The privilege of choice

For a number of years I have struggled to reconcile two beliefs: first, a conviction that a great deal of the social problems that blight many communities have far deeper roots than simple idleness, immorality and malice. This sort of thinking would seem backward to the Victorian philanthropists who first worked to alleviate the poverty and social oppression that was destroying working class society. Second, a refusal to allow these deeper causes to become an excuse, both for those involved in these issues and those who seek to understand them.

Recently, I managed to reconcile these beliefs.

It came from a simple realisation. Yes, there are a great many root causes behind such ills as poverty, crime, worklessness, social immobility and community breakdown that go beyond individual faults. Many honest, decent people are trapped in these vicious cycles through no fault of their own, and it is societies obligation to seek to understand these problems and help those who are afflicted by them. But that does not extenuate the individual from guilt for his own actions. We must all take final responsibility for what we do, or do not do.

This simple truth seems to be sadly lacking from much of the political discourse of our times. The coalition government often seems to regard the welfare state as solely the recourse of bone-idle job dodgers, drug addicts and criminals. But neither did Labour’s blind attempt to solve the problem by throwing money at it and smothering it in a blanket of beauracracy and pseudo-sociological excuses get us anywhere. 

Humans have evolved to become rational, thinking beings capable of great mental, emotional and spiritual complexity. This is not a right. As far as we know, we are alone on this planet in possessing this gift. It is a privilege. A privilege that, like most, comes with responsibilities. The fact that we can make rational choices based not (at least, not entirely) on our basic instincts or external influences, obligates us to make these choices and not shrink behind the cover of excuses.

For example, all these scumbags running around our streets attacking innocent people for no reason other than the way they look, or for easy cash, or whatever their reason. Over the last few years we have seen example after example of decent people who did nothing wrong having their lives ruined by meaningless violence. To stamp on someone’s head for a laugh is not a choice any rational being worthy of the privilege     should be making. It is a choice made by people who do not deserve to be treated with the respect of a human being, a respect they clearly give no other. It is a choice below that of a rabid dog. The dog does not have the privilege of choice. It is driven by a instinctual violence and aggression, magnified by the powerful disease into something that even a strictly train specimen cannot overcome. It does not make a clear, rational choice like we can.

We all have choices to make. Every single day of our lives we are presented with choices, some huge, many small. Whether we make the right choice or not, we should never forget that it is a privilege to make a choice at all.

The existential acceptance

Even a moderately sustained consideration of epistemology- the study of the nature of knowledge and thought- will lead, sooner or later, to a single brutal, honest admission. An admission that, for a brief yet punishing moment, may leave one deeply unsettled. It is an admission, a realisation, and eventually an acceptance, that I found myself facing recently.

We simply cannot know.

There are a great many things we cannot know with absolute certainty in the course of our lives, and most likely we will pass from existence without ever knowing. Fundamental questions about our nature, about the universe and all of existence, are perhaps so fundamental that they cannot be answered. Ever.

But this is not what I speak of. By paring back these questions that rely yet on fundamental assumptions, on the fundamental assumption, by considering them over and over that single assumption can be separated from the rest and held up for what it is.

It is the oldest question of philosophy and epistemology, the one upon which all such bodies of thought rest, the question with which Descartes and countless others wrestled without ever fully besting:

Do I truly exist, and how can I ever be really sure of it?

Do I truly exist? The age old question that philosophers have loved to wax lyrical over for centuries. But, perhaps, this is still one of those fundamental questions we could never truly know. Cogito ergo sum- ‘I think, therefore I am’- has been challenged through the centuries yet seems to, largely, hold up. But such a simple, obvious expression of rationalist logic cannot grasp the complexity, the uncertainty, the in-deterministic nature of our existence. Nor does it account for the existence of anyone or anything else bar the subject’s consciousness. The subjects physical body, even, may simply be an illusion.

Yes, we may perceive the universe as purely deterministic, as cause and effect, as a + b = c, yet perception is not necessarily truth. Perhaps our linear, deterministic perception is merely a hazy afterimage, like the shadows cast by  the sun. Perhaps our minds, clearly far from their full evolutionary potential (whether for good or ill, I shudder to think), cannot endure the full complexity and chaos of existence, the absence and falsehood of the fundamental assumptions we hold so dear. We simply cannot know.

And here we come to crux of the matter- we cannot ever be truly, utterly sure of our existence, independent of our surroundings.

Not in the utter surety we look for in our lives, that we tell ourselves we see everywhere, because to accept otherwise might render us totally incapable of living the lives our simple, linear minds set for us.

