my own teachers did not know Gemara, and what is worse, did not know the origins of the laws themselves. How could they teach what they themselves did not know?

In school we had two classes, Dinim (Laws) and Machshava (Thought.) In Dinim class, we often learned laws from an English book on the subject which simply laid them down (clearly, to be sure.) I did not know whence they came from, how we established them; I simply knew they existed. Since they were laws I had heard since elementary school (the Halachos of Brachos, for instance, or the laws of Shabbos), I was not very concerned about the sources. At this point, I believed them to be true, and was merely curious about intricacies.

Machshava, however, was an entirely different story. Our teacher would attempt to convey a certain attitude of Jewish philosphical thought to us, but it was based on nothing but her own opinions. Our Mechaneches often did this as well. We suffered through lectures that were really nothing more than rants, the teacher's opinion combined with the supposed opinions of Gedolim. It is no small wonder that I hated Gedolim. How could I not? I envisioned them as men with long white beards and black hats who were completely alienated from me. What could they know of me, and what could they know of teenagers? Who were they to attempt to control my life from the lofty spires of existence which they had attained? They were not human, they were saints, spurred by no human emotion, uplifted by no human thought. They were, to me, creatures so different from me that I could not accept their authority.

My teacher never actually showed me a source from the Gedolim to prove her point. I do not recall ever seeing photocopies that supported her opinion, sources that were listed or learned. The drill was not to teach, not to allow us sources, but rather the mantra of "Accept, don't think." We were to accept blindly, accept without thought, accept simply because we were told to accept and obey. And to me, it made no sense. What good were these words, these opinions she spouted? What good, even, were the opinions of these so-called Gedolim? They made no sense. There was no logic.

What my teacher and school system on a whole failed to realize (if I am charitable) is that one's hashkafa emantates from halakha. One can only accept a certain philosophical viewpoint and ideology once one understands whether this viewpoint is in keeping with halakha, with the law itself. One must understand the disagreements that arose, the divisions in thought, the reasons that the Yeshivish viewpoint, the Modern Orthodox viewpoint, and the Ultra-Orthodox viewpoint differs. Whether one permits or forbids socialization between boys and girls, whether one permits or forbids the learning of secular material- rests upon both halakha and history, and the way in which halakha was interpreted at various points in history. As Rabbi Auman likes to say, "Halakhic principles don't change, but economic or social realities may cause these principles to be applied differently in one generation than to the next."

None of this was taught or in any way given over at Templars. My teachers might engage in Reform-bashing or Conservative-bashing sessions, but it was always through grand generalizations about the movements as a whole. We all knew that Orthodox Judaism differed from these movements, but most of us were confused by the variant sects within Orthodoxy, how they had arisen, and what they meant for us as teenagers. We had no firm base to fall back on, no understanding of our own religion. What did our Judaism mean? Why did we do what we did? If laws did not seem to be written in the Torah, then where did they come from? Did the Rabbis just make them up? Some of us might have thought so.

You can understand our resentment toward Rabbis whom we felt controlled our lives simply to be cruel or mean. We had no concept of their reasoning, of why they might feel compelled to issue rulings that conflicted with what we wanted to do. We had no idea as to how their stances on contemporary issues resulted from their halakhic understanding and analysis. The only thing we were told was, "He said it, therefore it's so."

This approach is so off-putting, so stupid, so idiotic to the young mind, that it is no wonder that our only response could be to question, to ask so many questions that nobody could answer. Had the teachers known Gemara and engaged in analysis of the law, they would have been able to put many of our questions to rest- respectfully, kindly, competently. Instead, wars arose, flabbergasted, astounded, astonished expressions came to rest on their faces, as they gasped in horror at the thoughts we formulated.

