Why We Fight

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How the Axis Powers Planned to Divide the Spoils

In my senior year in college, the frontal headaches from my pituitary tumor (which I didn’t know I had) typically lasted twelve hours, usually noon to midnight. It was at midnight that I would begin to do my homework assignments. Naturally, as an upperclassman I stayed away from classes that began before noon.

The headaches didn’t come every day, usually every other day on the average.So, half the time, I took my classes with the tumor pressing on my optic nerve. I had complained about it at the student infirmary several times, but my real pain was pooh-poohed by the doctors and nurses—which left me thinking I was a terrible wuss.

Around that time, I hung around at Fairbanks Hall, headquarters of Dartmouth Films, which acted as an audio-visual service for the college, and which ran the Dartmouth Film Society, of which I was second in command. In the evenings, I would check out what 16mm film prints had been ordered for various classes and, if the titles interested me, I would screen them for myself.

This is how I watched the “Why We Fight” series of U.S. World War 2 propaganda films, which were produced under the supervision of the man who directed It’s a Wonderful Life, namely Frank Capra, who served as a Major in the Army Signal Corps. Capra served directly under General George C. Marshall in directing or supervising these films. They consisted of:

  • “Prelude to War” (1942)
  • “The Nazis Strike” (1943)
  • “Divide and Conquer” (1943)
  • “The Battle of Britain” (1943)
  • “The Battle of Russia” (1943)
  • “The Battle of China” (1944)
  • “War Comes to America” (1944)

Not part of the series, but viewed by me around the same time, was “Know Your Enemy: Japan” (1945), which was embarrassingly racist.

Other films I remember from this period are two French musicals directed by René Clair (Sous les toits de Paris and Le million, made in 1930 and 1931 respectively). Then there was a French documentary directed by Nelly Kaplan entitled Abel Gance, hier et demain (1963). Once I got to Los Angeles, I made every effort to see as many of Gance’s films as I could. His silent biopic Napoléon (1927) is one of the greatest films ever made.

When I wasn’t screening films for myself, I would chat with my friend Peter Jensen, who was using Dartmouth Films’ Movieola to edit a film he had made based on a Chekhov short story.

Dartmouth Films had a major impact on my life.

Spices and Seasonings

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When I first started cooking in the late 1960s, I didn’t know much about spices and seasonings. If I wanted my dish to be spicy, I sprinkled some powdered cayenne pepper in it. Garlic was such a pain in the butt that I frequently went with powdered garlic or garlic salt. Parsley? I used the dried stuff and wondered why it didn’t have any flavor.

I am a bit more sophisticated now. In my freezer, I have bags of frozen fire-roasted Hatch chiles. Now I take my time with garlic, slicing each clove thinly with a single-edged razor blade. On my counter are all the spices I need to make curry, including black mustard seeds, coriander seeds (jeera), turmeric, ground cumin and coriander, and fenugreek seeds, to name just a few.

When I look around me to see what most of the people I know eat, I am appalled by how few spices and seasonings are used. Unfortunately, most people can’t tolerate strong flavors. Martine, for instance, complains that most of what I cook for myself makes her mouth burn, even when I don’t use many chiles.

The older I get, the more I realize that good cooking requires time and care. That becomes more of an issue when I am cooking for myself. Martine rarely cooks anything for herself except maybe scrambled eggs or Quaker oatmeal.

So I am resigned to alternating one dish for the both of us and, next time, something for myself alone. When I am making one of my chile-infused meals, Martine frequently finds it necessary to open doors and windows. Fortunately, that seems to work out well for both of us. I suspect that what I cook is more nutritious, but Martine manages to thrive on her bland dishes.

“We Aren’t Serious When We’re Seventeen”

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French Poet Arthur Rimbaud (1854-1891)

He looks so young. But, even as a teen, Arthur Rimbaud was something of a devil. After a torrid relationship with fellow poet Paul Verlaine, Rimbaud gave up poetry at the age of twenty and set up in East Africa as a trader. There, he dealt in coffee, guns, and whatever else could turn a profit. At the age of thirty-seven, he died of cancer.

