Books: America Alone and The Spirit of Churchill

I finished America Alone yesterday, and today I started The Spirit of Churchill by Debbie Brezina. America Alone was about the moral cowardice of the West, and The Spirit of Churchill is about an era when the West was still brave. Brezina's book makes an excellent prequel to Steyn's. There wasn't much that was new to me in America Alone. Steyn discusses the dangers of the increasing Islamization of the West. I was familiar with most of his points-- the problems with global demographics (and how it relates to the spread of Islam), the moral poverty of the West and the moral strength of Islam, the incompatibility of Islam and Western freedom, Islam's inherent violent bent, etc. So over all, America Alone was depressing. After all, critics of the book called it 'alarmist propaganda' or something. Which would be a bad thing, except for the fact that Steyn is right. Whether a book is alarmist or not has nothing to do with whether or not it makes valid points. And not only are his points valid, they're also pointy and uncomfortable, like swords: the Sword of Islam. It's worth a read. The Spirit of Churchill, on the other hand, is nothing short of inspiring. It's amazing how easily I'd forgotten how incredible Hitler's rise and defeat actually was. The West needs another Churchill; we need another Charles Martel. We've got far too many Chamberlains in politics these days. I've been reminded how rare true courage is. Perhaps it's because courage is a Christian virtue; only the weak can be brave. It is the lamb and not the lion which can cultivate courage. Courage is the lamb becoming the lion, despite the knowledge that he is still a lamb. At any rate, I highly recommend The Spirit of Churchill to your reading lists. Cheers,

A mosque on ground zero? Sure! Why not? It's not like the 9/11 hijackers were Muslims or anything.

Granted, the mosque won't be on the ruins of the two towers; it'll be an a nearby building that was struck by airplane debris. I don't know that the Islamic center can be legally opposed without violating the first amendment, but it ought to be recognized for what it is. A slap in the face of the American people.

The mosque is supposed to be, as the linked article states, "part of an Islamic community center to be operated by a group called the Cordoba Initiative, which says the center will be a space for moderate Muslim voices." The trouble with this, of course, is the notion of 'moderate Muslims.'

What is a 'moderate Muslim?' The term is so vague as to be completely meaningless. It's often used vis a vis 'radical Muslim,' which implies that a 'moderate Muslim' is simply a Muslim who isn't trying to blow persons up. Well, that definition works just fine. The trouble is that that isn't what is meant by 'moderate Muslim.'

What is usually meant by 'moderate Muslim' is a Muslim who keeps his faith at home and in the mosque. In other words, a 'moderate Muslim' would be nearly indistinguishable from your typical American self-proclaimed 'Christian.' But this is ridiculous. Islam requires the practice of Sharia law. Sharia law does appear in four distinct schools, but all four agree that anyone who wishes to leave Islam ought to be given three days to return to Islam. If after three days he refuses, he must be killed. I won't even talk about other human rights violations in Sharia law, that one example ought to suffice.

Myth: Islam means peace. No, Islam means submission, and there are no Qur'anic verses which command peace with non-Muslims. I dare you to prove me wrong.

Thus, moderate Muslims are really Muslims who are against Islamism--almost like Christians who oppose the organized Church. They aren't being consistent.

Don't get me wrong, I wish all Muslims were truly moderate Muslims. (I wish even more that they were all Christians. Jesus said, "Love your enemies, and pray for those who persecute you." Try find that one in the Qur'an.) I simply think that we've been greatly mislead in believing that most Muslims are as moderate and modern as we've made them out to be.

One would think that this slap to the face that this new mosque represents would wake us up, but nah, we're too drunk on our own smug delusions--like the one that murderers only kill persons because society has failed them. Don't worry, Mr. Terrorist! We know that you're really a nice person. You're just upset because we've been so bigoted as to think bad thoughts about Islam, like the idea that it might be wrong.

Okay, so I'm upset. But shouldn't you be upset, too? I should probably temper my language; it's not going to win over any Muslims who read this. But I'm not writing to them. I'm writing to post-Christian Americans who ought to know better. Don't be a frog in a pot. Pay attention to that water. It's been heating up for several hundred years.

Peace,

In a Chapter on America Was Written...

"It may be said with rough accuracy that there are three stages in the life of a strong people. First, it is a small power, and fights small powers. Then it is a great power, and fights great powers. Then it is a great power, and fights small powers, but pretends that they are great powers, in order to rekindle the ashes of its ancient emotion and vanity. After that, the next step is to become a small power itself."

-G. K. Chesterton, Heretics

An Object in Motion Will Stay in Motion -- A Short Story

-->

An Object in Motion Will Stay in Motion

By D. Araujo

I’m always so close, yet he always eludes me; he vanishes into the heat-blurred Arizona horizon like a lightning ghost. I’ve hunted him my whole life, just as my father did before me and his father before him. My superior intellect—IQ, two hundred and seven: super genius—has allowed me to transcend the worn-out methods of my ancestors. That was the age of tooth and claw. This is the age of mail-order catalogues.

