Dec. 16th, 2012

monk111: (Mori: by tiger_ace)
Mr. Chernow gives us a vivid description of slavery on the caribbean island of Nevis, on which Alexander Hamilton was born and raised.

_ _ _

Violence was commonplace in Nevis, as in all the slave-ridden sugar islands. The eight thousand captive blacks easily dwarfed in number the one thousand whites, “a disproportion,” remarked one visitor, “which necessarily converts all such white men as are not exempted by age and decrepitude into a well-regulated militia.” Charlestown was a compact town of narrow, crooked lanes and wooden buildings, and Hamilton would regularly have passed the slave auction blocks at Market Shop and Crosses Alley and behold barbarous whippings in the public square. The Caribbean sugar economy was a system of inimitable savagery, making the tobacco and cotton plantations of the American south seem almost genteel by comparison. The mortality rate of slaves hacking away at sugarcane under a pitiless tropical sun was simply staggering: three out of five died within five years of arrival, and slave owners needed to replenish their fields constantly with fresh victims. One Nevis planter, Edward Huggins, set a sinister record when he administered 365 lashes to a male slave and 292 to a female. Evidently unfazed by this sadism, a local jury acquitted him of all wrongdoing. A decorous British lady who visited St. Kitts stared aghast at naked male and female slaves being driven along dusty roads by overseers who flogged them at regular intervals, as if they needed steady reminders of their servitude: “Every ten negroes have a driver who walks behind them, holding in his hand a short whip and a long one... and you constantly observe where the application has been made.” Another British visitor said that “if a white man kills a black, he cannot be tried for his life for the murder.... If a negro strikes a white man, he is punished with the loss of his hand and, if he should draw blood, with death.” Island life contained enough bloodcurdling scenes to darken Hamilton’s vision for life, instilling an ineradicable pessimism about human nature that infused all his writing.

All of the horror was mingled incongruously with the natural beauty of turquoise waters, flaming sunsets, and languid palm fronds. In this geologically active zone, the hills bubbled with high-sulphur hot springs that later became tourist meccas. The sea teemed with lobster, snapper, grouper, and conch, while the jungles were alive with parrots and mongooses. There were also monkeys galore, green vervets shipped from Africa earlier in the century. Many travelers prized the island as a secluded refuge, one finding it so “captivating” that he contended that if a man came there with his wife, he might linger forever in the “sweet recess” of Nevis. It was all very pleasant and balmy, supremely beautiful and languid, if you were white, were rich, and turned a blind eye to the black population expiring in the canebrakes.

-- Ron Chernow, “Alexander Hamilton”
monk111: (Cats)
I let the cats out yesterday afternoon, even though the sky looked rain-ish. We have another cold spell coming up, and I thought it best to take advantage of any fair opportunity to let the cats go and work off some of that crazy feline energy.

Later, in the middle of the night, the cats looked agitated on the patio and were definitely anxious to come inside. I thought that maybe it was a bit too chilly for them. I was going to keep them inside. But the sky looked fairly clear, and it was not really cold outside. So, I let them go, but I immediately regretted this.

The next-door neighbor was bellowing and the dog was squealing. If only I could have heard this upon opening the sliding-door, I would have kept the cats inside and that would have been the end. But they were already outside and there was no way that they were going to come back inside. I stood there with the sliding-door open, hoping that the mad bellowing might drive the cats back inside. And, yeah, I was also curious to listen more to try to figure out what is going on next door, which is all the harder since they speak and bellow in Spanish.

The man, the head of household, the Italian chef, I guess, walked deep into his back yard, and the next thing I know, he is looking at me over the fence. I don't know if he feels aggrieved or embarrassed, but I am the one who closes the door and walks away. This will probably just be ignored and 'forgotten', but who knows?

The drama wasn't over. It rained, after all. No big deal. I got all the cats inside readily enough. And, aside from the issue with the neighbor, I am glad that the cats enjoyed a good opportunity to run around, because I am definitely keeping them inside now, with the grounds this wet and with the cold front coming on, so that they may be penned up in the house for a while.
monk111: (Strip)
Hilary Duff has opened up about her sex life with her husband Mike Comrie after having their first baby.

The couple welcomed son Luca Cruz Comrie in March.

Speaking to Access Hollywood Live, Duff shared: "It's definitely different. I'm so exhausted at the end of each day, so I'm like, 'Can this not happen at night when I'm exhausted?' You find different times to do it."


-- ONTD

Yeah, but is the sex still as good and tight and passionate, or has Mikey started dating other girls already?
monk111: (Default)
"Fiction was king. Now it isn't."

-- Thomas Keneally, Australian novelist


If fiction is no longer king the reason is not, as Tom Wolfe once prophesied, that something else has superseded it as “the number one genre.” There are no more genres (a concept as square as the novel). There are mashups; there are porous boundaries between high and low, popular and serious, literature and its negation; but there are no longer any distinct kinds. Indeed, there is a creeping horror of distinctions as such. If fiction is no longer king the reason is that the faith which sustained it for so long, the belief system which led writers and readers alike to defer to its supremacy, has disappeared. What has disappeared is any confidence in the power of the word.

-- D. G. Myers

If people can continue to believe in Christ and all that, I suppose I can continue to find my solace in the artful word and the sweet illusion of meaningfulness.


(Sully's Dish)
monk111: (Bonobo Thinking)
When I come in from my walk, I see that the trash can already has about a half-dozen empty beer bottles in it, and Pop is watching the Cowboys game by himself, and the game was only about half-way through. A little later, when I hear him cheering madly, I am able to connect the dots. Pop needs to get sloshed to get lost in the fantasy that these football games are really exciting stuff.
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