His poetry still resonates, particularly in France, where it is no crime to be transgressive. Here is one of his simpler, less surrealistic poems. (If you want to read more by him, try his long poems “A Season in Hell” or “Illuminations.”)

Novel

I

We aren’t serious when we’re seventeen.
—One fine evening, to hell with beer and lemonade,
Noisy cafés with their shining lamps!
We walk under the green linden trees of the park


The lindens smell good in the good June evenings!
At times the air is so scented that we close our eyes.
The wind laden with sounds—the town isn’t far—
Has the smell of grapevines and beer . . .

II

—There you can see a very small patch
Of dark blue, framed by a little branch,
Pinned up by a naughty star, that melts
In gentle quivers, small and very white . . .


Night in June! Seventeen years old! —We are overcome by it all
The sap is champagne and goes to our head . . .
We talked a lot and feel a kiss on our lips
Trembling there like a small insect . . .

III

Our wild heart moves through novels like Robinson Crusoe,
—When, in the light of a pale street lamp,
A girl goes by attractive and charming
Under the shadow of her father’s terrible collar . . .

And as she finds you incredibly naïve,
While clicking her little boots,
She turns abruptly and in a lively way . . .
—Then cavatinas die on your lips . . .

IV

You are in love. Occupied until the month of August.
You are in love. —Your sonnets make Her laugh.
All your friends go off, you are ridiculous.
—Then one evening the girl you worship deigned to write to you . . . !

—That evening, . . . —you return to the bright cafés,
You ask for beer or lemonade . . .
—We’re not serious when we are seventeen
And when we have green linden trees in the park.

By the Skin of Our Teeth

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Political Cartoon about the South Carolina Nullification Crisis

As I read more about Andrew Jackson’s presidency, I begin to realize that what the United States is experiencing now with Donald Trump is not atypical in a democracy. Although the Southern states remain restive over a hundred fifty years after their defeat in the Civil War, and there is talk by a few morons about a new Civil War, it does not seem as threatening as what Jackson faced with the threat of South Carolina to secede in 1832.

At that time, muskets were being collected in South Carolina under instructions from the secession-oriented governor of the state. Fortunately, Jackson, himself a Southerner, was ready to counter the secessionists by appointing a Unionist Southerner to command the U.S. armed forces in the state.

I tended to think of American history (at least up to the firing on Fort Sumter in 1861—in South Carolina, no less) as a well-ordered pageant. It wasn’t. Powdered wigs and all, the early days of my country were pretty ragged. And, of course, they still are.

Although I avoid discussions about politics, I firmly believe in exercising my right to vote. It’s just that in politics, as with religion, everyone has his own views. Although I am fairly liberal in my views, I have friends on the Democratic side who are within an ace of believing that our next president should be a black transsexual.

Jackson

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1903 U.S. Stamp Honoring Andrew Jackson

On the 250th anniversary of the signing of the Declaration of Independence, I decided to return to reading books on American history. The fact that I refrained for so long was due to my contempt for Donald Trump and the voters who elected him to office in 2024.

Consequently I am halfway through a biography of Andrew Jackson (Jon Meacham’s American Lion: Andrew Jackson in the White House). Recently, I thought of “Old Hickory” as a precursor of the Trump madness. Now I begin to think that, although Jackson was highly conflicted, a slaveholder, and responsible for gross injustices toward the American Indian population of the Southern states, he was by and large an honorable man of his time and place.

For one thing, he was an excellent general, responsible for inflicting a humiliating defeat on the English during the Battle of New Orleans. He served two terms as President of the United States, and did not attempt to loot the country for his personal benefit.

