No Triumphalism Here

Wars Go Through Three Phases

It seems that all the wars that involved the United States after 1945 have gone through three phases:

  • “Shock and Awe” and Waving the Flag and Glorifying the Power of Our Armaments.
  • Disenchantment sets in as the carnage continues apace and our boys start coming home in body bags. This is the longest stage of the military engagement.
  • The end where we just walk away call call the mess we have created a Glorious Victory. Followed by recriminations that last as long as the war.

Here is a poem from Lord Dunsany of Ireland, who fought on the British side in the Boer War and the First World War. He is better known as the author of such great fantasy novels as The King of Elfland’s Daughter and The Curse of the Wise Woman—not to mention scores of great short stories.

A Dirge of Victory (Sonnet)

Lift not thy trumpet, Victory, to the sky,
Nor through battalions nor by batteries blow,
But over hollows full of old wire go,
Where among dregs of war the long-dead lie
With wasted iron that the guns passed by.
When they went eastwards like a tide at flow;
There blow thy trumpet that the dead may know,
Who waited for thy coming, Victory.

It is not we that have deserved thy wreath,
They waited there among the towering weeds.
The deep mud burned under the thermite’s breath,
And winter cracked the bones that no man heeds:
Hundreds of nights flamed by: the seasons passed.
And thou last come to them at last, at last!

Enter the Santa Ana Winds

As Predicted in Yesterday’s Blog Post

There are several ways that Mother Nature punishes Southern California for its (otherwise) mild climate:

  • Earthquakes, such as the giant temblors that hit the San Fernando Valley in 1971 and 1994
  • Wildfires
  • The Santa Ana Winds (sometimes called the Devil Winds)

The Santa Ana Winds and the wildfires are closely connected. In January 2025, the Pacific Palisades and Eaton fires were aided and abetted by dry wind gusts that reached up to 100 miles per hour (161 km per hour). I strongly suspect that earthquakes have a role to play in this devil’s brew of calamities, but I am at this point not sure exactly how.

According to Wikipedia, the Santa Ana Winds are what are called katabatic winds:

A katabatic wind (named from Ancient Greek κατάβασις (katabásis) ‘descent’) is a downslope wind caused by the flow of an elevated, high-density air mass into a lower-density air mass below. The spelling catabatic is also used. Since air density is strongly dependent on temperature, the high-density air mass is usually cooler, and the katabatic winds are relatively cool or cold.

In yesterday’s blog post, I stated that dry weather and gusty winds were predicted for today. The prediction was accurate. I sat around for much of the day sneezing and blowing my nose. Hopefully, the dry winds from the northeast will die down and I will be able to breathe normally.

Takony

It’s the Hungarian Word for Mucus

For the last couple of days, we have been experiencing a dry Santa Ana offshore wind. It’s like the sirocco in the Mediterranean: When it blows, everyone is uncomfortable. Perhaps the best description of the Santa Ana comes in a story by Raymond Chandler called “Red Wind”:

There was a desert wind blowing that night. It was one of those hot dry Santa Anas that come down through the mountain passes and curl your hair and make your nerves jump and your skin itch. On nights like that every booze party ends in a fight. Meek little wives feel the edge of the carving knife and study their husbands’ necks. Anything can happen. You can even get a full glass of beer at a cocktail lounge.

In my case, my life turns to outputting mucus, wither through sneezing or extensive nose blowing. My handkerchiefs turn soaking wet in minutes, though they can dry quickly if there is a pause in the snot generation.

By the looks of tomorrow’s weather forecast, tomorrow will not be a good day for me, as there will be only 15% humidity and wind blowing at sixteen miles per hour. It will be a good day to sit around with a pile of clean handkerchiefs and read a good book. (Paper towels tend to irritate my skin.)

A note about the Hungarian term that is the title of this blog. According to Google’s AI summary of the work taknyos:

“Taknyos” is a Hungarian adjective meaning “snotty,” “snivelly,” or having a runny nose, derived from the noun takony (snot). It is commonly used to describe children with cold symptoms, or colloquially as an insult for a young, inexperienced person. 

  • Literal Meaning: Snotty, covered in nasal mucus.
  • Colloquial Usage: Can be used to refer to a brat or a young, snot-nosed kid.
  • Related Term: Takony (noun) = snot/mucus.

Since I was allergic all my life, the words “takony” and “taknyos” were pretty liberally applied to me by my family and Hungarian friends. I’ve never been able to shake the implication.

Mullah Nasruddin

Islam Is Not All Fundamentalist

This is a repost from March 29, 2023.