The honest mind, upon making this admission, must come to accept it with that familiar incongruous duality of our race. We must accept the uncertainty, the frail incompetence of our minds to even begin to truly understand a universe, an existence far larger, more complex and more chaotic than we could possibly know. And for a long, torturous moment, we must let ourselves bask in that knowledge, to glory in the sheer, terrifying freedom that comes with releasing the human impulse to always know, always understand, and to accept that we simply cannot know for sure.

Wisest is he who knows he does not know.

Perhaps Socrates, the father of western philosophy, was way ahead of us all.

BOOK REVIEW: Thousand Sons by Graham McNeill

Censured at the Council of Nikea for his flagrant use of sorcery, Magnus the Red and his Thousand Sons Legion retreat to their homeworld of Prospero to continue their use of the arcane arts in secret. But when the ill-fated primarch forsees the treachery of Warmaster Horus and warns the Emperor with the very powers he was forbidden to use, the Master of Mankind dispatches fellow primarch Leman Russ to attack Prospero itself. But Magnus has seen more than the betrayal of Horus and the witnessed revelations will change the fate of his fallen Legion, and its primarch, forever.

The ground-breaking Horus Heresy series continues with Thousand Sons, the tale of Magnus the Red and his psychically gifted legion. Graham McNeil weaves a wonderfully crafted tale of arrogance, hubris and forces beyond the comprehension of mortal beings bringing about the tragic downfall of a loyal and gifted son, along the way revealing yet more layers to the already immersive universe.

The Thousand Sons are quickly set apart from their fellow legions by more than just their powers, their quasi-Egyptian naming structure lending them an exotic, mysterious edge (even if it is hard to remember who is who at times) whilst the obvious warrior-scholar nature of the Thousand Sons clearly contrasts with the purely martial bearing of other legions, notably the Thousand Sons bitter rivals- the Space Wolves. Fans of the legion will no doubt find this book a feast of information and back-history, though hardcore Space Wolves fans may smart a little at the almost bestial descriptions of the warriors of Russ.

The ...Sons themselves come across as intelligent and often likeable, 3-dimensional persona’s rather than simply vile traitors, lending an even more tragic feel to their inevitable doom, which any fan of WH40k knows is coming but can’t help wishing it could end some other way. The ...Sons fall, though born of their refusal to meet the edicts given by the Emperor himself at the Council of Nikaea, is brought about with grim resignation as Magnus receives visions of Horus’ treachery and knows the only way to warn his father would bring doom to his legion and his world, Prospero. Thus, the reader is left moved by the tragic fate of a legion, and a primarch, whose role in future of mankind, the Emperor tells us, was vital. We do not learn what that role truly was, and may never do, adding yet more tragedy to the situation. 

Magnus personifies his legion tenfold- it is his pride and vanity, his colossal ego telling him he could best whatever the warp could throw at him that ultimately leads to his demise.

If I could make a single complaint about this book, it would be that the powers wielded by even the newest line-troops of the Thousand Sons seem somewhat outlandish and outsized- in almost every combat enemies are dispatched with thunderbolts and fireballs, or crushed with psychic force or their blood boiled in their veins. Whilst their psychic powers are the stamp-mark of the legion, here it seems the Thousand Sons are way more powerful than their counterparts in other legions, who have only bolters and chainswords to fight with. I’m sure this is a difficult balance to achieve, but one that fell slightly on the wrong side here.

Aside from this issue, however, Thousand Sons is a powerful, intriguing and moving narrative that fans of the legion, the Horus Heresy series and, I’m sure, a few outsiders will surely enjoy.

Strength is born of necessity

"Strength is born of necessity"

A late night conversation a few days ago saw this little comment come out of me, practically without thought. And since, I have realised how true it is. The strength to endure the things that life throws at us is born out of the necessity to bear them. Without suffering, without fear and pain and grief, there is no strength. Without these things, we remain as weak and helpless as the day we were born.

Most of us go through times where things are so bad it seems impossible to bear. But you get through, because you have to, because there is no other option other than the complete submission of one’s dignity, pride and honour.

We endure because we must, but we must endure in order to become stronger.

BOOK REVIEW: A Fighter’s Heart by Sam Sheridan

A Fighter’s Heart is a fascinating journey through the world of professional fighting. The author, Sam Sheridan, finds himself in Australia with plenty of cash, a determination not to work until he has spent it all, and a single desire- to find out what makes two men want to get into a ring or a cage and inflict extreme physical harm upon one another, and then do it himself.