He was probably one of the unhappiest of our nation’s leaders. His beloved wife Rachel died before he was sworn in as president. He had a close relationship with his Andrew and Emily Donelson, who served as his personal assistants. But then a vicious petticoat war between the Donelsons and the wife of his Secretary of War, who was a personal friend, poisoned much of his first term.

Somehow he maintained his popularity among the voters. That was because he firmly believed in following the will of the majority, even if meant stepping on the toes of men like John C. Calhoun, his vice president, or Henry Clay—both of whom craved the presidency for themselves.

I am only halfway through the biography, but have decided to continue reading one or two American histories or biographies a month for the foreseeable future. Since I am rapidly on the road to recovery after my broken shoulder, I shall look for a copy of Bernard DeVoto’s 1846: The Year of Decision for my next read in this series.

Azteca vs the Three Lions

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Mexico’s Competent and Hardworking Footballers

It was a game for the ages. England beat Mexico by the skin of their teeth, with only ten players after Jarell Quansah was issued a red card for a studs-up challenge to Jesús Gallardo after only 54 minutes of play.

I did not think England would win because of what I saw in the earlier Mexico vs Ecuador game at the same Azteca Stadium. The 80,000+ roaring fans help propel their team to victory. Today, every Mexican fan in the stands was given a Mexican flag to wave. The sight of 70,000-some Mexican flags waving in unison must have sunk the hearts of the British footballers.

But then Jude Bellingham scored twice for the Brits within three minutes around the 30-minute mark of the first period. Six minutes later, Julián Quiñones answered with a goal, followed by a penalty kick from Harry Kane. In the second period, the only score was a Mexico penalty kick from Raúl Jiménez at 69 minutes.

With the score at 3-2 for England, Mexico took advantage of Quansah’s red card and attacked the goal from all sides. Somehow, the English held out for the win.

If the refereeing by Australian Alireza Faghani were not scrupulously honest, England might well have lost. I have seen some really dicey official calls in some of the games I’ve watched, particularly in the France-Paraguay contest.

David vs Goliath

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Cape Verde Islands Football Team Celebrating Victory Over the Saudis

Today I watched an amazing match between the football teams of Argentina and the Cape Verde Islands. Earlier, I thought the existence of the Cape Verde team in the elimination rounds of the 2026 World Cup was a fluke.

Well, it was no fluke. Argentina played well, and they scored a goal in the first half. But then Cape Verde was playing just as well, and they managed to equalize. This led to an additional thirty-minute period being added. I had to stop watching at that point, because I wanted to cook up a pot of Spanish Rice for dinner.

Toward the end of cooking, I switched on the television and saw that the score was tied 2-2. Within seconds, Argentina scored again, and the valiant Cape Verde team struggled to equalize within the last minutye bor two of the extra period. They couldn’t, and the final score was 3-2 for Argentina.

I am a fan of the Argentina club. Over the years, I have visited Argentina three times and saw large swaths of the country from Iguazu Falls across the border from Brazil in the North to Ushuaia in the South, a scant 600 miles from Antarctica.

At the end of the game, as I saw the sadness of the Cape Verdeans and the jubilation of the Argentinians, I thought I would have been equally happy if the score was the other way around. In the fight between David and Goliath, it is not surprising at the support David gets.

Unfortunately, in the elimination stages, one side wins; and the other side packs their bags and returns home. I think when the Cape Verdeans return home, they will be treated as heroes. They had an incredible run, discomfiting strong teams such as Spain and Uruguay along the way.

I think we’ll be seeing more of them.

Aubade

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British Poet Philip Larkin (1922-1985)

When one wakes up in the middle of the hour of the wolf, one is likely to think of one’s own death, which is waiting somewhere in the wings. British poet Philip Larkin wrote a great poem about that feeling:

Aubade

I work all day, and get half-drunk at night.
Waking at four to soundless dark, I stare.
In time the curtain-edges will grow light.
Till then I see what’s really always there:
Unresting death, a whole day nearer now,
Making all thought impossible but how
And where and when I shall myself die.
Arid interrogation: yet the dread
Of dying, and being dead,
Flashes afresh to hold and horrify.
The mind blanks at the glare. Not in remorse

The good not done, the love not given, time
Torn off unused – nor wretchedly because
An only life can take so long to climb
Clear of its wrong beginnings, and may never;
But at the total emptiness for ever,
The sure extinction that we travel to
And shall be lost in always. Not to be here,
Not to be anywhere,
And soon; nothing more terrible, nothing more true.