Today I got closer than usual. I spent the morning with my usual traps. I painted a strip on the road with instant glue and hid behind a cactus with a giant wooden mallet. In the past, I tried the glue and the mallet individually to no effect. My prey zipped across the glue like it was cast-iron skillet. And I always time my mallet swings wrong; I usually end up hitting myself. But I see no reason why they shouldn’t work in combination. Even if the glue slows him only a few milliseconds, that should be enough time for me to strike. At any rate, I routinely try a new twist on an old trap before breakfast.

Seconds after I hid, a cone of dust approached like a spear up the road. I stifled a laugh at the thought of my nemesis glued and smashed. I counted down and leapt, wielding my mallet. My timing was impeccable. After the dust settled, I saw that he stood beside me; he had stopped before the glued strip. I also found myself standing in the instant glue and my mallet glued to the road after my great swing. The fiend stuck his tongue out at me and dashed away. Then I got hit by a mover’s truck.

After scraping myself off the pavement and breakfasting on large insects, I worked on my mid-morning attack. I had drawn plans for a trap which called for TNT. I strung a trip wire across the road and packed the steep hill by the road with explosives. The plan, of course, was that he would collide with the trip wire and throw an avalanche of rocks upon himself. Engrossed in my task, I failed to notice the familiar cone of dust rocketing along on the road: the soon-to-be avalanchee at its point. When I heard his cries, I jumped and turned in horror to see him dashing toward the wire. Rocks exploded around me; I was weightless, I was deaf, I was blind. I was also on fire.

After the defeats of the morning, I welcomed the arrival of a new apparatus in the mail, namely, a molecular projector. This machine has two settings: it either copies an object or dissolves it, projecting the object’s molecules and reassembling it at a distance. It closely resembles a teleportation device, except that this apparatus can cast objects high in the air. I’m sure you are asking yourself why I would want to cast myself in the air—have I got a pair of wings, perhaps? No, of course not! But uncommon innovation separates us super geniuses from the ranks of common folk. No, I shall not cast myself, but anvils. It will rain anvils, I told myself.

I dragged the machine to a hill overlooking the road. I set the dial to “duplication”—I have only one anvil—and practiced dropping anvils out of the clouds. Soon, I could hit any cactus I wanted with as many anvils as I pleased. Or I could spray anvils over a region. Then, with the sun sinking toward the horizon, I readied myself for the last attack of the day. I put a large bowl of birdseed in the road. I even stuck a sign in it: FREE BIRDSEED. Then I returned to my spot on the hill behind the machine and waited.

I waited for an hour. The sun was as red as the cliffs and the air still and silent. I could almost hear the ground cooling under my feet. Suddenly, a trail of dust appeared in the distance. He was coming.

My timing was perfect. Just as I expected, he halted at the birdseed. A great cloud of anvils crashed on the road. When the dust blew away, there was no trace of him. I hurried down to where the anvils lay like a black blanket over the road. It was all anvil black and dust red, till at length I spied a spot of color, a blue splotch against the red earth—a wing. At last! I had captured him. I had crushed him. I chuckled with glee. After years of pain (road rash, dramatic falls, third degree burns) and hundreds of traps, tons of explosives, rocket skates and even earthquake pills, I had won. Now I could taste this mythic delicacy.

The wing twitched; I stopped laughing. What was I without him? The pursuit was over. What had I left to pursue? Without him, I had no epic struggle, and nothing stretched before me but the petty trials of mere survival. If I destroyed him, I destroyed myself.

I tipped the anvil up. Flat as a pancake, he looked at me cross-eyed and dazed. Then, waddling away, he stuck his tongue out. I stared back at him and smiled. WHAM—something hit me in the head and drove me into the ground. I guess that earlier an anvil had gotten stuck in the sky. I heard him waddle closer and put his head by my flattened body.

BEEP! BEEP!

And he was gone.

The Club of Good Cents

EDIT 21/07/2010: My post is now up.

A small intellectual club, of which I am a part, has just begun a blog. Check it out here. We will be posting weekly. I'm a little bit behind on my contribution (the first installment of a series on the great weaknesses of atheism), but it'll be up by the end of next week.

Check us out! Go read the current article on religious freedom and persecution.

Peace,

To Be--That is the Answer

Text for an art song I wrote this spring. I was writing my senior thesis (on madness in Chesterton's fiction) during the same period, so this lyric was heavily influenced by my good friend G.K. At any rate, I thought I'd share it because I've wanted to post for a while, but I have absolutely nothing to say. Ah well, cheers.

To Be--That is the Answer

The million windows of the midnight air
Shut in the world's lunacies and sins,
But light drips down to catch our tired eyes
And shed the warmth of heaven's feasting fires.

On winter nights spent staring into fires,
I'm madly pricked to joy in both my eyes
And curse with love the sickness of my sins--
That I forgot to praise my God for air.

Warning: the Constitution Might Offend Your Socialist Sensabilities

This made me sick. Way to start the morning.

The country that our Founding Fathers knew has already been completely destroyed, but some folks seem intent on destroying every last trace of what we were. I'd call it treason if treason was still a crime.