The narrative get’s going in Thailand, at a rural muay thai camp where the author has begun training. As someone who has been training muay thai for a few months now, and has his eye set on both Thai training camps and competitive fighting, I found this section interesting and informative, in the end only strengthening my desire to do both. Culminating in the author’s first ever fight, apparently against a Japanese heavyweight karate champion, this section of the book proves an excellent introduction to the devastating thai fighting style.

From here, Sheridan travels the globe pursuing the fighting arts. First off, a stint with MMA legend and so-called ’supercoach’ Pat Miletich (creator of the Miletich Fighting System and one of the pioneers of the new breed of ’can-do-everything’ fighters who are equally skilled in all elements of the game) in Iowa. Sheridan finds himself training with the likes of former UFC heavyweight champ Tim Sylvia, and takes part in his second fight, this time an MMA bout. Sheridan’s comments on the UFC and MMA in general make for some interesting reading, especially considering the progress the sport has made since.

This is where things stall a little. A shoulder injury early on in his stint in Brazil learning BJJ sees Sheridan sit out the majority of his time there, instead focusing on the fights of others, including an Antonio Rodrigo Nogueira fight against Fedor Emelianenko in Pride FC. Interesting though this is, the reader is left feeling Sheridan’s disappointment- watching other people do stuff is all well and good, but you can’t learn something as complex as Brazilian Jiu-jitsu without doing it yourself.

Returning to the States, the author spends a little time with tai chi master C.C Chen, whose no-bullshit take on using tai chi for fighting leads to some interesting insights, though the section feels too short to fully pursue them. Next, he trains boxing with Virgil Hunter, which offers further insights this time into the world of boxing, its evolution and decline, though much of what is said in truth cements my lack of interest in boxing compared to muay thai and MMA. So far, however, Sheridan has been kept out of the ring since his MMA fight, largely by injury, and though we are told the point of his boxing training is to compete in an amateur bout, Sheridan eventually disposes of this idea. Instead, he says, he will return to Thailand to train and (he hopes) fight in Burma (or Myanmar as it is referred to here) where the fights are similar to Thailand, but bare-knuckle and with head butts allowed. This restores the reader’s excitement in the author fighting- Burmese lethwe fighting is the raw, bloody edge of modern ring fighting, without the cushion of protective gloves and with that savage, primal attack- form. But, alas, the fight does not pan out, and he returns to the US.

Further chapters cover dog fighting- a subject I am instinctively averse to but which was covered in an informative way that highlights the difference between the popular notion of fight-dog breeders (who, according to one guy he meets, do not ‘love’ their dog as a true trainer should) and the ‘professionals’ to be found in places like the Philippines- and a stint working with Pat Miletich on a film set. Though interesting in their own way, particularly the section on ’gameness’- the willingness to carry on after enduring more punishment than should be possible that makes a true fighter- these two chapters do not fit with the purpose of the book, and feel a little like filler.

The book is closed with perhaps its most interesting chapter, pulling together Sheridan’s experiences along with various scientific, psychological and often poetic interpretations on man’s need to fight.

Overall, this is an intriguing work and sure to be a hit with any fan or practitioner  of martial arts and fighting, though falls short of wider mass appeal. It’s a shame we couldn’t see more of the author actually fighting, but that’s life as a fighter- injuries happen, you just gotta suck it up and get on. Sam Sheridan understands that more than most.

The collective white guilt

In light of recent political events, this may seem a somewhat controversial, even dangerous subject. But that won’t stop me. It never will. The truth must be spoken.

The white race is suffering from a terrible malaise, a sickness that has hung around its neck for decades. This is the collective guilt for the actions of our ancestors, for slavery and colonialism, for the Great British Empire and others. In our multicultural society, it seems the celebration and pride in the white race is hidden behind guilty looks and disapproving pc-morons. Whereas black and asian communities are known for celebrating their roots, their traditions and culture, it seems we shy away from doing this ourselves.

Why is this? The immediate answer that jumps to mind is a deep-rooted terror and paranoia over anything that seems close to Nazism. But racial pride is NOT racial supremacy. A man can show pride in his race without believing it superior to all others. To further illustrate this problem, new UFC Heavyweight Champion, the Mexican-born Cain Velasquez, has a tattoo across his chest proclaiming, in big, bold letters, simply “Brown Pride.” Racial pride is no bad thing, so long as it doesn’t move into supremacy, but that’s not the problem. The problem, as far as I see, is the hypocrisy of people’s reaction to the tattoo. Velasquez is praised for his pride in his culture and heritage, but what would happen if say, Keith Jardine- a shaven-headed white guy- stepped  out with “White Pride” emblazoned across his flesh? The reaction, I’m sure, would be very different.