One of the reasons I absolutely respect Rabbi Auman- and feel that I can learn from him- is that he does not ask me to take anything he says on faith. I do not need to "believe" in ideas; I can see them, they are there in front of me on the sheet of paper, in the sefer. There is logic to the rulings of various sages. I may not like their approach but I must respect their logic, their analytic insight. I may simultaneously discover why the logic of my personal Rav is also worthy, and also acceptable. The Satmar Rav does not simply say that he dislikes the idea of women learning Torah, but he quotes a Yerushalmi to support his view. R' Sorotzkin, in contrast, goes back to Avraham and the symbolic significance of his pitching Sarah's tent before his to add support to his point. R' Schachter will explain why he can or cannot accept brain death according to his understanding of the Gemara, and R' Tendler will argue on those grounds, explain why he differs from R' Schachter, and continue. These laws do not come out of nowhere.

So often they were misrepresented to me. I conceived a vague half-notion that the Rabbis were threatened by the idea of women learning Gemara, and therefore forbade it. I understood only fear, fear and control. I conceived of the sages as vicious men who simply wanted to control us all and make robots of us. I felt only the onset of emotion towards them, emotion towards the teachers who vaguely informed us of these cruel laws they made. I could not tolerate what I could only see as stupidity and ignorance, and my teachers could not answer me.

When the teachers themselves no nothing of sources, how can the students hope to learn? In a school where the Macshava class speaks only in vague grandiose terms about "missions" and "belief" and "leaps of faith," about "destinies" and "status," what was there of value to aid me in understanding my own religion, and understanding how others could or would disagree with it? Where was the logic, the analysis, the questioning, the answers, the sources and the disagreemens? Why, there was none of it...most probably because they did not know themselves.

Young male teachers, who might potentially have known Gemara and hence have had a better grasp on sources, were forbidden on a whole. The school was afraid of our attraction to these young men, and thought it better to prevent us from having them. So there we were, a school all of young women, taught by women who themselves did not know how to teach, argue or prove, but merely to indoctrinate. We did have one young Rabbi, married, and indeed we all were half in love with him (my love for him was more playful, however, and less driven by his physique- I loved seeing how far I could push him), and I admired him for his understanding- somewhat- what it was we wanted. As someone who had been more Modern and had only now become more right-wing, he understood what we were talking about; it was not a foreign language. As Dinim teacher, his tests were actually very practical- citing Sheva Brachos and OnlySimchas and commonalities nowadays in a very applicable manner. He was more willing to engage in discussion and answer questions than our female teachers- it was because he was more like us, and more open. I did not always like his viewpoint, and we had our stubborn disagreements, but I respected him for what he was attempting to do.

It is only now that I have come to Stern that I am beginning to develop a clearer perspective with regard to sages and Gedolim. I am beginning to understand, to comprehend, how very learned these men must be. They are learned in Gemara, in the Torah, in halachos and concepts that cause me to stand back in admiration. Of course, learned and scholarly are not the same as thoughtful and compassionate. Gedolim may apply halakhos based on their scholarly interpretations, but some of them, at least, will not take into account the feelings of those impacted by such a law, nor will they understand their complaints. So now, though I may differ from sages (where appropriate, and where there is room to differ) or may simply believe that what they say must be flawed, or an argument that cannot reasonably be applied today, I have much greater respect for who they are as people, and what they do with their lives. They have great knowledge at their command, and their rulings cannot be dismissed as stupid.

I am beginning to understand the interrelationship between halakha and hashkafa. I need sources; I crave sources when someone asks me to believe something. I want an argument, a proof, I want a reason, whatever it may be. Based on what I believe is permissable according to these sources and laws, I develop a hashkafa, an outlook on life, a Jewish weltanschaang. And perhaps, to some extent, it is the other way around- once I subscribe to a particular hashkafa, the analysis and rulings on various laws must proceed in a certain manner. The fact remains that there is a definite connection.

Were I to have seen it earlier...had I had sources in my machshava classes differentiating between the opinions of different sects, and how those opinions on different contemporary issues had come to be formed- my respect for Judaism on a whole, and the opinions of those more Orthodox than I am on a whole, would have been much greater. I would have understood rather than felt condemned and hated by all those supposedly more religious than I. I would have understood where they were coming from. And though I might have disagreed, I would have appreciated their logic.