This is a special way of being afraid
No trick dispels. Religion used to try,
That vast, moth-eaten musical brocade
Created to pretend we never die,
And specious stuff that says No rational being
Can fear a thing it will not feel, not seeing
That this is what we fear – no sight, no sound,
No touch or taste or smell, nothing to think with,
Nothing to love or link with,
The anasthetic from which none come round.

And so it stays just on the edge of vision,
A small, unfocused blur, a standing chill
That slows each impulse down to indecision.
Most things may never happen: this one will,
And realisation of it rages out
In furnace-fear when we are caught without
People or drink. Courage is no good:
It means not scaring others. Being brave
Lets no one off the grave.
Death is no different whined at than withstood.

Slowly light strengthens, and the room takes shape.
It stands plain as a wardrobe, what we know,
Have always known, know that we can’t escape,
Yet can’t accept. One side will have to go.
Meanwhile telephones crouch, getting ready to ring
In locked-up offices, and all the uncaring
Intricate rented world begins to rouse.
The sky is white as clay, with no sun.
Work has to be done.
Postmen like doctors go from house to house.

CAPTCHA Follies

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Prove You’re a Human by Selecting the Grids Showing Black Pepper

I am not a big fan of CAPTCHA, another of those security tests to prove that (1) you’re human; (2) you have superfine X-Ray vision; and (3) you never make mistakes. Many a time, I have had to undergo half a dozen CAPTCHA screens showing cars, buses, bridges, traffic signals, crosswalks and other more or less indistinct on centimeter-square grids.

And why are they all road-traffic-oriented? It would be easier for me to distinguish a house fly from a mining dredge or a pen from a peacock.

To start with, CAPTCHA is an acronym for Completely Automated Public Turing test to tell Computers and Humans Apart. Strictly speaking, it should be CAPTTTCHA; but then, these things are always a bit wonky. As are the images shown, which typically are tiny and indistinct.

How many times have I tried to look into the tiny grid squares and attempt to distinguish a small car from a bus or an eighteen-wheeler. Eventually, I usually get in. It’s just that I resent having to jump through hoops to prove I’m human, and not just a malicious algorithm.

“The Thorns and Dangers of This World”

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King John Poisoned by Monks in Shakespeare’s Play

I have just finished re-reading Shakespeare’s The Life and Death of King John. While this is not the evil King John of Robin Hood fame, this is certainly a weak monarch who leaves England in an awful mess. As I read these lines spoken by Philip Faulconbridge, usually referred to in the play as “Bastard,” I was reminded of the United States under Donald Trump’s second term, which I liked to refer to as his Revenge Tour. The lines are from King John IV.3.140-158:

I am amazed, methinks, and lose my way
Among the thorns and dangers of this world.
How easy dost thou take all England up!
From forth this morsel of dead royalty [the body of Prince Arthur],
The life, the right and truth of all this realm
Is fled to heaven; and England now is left
To tug and scamble and to part by the teeth
The unowed interest of proud-swelling state.
Now for the bare-pick’d bone of majesty
Doth dogged war bristle his angry crest
And snarleth in the gentle eyes of peace:
Now powers from home and discontents at home
Meet in one line; and vast confusion waits,
As doth a raven on a sick-fall’n beast,
The imminent decay of wrested pomp.
Now happy he whose cloak and cincture can
Hold out this tempest. Bear away that child
And follow me with speed: I’ll to the king:
A thousand businesses are brief in hand,
And heaven itself doth frown upon the land.