Perhaps this malaise is a side-effect of the permeation of the New Testament Christian theology throughout western society, destroying the Nietzschean noble morality in favour of the weak, submissive slave morality. But the effect of the forgiveness-religions are not restricted to the west, or by racial lines.

The complete answer is no doubt long and complex, but in an age where boundaries look increasingly likely to be redrawn along continental lines, where greedy, corrupt little politicians in Brussels threaten to undermine the very notion of a sovereign state and independent country, I hope we can recover from this sickness before it is too late.   

REVIEW: The Forgotten Legion- Ben Kane

The turbulent history of ancient Rome has become a popular subject of late, with books, TV shows and films popping up consistently. Ben Kane’s The Forgotten Legion takes a slightly different tune than most.

Set in the latter years of the Republic, as the First Triumvirate of Caesar, Pompey and Crassus struggled for power, it centres on four main characters whose stories weave together in a fascinating way.

Romulus is a fiery young slave, sold to the Ludus (a gladiator school) at fourteen by his harsh master, who becomes disgusted by the practice of slavery in Rome and, inspired by the tale of Sparatacus, harbours a deep desire to lead a similar slave revolt. His twin-sister, Fabiola, is at the same time sold to a brothel, though her quest is more personal- discover the identity of the noble who raped her mother years ago, and exact revenge.

In his time at the Ludus, Romulus becomes close friends with Brennus, a fearsome Gaulish fighter and sole survivor of the Allobroges tribe, haunted by the Roman destruction of his people, and the killing of his younger brother, his wife and his child.

Finally, Traquinius, an Etruscan haruspex (or soothsayer) is introduced early on, but only about halfway through the story does he encounter Romulus and Brennus. He is driven by the need to preserve the legacy of his race and vocation, which have been all but subsumed into the Roman culture.

There is some feeling of stock character types to them- the fiery, noble youngster; the proud old warrior and mentor; the wizened mystic and the beautiful, tragic young woman. However, Kane weaves their stories together in a compelling fashion that overrides these concerns easily. Of course, readers of Bahktin will probably see the connection to his concept of how all folk tales- the source of our modern stories- are made up of the same set of character types, but that’s a question for another day.

One of the interesting things about this novel is that, though it begins in Rome, by the end of the book, the three male characters are half the world away, on the furthest fringes of the Parthian empire. I won’t spoil how they got there, but suffice to say that they are swept up in the disastrous invasion of Parthia by Crassus.

Fabiola, meanwhile, keeps us updated with events in Rome and provides an anchor to the adventures of Romulus, Brennus and Tarquinius, reminding the reader of where this story truly centres. By acquiring Brutus, Caesar’s closest friend and ally, as a lover, Fabiola gives the reader a glimpse into the goings on at the highest echelons of Roman politics and society. Also, by forming a relationship between a fictional character and a historical figure, Kane adds a sense of realism and involvement that might otherwise have been missing.  

Now, it is clear from the outset that this is going to be a long and involved tale. Standing at some 500 pages, this is just the first in a series. As the final sentence comes to a close, you realise the story has only just begun, leaving the reader with a deep desire to simply go out and buy the next book so one can continue reading with barely a pause. Job done there then.

Some reviewers have picked up on a few historical inaccuracies, however, though I am usually a stickler for detail and realism in my historical fiction, here this doesn’t overly bother me. The story is compelling enough and the backdrop- Crassus’ invasion and the struggles of the Triumvirate- are accurate enough to avoid grating.

However, there were two things that did jar slightly. Firstly, the consistent and startling accuracy of Tarquinius’ prophecies, made from examining weather patterns and animal guts. This asks for a suspension of belief that may be a little too much, and seems to direct the flow of the story. However, this small bugbear does little to detract from the quality of the novel.

Secondly, Fabiola’s quest for information regarding the noble who raped her mother- and who therefore, we are told, is father to herself and Romulus- leads to suspicion falling on Julius Caesar, yet to make an actual appearance in the tale (something I have a feeling will be coming later on). Of course, I cannot truly know what kind of man Gaius Julius Caesar was, but nothing I have read about him implies he was a rapist. Having said that, the Roman culture was far removed from our own, and a young patrician raping a slave wouldn’t be considered worthy of a mention.

Overall, this is an intriguing and compelling opening to what promises to be a truly epic saga- I look forward to reading the next instalment.