This is what I lacked...this is what, I think, quite a few schools lack. The ability to demonstrate the logical derivation of laws, of outlooks, of ideas. It is much easier, of course, to simply assert, to make claims, to try to force belief. But this belief must be a short-term belief, as it is based on nothing but a desire to trust the person telling this to you. And should that trust ever be shaken...what do you have then? Why, you have nothing- a spiritually shaky person who has absolutely no idea what or why s/he believes.

It is for this reason, then, that I urge schools and parents to explain, to prove, to demonstrate the logic of various claims, ideologies and belief systems within Judaism. If something is flawed, there is a reason as to why it is flawed. Rather than falling back on mocking or deriding a certain sect, explain the logical reasons for why that sect is inconsistent, or illogical, or in some way cannot be reconciled with Judaism. If one were to apply this across the board, the result should yield more thoughtful, understanding, and therefore respectable (in the sense that others would respect them) teachers. It would also yield happier students- students whose questions were answered in a calm, comprehensive manner, or, if the questions could not be answered, were told that, too, rather than some false generalizaton aimed at quashing any feelings of doubt.

I have only been enriched through my exposure to different viewpoints (and the logic behind such viewpoints) and I argue that many others would benefit from this, too. Our youth as a whole could only benefit from such an approach. Understanding comes before acceptance.

Women and Talmud Torah XIX

(Material by Rabbi Kenneth Auman, presented by Chana. All mistakes are my fault.)

This is what we may refer to as the "Yeshiva World" view. This is from the work called the Maznayim l'Mishpat by R' Zalman Sorotzkin. This was written in 1941 when he was in Israel.

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In answering the question, he writes to the questioner that his idea about women- their learning the Oral Law if they are really smart and excel and the Written Law for all- most of what this questioner writes is very good. The only thing we have to worry about is learning the Oral Law in depth. Now, in Bais Yaakov they learn the Written Law, which is no problem, and the Oral Law they learn, they don't learn in depth. So he defines the problem, in terms of what could potentially cause tiflus, meaning that learning the Oral Law in depth, and pilpul- that is what is forbidden for women; that's what's considered tiflus. He thinks the halakha is straight and clear- the Written Torah is fine, the Oral Torah is fine, it's only the Oral Torah in depth that can cause problems.

And in his work "The Dei'ah and the Diybur" he says that in the Oral Law woman can also learn the conclusions, because you have to know what it says in the Torah and what to do! So why do people get so upset about women learning Torah? Only because it's something new- they never saw their forefathers do this. Now, from experience and watching you could learn the whole Torah, so you might as well teach them from the sefer. He compares women here to a non-Jewish woman who is going to convert- you have to teach her the Torah, she never saw it before but now you teach! So he's saying, if you had a girl who was coming to convert you'd teach her, how much more so the Jewish girl.

The Maharsha quotes Rashi and says that women knew how to pasken on halakhos. But that's difficult, because how could they learn Torah? So that was because at that time period, King Achaz had closed all the batei midrash (houses of learning) because "if there are no lambs, there are no sheep," meaning that if children don't know Torah, neither will adults. So Chizkiyahu, his son, had to come and redo everything. And because Achaz uprooted faith from the hearts of Bnai Yisrael, Chizkiyahu found it necessary to teach Torah, even to the women. R' Sorotzkin extrapolates from this a kind of risk to benefit ratio- where the benefit of teaching women Torah outweighs the risk, it makes sense to do it.

He quotes a verse from Shir HaShirim (Song of Songs.) And at a time when the non-religious abound, we too have to do what Chizkiyahu did.

This next part is, according to R' Auman, particularly fascinating.

We see by Avraham that we worry about the faith of women more than that of men. Avraham's tent was holy- a place of Torah and learning to bring people close to God. Avraham actually had 2 tents, one for the men and one for the women. He pitched Sarah's tent before his own (represents that you take care of women's learning before taking care of men's learning.) And nowadays, when there's a question of which section in shul you put up first- the ezras nashimn or the ezras anashim- it's obvious, men have the obligation to pray 3 times, women don't have the obligation, so put up the men's section first! Also, there's an obligation to teach your son Torah but not your daughter, and we never heard of the daughter coming first (in terms of a school for girls before a school for boys) but we see by Avraham that the women came first! So when you live in times like Avraham, you do as Avraham did.

