William Faulkner, Nobel Prize Speech

"I believe that man will not merely endure. He will prevail." But it was a quieter claim in the same speech that more securely gives voice to the sustained labor of this writer at his desk in Oxford, tirelessly inventing imaginative structures of human pain and defeat and momentary triumph. "I feel that this award was not made to me as a man," Faulkner wrote, "but to my work, a life's work in the agony and sweat of the human spirit, not for glory and least of all for profit, but to create out of the materials of the human spirit something which did not exist before."

William Faulkner is without a doubt the best writer I have ever read. Having beaten my head against James Joyce's Ulysses, there is in my mind no doubt who the superior writer is. But, does this extract from his acceptance speech for the 1949 Nobel Prize mean that to be a good storyteller, in the manner that Faulkner was, I must be optimistic about mankind? My stories written with some kind of adoration? I see the average man as contemptible (not that I have contempt for him), yes there is love, yes there is the desire for his best, not with any pessimism either, but there is also the fact that the average man is a depraved hick, a moron whose inbreeding is of the intellectual sort rather than the genetic.

(CNN) -- Britain's Prince Harry "deserves a break" after his apology for wearing a Nazi uniform to a costume party, his aunt, the Duchess of York, has told CNN.

Harry, third in line for the British throne, was pictured on the front page of Thursday editions of Britain's The Sun newspaper wearing a swastika on his sleeve at the party. The 20-year-old was also holding a drink and smoking a cigarette. The rest here.

The royals lost me on this one. I was all in favor of retaining them (not that I have a say), but this one got me. The inbreeding has obviously dimmed the intellect of the current crop, the need for someone to usurp the throne of England is evident...who's with me???? I need plane fare.

On a serious note, there are actually people who defend this snotty little fucker who is probably too dumb to recognize what his uniform meant. At least I hope that's what it is. Of course, these people can't see anything really bad about Auschwitz, hell some of them don't even know what Auschwitz was.

Words

I am addicted to words. Words are the constant in my life, a thread of addiction, less than and more than food. My mind plays with them, turns them over, works them out like little math-problems. The words in me are so full of life that they explode out my fingertips. Little juxtapositions of words, words copulating on the page, words making their music down my forearms in little movements on the keyboard. Ideas don't have meaning without words, they are frameless concepts, lies, illusions, but when they become words they become reality. All this might sound vain, I am not a master writer, I have not won myself a Pulitzer, but I AM an addict, nothing boastful in that.

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ALL THE JOYS OF BLOODY VENGEANCE
By
WR BULL (Part 3)


You come to my house today? My house? Talk to my woman?
Who tell you to come? You come to my house, you mus' be mad. You goin' learn something tonight. You don' have nuttin dere. She don' wan' see you. She don' wan' know you. You are not nuttin'. You undastan'?

He slaps him with the gun and then holds it to his head, needing to see fear in Neill's eyes. Neill gives it to him. Slides off the bed to his knees on the floor and begs for his life. He even tries to piss himself but it won't come. Instead he has an erection. He promises never to come to the house again. The piece de resistance? He offers to blow the man. He is so sorry, so terrified that he is willing to humiliate himself. He watches for confusion in the man's eyes. The moment when he is so distracted by this that his brain loses contact with his trigger finger. When it comes his hand comes up with the scalpel and plunges it into the man's crotch. Then he stands, slicing upward as he does, and reaching out for the gun. No problem, both hands go down to the crotch. Other guy doesn't even know what happened when he sees the gun pointed at him. Big Black is on his knees on the floor, in shock, wondering if what he thought just happened, really did.

Behind the gun, the world is a better place.

He fires once and misses. Instead of running, the other one falls to his knees as well. He walks closer and fires into the younger man's right eye.

The other is bleeding profusely and sweating. He looks up at Neill but doesn't see him, his face shiny and gray. Doesn't see anything except for the fact that his penis has become detached from the rest of his body. Neill puts the gun against Terry's new boyfriend's forehead and blows his brains out.

He steps out into the night. The air is cool and there are no sirens. It is clean, the rain having just fallen and he has a gun now. The smell of gunfire and blood in his nostrils he takes a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and lights one. Menthols. Ah, the joy of bloody vengeance.

Cigarette smoked, he sets out to go kill his ex-girlfriend.

THE END.

REAL RACISM

In a major historical study, Elkins, an assistant professor of history at Harvard, relates the gruesome, little-known story of the mass internment and murder of thousands of Kenyans at the hands of the British in the last years of imperial rule. Beginning with a trenchant account of British colonial enterprise in Kenya, Elkins charts white supremacy's impact on Kenya's largest ethnic group, the Kikuyu, and the radicalization of a Kikuyu faction sworn by tribal oath to extremism known as Mau Mau. Elkins recounts how in the late 1940s horrific Mau Mau murders of white settlers on their isolated farms led the British government to declare a state of emergency that lasted until 1960, legitimating a decade-long assault on the Kikuyu. First, the British blatantly rigged the trial of and imprisoned the moderate leader Jomo Kenyatta (later Kenya's first postindependence prime minister). Beginning in 1953, they deported or detained 1.4 million Kikuyu, who were systematically "screened," and in many cases tortured, to determine the extent of their Mau Mau sympathies. Much more here.

ALL THE JOYS OF BLOODY VENGEANCE
By
WR BULL (Part 2)

Before too long it was December and his uncle let him go. The days were moist and hot, the continuing existence of the people around him, their satisfaction with the shit life of wanting more shit made him disgusted to a point of madness and only the weed could bring him down. But when there was no money to buy weed he thought about murder and the release of it. They felt like cockroaches though. Like going into your kitchen at 3:00 in the morning and seeing a bunch of them huddled there on the floor over a crumb of bread, even though you are barefooted you want to kill, and kill and kill.

He did not carry a knife, instead, he carried a scalpel.

He finds himself one evening with a need to talk to her. So he goes to the house, which is not far away. He stands at the gate and calls, hello? Hello? An old woman, presumably the boyfriend's mother comes out and asks him who he wants, she is friendly,or at least not unfriendly. He says he wants to talk to Terry for a minute, she says, oh. Then who should I say is calling? He says tell her Neill. She goes in quickly without saying anything more. Terry comes out and comes to the gate, looking like she was preparing to tell him to fuck off. He says, Hi. She asks how are you? He lies, Fine. She says, Look, I need you to go. I'm sorry. He sees that there is no more love, he sees that she never loved because love doesn't go away like that, even after four years. He sees that he needs her so bad he will have to kill her dead.

He walks away. She calls to him, says something that he cannot hear, but its tone is apologetic. He says fuck you.

They kick down his door in the night like the badasses they imagined themselves to be. Big Black Boyfriend and his posse of one, Smaller Black Boy. Neill woke up without jumping, without his heart beating fast. Too many late night searches, too violent many attempts to get him to suck cock by imagined badasses. At the back of his mind as he turns the light on is the fact that he does not care. When he sees who it is and that they have brought a gun a part of him smiles.

(END OF PART 2)

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