Originally, there was a historical Mullah Nasruddin. He was born in Turkey and lived between 1208 and 1284. Stories multiplied about him, and eventually he was widely known between the Balkans and China. In the 20th Century, Idries Shah published a charming series of books featuring anecdotes about the Mullah. Here are two of them:

TWO IN ONE

Nasruddin was taking a shortcut home through the cemetery, where a burial was in progress. As he walked past the group of mourners, he overheard one of them saying: “Today is a sad day for us all. We have buried an honest man and a politician.”

A sad day indeed, Nasruddin thought to himself. I didn’t realise that the situation was so dire that they are now compelled to bury two people in the same grave!

GOD’S WISDOM

One hot summer’s day, Nasruddin was relaxing in an orchard under the shade of an apricot tree. Looking around him, and marvelling at nature’s bounty, he wondered why apples, cherries, and other small fruit grew on trees, while large melons and pumpkins grew on vines at ground level.

Sometimes it is hard to understand god’s ways, he pondered. Imagine letting apricots, cherries, and apples grow on tall trees while large melons and pumpkins grow on delicate vines!

At that precise moment, the mullah’s reverie was interrupted by an unripe apricot falling from the tree and bouncing off his bald head. Roused from his musings, Nasruddin stood up, raised his hands and face towards heaven, and said humbly: “Forgive me, god, for questioning your wisdom. You are all-knowing and all-powerful. I would have been in a sorry state now if melons grew on trees.”

Objective: Zero

Can You See Three Ayatollahs in This Picture?

Oh oh, there I go again! I said I wouldn’t write about politics, and a few hundred bombs and a thousand casualties later later I got so upset that I couldn’t help myself.

I have just finished reading a book about the Second Punic War, in which a Carthaginian force under the generalship of the brilliant Hannibal Barca, invaded Italy and for seventeen years fought the Roman Republic. In his book Hannibal’s War, British Military Historian John Peddie writes:

Wars, historically, wear many different complexions: they may be ideological or defensive, punitive or vengeful. They may be fought for economic or social causes or for reasons of aggrandisement. But however they may rise, of one thing we may be certain: they cannot be successfully fought without a clear-cut, grand objective [italics mine], within which will lie other, minor, objectives, each one a stepping stone, culminating, hopefully, in victory.

Since the end of the Second World War, the United States seems to have lost sight of this simple fact. What was our objective in Korea? Vietnam? Nicaragua? Iraq? Afghanistan? In every case, we just decided it was just eating up too much in time and resources and just declared a victory. But in every case, was it a victory?

The same is the case with Benjamin Netanyahu’s block by block destruction of Gaza. What has he accomplished to date? Oh, and yes, he is with Trump in invading Iran. And how will that end?

I can just see gas prices rising so quickly that Trump will have to declare a victory prematurely. Wars used to be pretty popular, until we started losing all of them.

Why Didn’t Napoleon Invade England?

Between 1803 and 1805, Napoleon started planning for the invasion of England. His planning was financed by the sale of the Louisiana Purchase to the fledgling American Republic. Yet, the invasion never took place. Why?

According to Louis Antoine Fauvelet de Bourrienne, a French diplomat close to him, when asked why the invasion was called off, Bonaparte replied:

A great battle will be fought, which I shall gain; but I must count upon 30,000 men killed, wounded or taken prisoners. If I march on London a second battle will be fought. I shall suppose myself again victorious. But what shall I do in London with an army reduced three/fourths and without hope of reinforcements. It would be madness.

It is unfortunate that Napoleon did not apply the same reasoning in his invasion of Russia a few years later. There is a famous chart which shows graphically what happened to the French forces on the way to Moscow (shown in brown) and during the retreat (shown in black). The thickness of the line graphically illustrates the truth of Napoleon’s decision not to invade Britain.

Charles Minard’s Famous Graph of the Failure of Napoleon’s Russian Invasion

Somehow, over a period of some few years, did Napoleon’s military ability suddenly vanish?

Filament Filament Filament

Walt Whitman (1819-1892) finds a beautiful metaphor for the questing human soul, namely: a spider constructing his web.

A Noiseless Patient Spider

A noiseless patient spider,
I mark’d where on a little promontory it stood isolated,
Mark’d how to explore the vacant, vast surrounding,
It launched forth filament, filament, filament, out of itself.
Ever unreeling them, ever tirelessly speeding them.

And you O my soul where you stand,
Surrounded, detached, in measureless oceans of space,
Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing, seeking the spheres to connect them.
Till the bridge you will need be form’d, till the ductile anchor hold,
Till the gossamer thread you fling catch somewhere, O my soul.