And in this way God commanded Moshe by har Sinai, saying:

ג וּמֹשֶׁה עָלָה, אֶל-הָאֱלֹהִים; וַיִּקְרָא אֵלָיו יְהוָה, מִן-הָהָר לֵאמֹר, כֹּה תֹאמַר לְבֵית יַעֲקֹב, וְתַגֵּיד לִבְנֵי יִשְׂרָאֵל.

3 And Moses went up unto God, and the LORD called unto him out of the mountain, saying: 'Thus shalt thou say to the house of Jacob, and tell the children of Israel:

Chazal says it means- "So shall you say to the house of Jacob," meaning the women, and only then do we mention the men.

(THIS IS WHERE I AM UP TO IN CLASS, SO THIS WILL BE CONTINUED)

Women and Talmud Torah XVIII

(Material by Rabbi Kenneth Auman, presented by Chana. All mistakes are my fault.)

This is from Vayoel Moshe, which is written by the Satmar Rav, R' Yoel Teittelbaum. He was very anti-Zionist, but this did not affect his personal relationship with people- it was simply his shita. When the Satmar Rav came to America, he worked very hard at rebuilding his movement. He wanted to reinstitute the method of education that existed in Europe- for the girls that would mean a very limited education. He was also against day schools that taught in Ivrit (as opposed to lashon hakodesh.) So he wrote the Ma'amer Lashon Hakodesh, in which he talks about lashon hakodesh and girls' and womens' education.

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First, the Satmar Rav quotes the Tur and Shulchan Aruch. Then he brings up a story- where the woman, a Matron, asks R' Eliezer why there was one sin by the Golden Calf, but there were three different types of punishments for that one sin! R' Eliezer says, "The wisdom of a woman is in weaving," i.e. I can't answer you with an interpretation about this matter (divrei Torah.) R' Elazar's son Hurkenus later says to R' Elazar, "Because you wouldn't answer this woman one question, you lost me 300 kur in ma'aser (tithes)!" R' Elazar answered, "Better that divrei Torah be burnt than given to women." Rav Reinsburg has a commentary on this in the Yerushalmi and says you see from this the extent to which one goes to prevent women from learning Torah. And we can't be smarter than Chazal. Those who think they are smarter than Chazal are from the Sadducees and th elike, because they do not believe the words of Chazal, because if Chazal forbids something, it is forbidden, and even Eliyahu couldn't change it.

And there are stupid people who try to base their opinion on the words of the Chafetz Chaim who wrote in his work Likutei Halachos about this matter. He quotes the Chafetz Chaim here. He says that people who use this as an excuse to teach women Torah are hotzaas shem ra (perpetrating a bad name about the Chafetz Chaim.) For how could the Chafetz Chaim say such a thing? To allow women to learn Torah?! The Chafetz Chaim is not a Conservative Rabbi to come and say that when the times change, halakhos change. Of course he didn't say this. The only thing the Chafetz Chaim was really changing, according to the Satmar Rav, was what was assur because it was a minhag (custom), not that which was truly assur. (Because there was a custom not to teach women anything, not even Chumash- maybe if you teach them a little bit, you'll teach them too much!) If anything, if teaching the Oral Law was meizik in the day of the Chafetz Chaim, all the more so today, for we are much weaker today than before.

So he's reinterpreting the Chafetz Chaim to mean that the Chafetz Chaim was only permitting that which is already permitted (to teach the Chumash.) Now, if you look back at the words of the Chafetz Chaim, it's very hard to justify this peshat, because the Chafetz Chaim is certainly saying to teach them Torah, and more than just Chumash.

Now the Satmar Rav says that's written to teach them Chumash, but it doesn't say with Rashi! So teach the women Chumash without Rashi. And that which people often read- the Tzena Rena and Me'oros Ha'Meir - they don't really understand it, anyway. He does grant that women need to learn good manners (midos) and they learn midos from the Tzena Rena. He states to support his idea that women need to learn good manners/ middos:

"kasheh onshin shel middos yoter me'onshin shel arayos" meaning "Harsher are the punishments against middos than the punishments regarding sexual transgressions"

which is actually a quote taken entirely out of context because it really has to do with false weights (middos meaning false weights.) He ends off by stating that teaching or allowing women to learn is wrong. So he's basically declaring war on the Bais Yaakov movement.

(R' Auman suggests that the Satmar Rav may really have disagreed with the Chafetz Chaim, so instead of taking him on, he politely disagrees with him by explaining how he didn't say what he seems to have obviously said)

Women and Talmud Torah XVII

(Materal by Rabbi Kenneth Auman, presented by Chana. All mistakes are my fault.)

This is from the Likutei Halachos written by the Chafetz Chaim. There are certain masechtos where the Rif didn't write his commentary because it's not nogea l'halacha. So the Chafetz Chaim made a compendium of these areas that the Rif left out. So he has a commentary here.

Please look at the following two pages:

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So this quotes the gemara from Sotah about teaching daughters, and how teaching them Torah is equivalent to teaching them tiflus.

What's of interest is next to the words "af she'ain l'lamda" there are three asterisks. Go down and see what the Chafetz Chaim says in the footnote. He says that this (that teaching one's daughter Torah is like teaching her tiflus) refers to those times where daughters breathed the air of Judaism, grew up with role models and examples, and practiced what her father did. But in our generation, which is much weaker, where our daughters are learning the foreign language of the country where they live- if you don't teach your daughters Torah, then they will God forbid not be well-versed or knowledgeable in understanding their religion. Because daughters are going to the Gymnasium (secular school) and people have moved and spread out you need to teach women the written Torah.

(So we have a question on this- how can the Chafetz Chaim possibly do this? This is apparently a halakha, and he seems to simply be stating that the times have changed, so what we're doing has changed. How can he say this?)

The simple interpretation of the Chafetz Chaim is that he's simply expanding the parameters of the Ramah's idea, and making more relevant to women (and since more is relevant, women can learn more. It's already accepted that women can learn what is relevant to them.)

Women and Talmud Torah XVI

(Material by Rabbi Kenneth Auman, presented by Chana. All mistakes are my fault.)

Please look at Sanhedrin 94b.

והיה ביום ההוא יסור סבלו מעל שכמך ועולו מעל צוארך וחובל עול מפני שמן א"ר יצחק נפחא חובל עול של סנחריב מפני שמנו של חזקיהו שהיה דולק בבתי כנסיות ובבתי מדרשות מה עשה נעץ חרב על פתח בית המדרש ואמר כל מי שאינו עוסק בתורה ידקר בחרב זו בדקו מדן ועד באר שבע ולא מצאו עם הארץ מגבת ועד אנטיפרס ולא מצאו תינוק ותינוקת איש ואשה שלא היו בקיאין בהלכות טומאה וטהרה

(and in English)

And it shall come to pass in that day, that his burden shall be taken away from off thy shoulders, and his yoke from off thy neck, and the yoke shall be destroyed because of the oil.33 R. Isaac, the Smith, said: [This means,] the yoke of Sennacherib shall be destroyed on account of the oil of Hezekiah, which burnt in the synagogues and schools. What did he do? — He planted a sword by the door of the schoolhouse and proclaimed, 'He who will not study the Torah will be pierced with the sword.' Search was made from Dan unto Beer Sheba, and no ignoramus was found; from Gabbath34 unto Antipris,35 and no boy or girl, man or woman was found who was not thoroughly versed in the laws of cleanliness and uncleanliness.36

Here they are quoting a pasuk from Yeshaya. "On that day the oppression will be removed from you, yoke take off, etc, because of the oil." (Sancherib was coming, marching on Jerusalem, there was a miracle and the army disappeared.) So what is this yoke of Sancheirib? The oil of Chizkiyahu will destory the yoke of Sancheirib. Because the oil was burning in the synogagues and schools. Chizkiyahu had his soldiers put a sword in front of the Beis Midrash, saying that anyone who didn't learn would be killed. So they learned, and everyone knew Torah- boy or girl, man or woman were all learning halakhos- everyone was knowledgeable in the halakhos of tumah and taharah (this supports the Ramah that women learn all practical halakhos having to do with them.)