Yvette’s Children

Humanitarian Yvette Pierpaoli (1938-1999)

Humanitarians tend to come off as pretty insufferable people. British author John le Carré (a.k.a. David Cornwell) tells of one who had a sense of humor. The story is told in le Carré’s The Pigeon Tunnel, an autobiographical work that traces the real-life antecedents of the characters in his books. This one tells of Yvette Pierpaoli’s efforts to save Cambodian children during the Khmer Rouge atrocities.

I made a couple more journeys to Phnom Penh before the city finally fell. By the time I left for the last time, the Indian shopkeepers and the girls in their rickshaws were shaping to be the last to get out: the traders because the greater the shortages, the higher the prices; the girls because in their innocence they believed their services would be in demand whoever won. In the event, they were recruited to the Khmer Rouge, or died of deprivation in the killing fields. From Saigon, as it still was, I had written to Graham Greene to tell him that I had reread The Quiet American, and that it stood up wonderfully. Improbably the letter reached him, and he wrote back urging me to visit the museum in Phnom Penh and admire the bowler hat with ostrich feathers with which Khmer kings had been crowned. I had to tell him that not only was there no bowler hat; there was no museum any more.

Yvette has become the subject of many wild tales, some apocryphal but many, despite their improbability, true. My favourite, which I heard from her own mouth—not always a guarantee of veracity—tells how in Phnom Penh’s final days she marched a troop of orphaned Khmer children into the French Consulate and demanded passports, one for each child.

“But whose children are they?” the besieged consular official protested.

“They are mine. I am their mother.”

“But they’re all the same age!”

“And I had many quadruplets, you idiot!”

Defeated, perhaps complicit, the Consul demanded to know their names. Yvette reeled them off: “Lundi, Mardi, Mercredi, Jeudi, Vendredi …” [The names of the days of the week in French]

The Stage to Lordsburg

Scene from John Ford’s Stagecoach (1939)

This morning. I watched John Ford’s Stagecoach for the nth time. It is a film I love, partly because it was the director’s first great Western and the film that made John Wayne a star. (Of course, Ford had been making Westerns since 1917, when he filmed Straight Shooting with Harry Carey, Senior.)

I particularly love the scenes at the beginning, when the full stagecoach is making its way with a cavalry escort to Apache Wells. The scenes were shot in Arizona’s Monument Valley, which Ford made famous with his films. Every one of the characters on the stagecoach is interesting and has his or her say, from John Wayne to Thomas Mitchell, John Carradine, George Bancroft, Berton Churchill, Andy Devine, to Claire Trevor and the lovely Louise Platt.

When the stagecoach is attacked by Apaches as it nears Lordsburg, the Indians are real Indians—mostly Navajos.

In the years to come, Ford made many more great westerns, films like My Darling Clementine (1946), Fort Apache and Three Godfathers (1948), She Wore a Yellow Ribbon (1949), Wagon Master and Rio Grande (1950), The Searchers (1956), Sergeant Rutledge (1960), Two Rode Together (1961), and The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance (1962).

John Ford received more best director Oscars than any one else, yet none of them were for a Western. One of those Westerns, The Searchers, is considered by many (including myself) to be the greatest film ever made. (Will I be watching the Oscars on March 15? Nope!)

I will continue watching John Ford’s Westerns again and again, and they will continue to amaze me.

Disability

Early this week, I filled out an application for a handicapped parking placard and left it with my physician to fill out the info on my disabilities. It’s difficult to admit it, but I am a little wobbly on my pins. Years ago, I had hip replacement surgery; and, lately, my knees has resisted any attempt to stand up and walk normally. So now, at the age of eighty-one, I now regard myself as disabled. And it doesn’t look as if I’ll qualify for the 2028 Los Angeles Olympics.

No matter. I realize I can no longer regard myself as a young man. In fact, I never really could. Ever since my brain tumor at the age of twenty-one, I have seen myself as somehow outside of time. Am I really over eighty years old? The numbers don’t lie, so I won’t either.

The only difference the handicapped placard will make is that parking will be much easier. I don’t mind walking a bit, but I hate having to walk three blocks to catch a train downtown from the Bundy-Exposition Station because construction workers building a giant condo complex are taking up all the non-handicapped spaces. And it will be nice not having to carry a roll of quarters in my car for parking meters. (In California, I can now park by any on-street parking meter without having to pay.)

Does that mean I am now officially an old fart?