Some ideas:

If you look at the concept of Talmud Torah, there are two reasons why someone (a man, let's say) has to learn Torah.

1. He has to learn how to practice the mitzvos
2. He has an obligation to learn Torah

We could say, therefore, that the mitzvah of learning Torah exists on a level where people learn solely to learn- based on 'v'limadtem.' Person learns laws of Sanhedrin or tumah or tahara- that's learning for the sake of learning. But when we learn hilchos Shabbos, we're learning in order to know how to correctly observe Shabbos. (We need a training manual so we can see how to observe Shabbos.) So the reason we are obligated to learn the laws of Shabbos is because of our obligation to keep the mitzvah of Shabbos.

So- "v'limadtem osam.' Women are not obligated in this. But they are obligated in keeping Shabbos, hence they need to learn the laws of Shabbos. Considered an Enabler, since knowing the laws of Shabbos enables you to keep Shabbos. Based on this I believe the Brisker Rav said on the famous Gemara of 'al ma avda ha'aretz' where the answer is that people did not say Birchas haTorah, that technically the blessing is made on the v'limadtem part of learning Torah, so the men were only learning practical mitzvot (which is why they didn't say birchat haTorah.) The problem with that is nowadays we say that bracha anyway, even girls- so okay, a kasha.

Even the voluntary mitzvos- clearly women can learn about voluntary mitzvos as well.

So all this is in accord with/ stated by the Ramah.

Women and Talmud Torah XV

(Material by Rabbi Kenneth Auman, presented by Chana. All mistakes are my fault.)

Please look at the Tur page, which states that there is a general rule that one who does something he is commanded to do receives more reward than one who does something he is not commanded to do. Even though a woman is granted reward for learning Torah, still one shouldn't teach his daughter Torah because most women have very poor intellects. (He misquotes the Rambam here- it should be the reverse.)

Now look at the Perisha- it's talking about women who knew Torah and Gemara- if a woman is able to learn well, that's fine and good. But the father still is not supposed to teach her because he doesn't know what she's thinking at the time (and how she will use or misuse what he teaches her), but if she learns Torah on her own, that's fine.

(So we ask a question- how can anyone learn if one's father won't teach her? So it seems that the deal is that it's forbidden to force the women to learn, but if she shows interest, that's fine. So it apears that the Derisha feels the problem is only when the woman is forced to learn. Rambam says "rov nashim" are not supposed to learn but if a woman is an exception to the rule, it's fine to teach her. Derisha advocates for voluntary learning.)

Next question is where does this division between Torah she'Bichtav (the Written Torah) and Torah she'ba'al Peh (the Oral Torah) come from? The Rambam made it. Where did he get it from? So the Bach (Bais Chadash) discusses this.

There is a mitzva of Hakhel (where the king read from the Torah to the assembled people of Israel- men, women and children.) Now, the men are coming to learn. The women are coming to listen. The little children come, even though they don't necessarily understand what is happening, so that their parents receive merit for bringing them.

Anyway, clearly women have to hear the Written Torah at Hakhel, so this is where the Rambam derives this from (regarding the division he makes between the Written Torah and the Oral Torah, as opposed to putting them in the same category.) Now the same Rabbi Eliezer who says that women must hear the Torah by hakhel is the one who says that teaching women Torah is like teaching them tiflus, obscenity or foolishness. So against your will you have to say that Rabbi Eliezer believes that you can't teach your daughter the Oral Torah, because obviously he believes that women do hear and understand the Written Torah at hakhel (where it was even translated into Aramaic for them.)

Now the problem with this interpretaion is that the Tur and the Rambam say women shouldn't even learn the Written Torah. So the Bach goes on to say that men came to learn while women came merely to hear. The different words (learn vs. hear) show the distinction, so women should avoid the Written Torah as well- that's where Rambam got it from.

Now look at the Shulchan Aruch page.

Look at daled in the Taz.

He fixes the misquotation of the Rambam, then talks about hakhel- learning Torah is permitted for women like it is permitted in that context, where it is the mere translation, it is simple. Women, indeed, have always learned Torah. But for women to learn deep Torah with commentaries- that's already an issue. That's why the Talmud says that women are merely supposed to hear (l'shmoa)- for women to learn Chumash simply is fine, but they should not learn deep explanations or pilpul. The Rambam is onloy forbidding women from learning deep explanations of Chumash.

The Taz is therefore saying there's really 3 levels that we are dealing with:

1. The Written Torah (Torah she'Bichsav) - which is permitted l'chatchila
2. The Written Torah in depth (with commentaries)- which is permitted b'dieved
3. The Oral Torah - which is considered tiflus/ not permitted

Women and Talmud Torah XIV

This is from the Rav Yosef Yuzef Katz- the son of the Sma. The Sma's name was R' Yehoshua Falk Katz. The Sma wrote the Sefer Me'iras Einayim, which is a commentary on Chosen Mishpat. He also wrote the Derisha u'Perisha which is found at the bottom of the Tur. So what we're looking at is the introduction his son wrote to his father's book.

Please click here for the introduction.

Rav Yosef Yuzef Katz praises his mother- she's important, modest, her soul should rest with the Matriarchs, is an example for all Jewish women, the only child of a wealthy man who could have had whatever she wanted but did not, instead, she fasted a lot, she made food for Shabbos and gave it to poor people-

And then he discusses two things she felt women were doing wrong regarding candle-lighting on Shabbos and Yom Tov.

1. Women usually light candles on Yom Tov the same as they do on Shabbos, but on Yom Tov you can say the blessing first, so you should say the blessing and only then light candles

2. Women held that they would light candles when men came home from shul, but this is not okay because they already accepted Yom Tov, so the women should light before

(Magen Avraham disagrees with her about #1 but the Mishna Berura may quote her approvingly)

Women and Talmud Torah XIII

(Material by Rabbi Kenneth Auman, presented by Chana. All mistakes are my fault.)

The following is from the Mekor Baruch by R' Baruch HaLevi Epstein, who is the Torah Temimah. He wrote a four-volume memoir, one of which dealt with his years at Volozhin (this is described in the Artscroll banned book My Uncle, the Netziv. The Netziv's wife was R' Baruch HaLevi Epstein's aunt. R' Baruch HaLevi Epstein presents the Netziv's wife as a feminist.

So here we have some excerpts from this.

Please click the following links to go to the following five pages:

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She (the Netziv's wife) talks about righteous women- Beruriah, the wife of Rabbi Meir, Yalta, the wife of Rav Nachman, the wife of the Sma, sister of R' Yeshaya Berlin and then she would ask, "So what's so terrible if they could learn the Torah?" She could not reconcile herself to the fact that there's an issur for women to learn Torah.

When she mentioned Beruriah, R' Baruch Halevi Epstein mentioned the story by Beruriah where she was seduced and hanged.

So his wife answered, "So just because there was one Acheir, all men are bad?" She continued, "She didn't mock it in a mocking way; she just thought the sages weren't women, so they didn't understand women!" (This is about Beruriah mocking the adage 'women are of unstable temperament')

And once she (the Netziv's wife) said in a bitter way, from a deep feeling of suffering, "Woe to the women and our lot! Not only do they degrade us, but they treat us worse than animals." She said to him, "You're surprised about this? You don't believe what I'm saying?"

Another point raised here is that when Rashi was ill, his daughter took the teshuvos and signed them on his behalf.

Another point raised is where he gives Emma Lazarus as a great woman who raose to fame, is of great stature.

R' Baruch HaLevi Epstein concludes, "Why the need to quote all these examples of great women?" The Torah itself says "Kol isha chachmas lev" (every woman is wise of heart) and the daughters of Tzelafchad are considered to be wise women. And then his aunt was satisfied. (Now, what's funny is that this comment about smart women that he mentions as coming from the Torah really refers to spinning- that all the wisom of women is in spinning!) Probably not what he meant to say.