Author Archive

Sci Phi Mag needs Us! (Shanghaied by Jagi)

Posted October 12, 2015 By John C Wright

Hey folks,

Jagi, here.  I learned this morning that Sci Phi Journal needs help.

For those who don’t know it, Sci Phi Journal offers science fiction stories that have a philosophy to them. It is one of the few periodicals offering a place to the kind of stories that Sad Puppies stood for…in fact, it was on the Hugo ballot this year, as was one of the stories that appeared in it (“On A Spiritual Plain” by Lou Antonelli).

Sci Phi offers a venue for the very kinds of stories that we all want to read but seldom get to see. It features some of the best new authors, like Josh Young and Brian Niemeyer, and a number of others. Both John and I have had stories appear in its pages.

It would be a real shame if it folded!

What can you all do to help?

If you should feel moved to make a donation, you can do so here. (The donate button is on the right. You may need to page down.)

Or, if you would like to help a good cause AND get some high quality fiction, you can buy the issue with John’s story:

My story, “HMS Mangled Treasure: The Rescue of Mr. Spaghetti”, takes place in the background of my Prospero series. It features Prospero Inc. foremost detective, Mab, facing car-stealing fairy pirates in Chicago.

You can get it here.

Other issues available here.

Also, prayers for Jason Rennie, the editor and publisher of Sci Phi Journal, would be really wonderful!

Thanks, folks!


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But You Can Never Take Away My Duties

Posted October 12, 2015 By John C Wright

I had heard this article being read on the radio, and, being quite impressed, looked it up so that I could share it with any who might, like me, be curious about the Church in China.

In 1953 he (Father Kung Pin-Mei, then Bishop of Shanghai ) gathered 3,000 young men in the cathedral while a thousand women recited the rosary in the square.

As police surrounded them, they processed with a large cross chanting: “Long live the Bishop. Long live the Holy Father. Long live the Church.”

In 1955 the bishop was thrust before a microphone at a show trial in a stadium to recant his anti-social errors, but he shouted: “Long live Christ the King! Long live the Pope!”

The sentence was life imprisonment.

When frequently urged to denounce the pope, he ritually answered: “I am a Roman Catholic Bishop. If I denounce the Holy Father, not only would I not be a Bishop, I would not even be a Catholic. You can cut off my head, but you can never take away my duties.”

For 30 years, much of it in solitary confinement, the Mass was forbidden, along with the Bible. His Communions were of the heart, all the time resisting the proselytizing of the collaborationist Chinese Catholic Patriotic Association.

When international pressure got him released on “house arrest,” the government choreographed a propaganda dinner with the visiting Cardinal Sin of Manila, but the bishops were not allowed to speak to each other. The canny cardinal proposed that the sullen gathering be enlivened with songs. When his turn came, Kung chanted the To es Petrus—Thou art Peter, and on this rock I will build my Church.

With stomach cancer at the age of 86, he was sent to Hong Kong where he was amazed that Catholics no longer observed the Friday abstinence that he had kept for 30 meatless years.

Eventually he settled in with his nephew Joseph in Connecticut, eager to return to the people of Shanghai as their bishop.

Pope John Paul II told him that he had made him a cardinal secretly, in pectore, in 1979. They kept the secret until 1991, and on June 28 in St. Peter’s Square, Kung rose from his wheelchair, threw away his cane, and walked up the steps to kneel before the pontiff and receive the red hat, as the crowd applauded for an unprecedented seven minutes.

The above is from A CLOUD OF WITNESSES by Father Rutler ( (not to be confused with a book of the same name by Father Arseny, about the sufferings of martyrs in Soviet gulags) :

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Posted October 11, 2015 By John C Wright

Most literate people know that the Hindu practice of suttee, that is, burning a widow on the pyre of her husband, was a tradition halted by the British after their conquest of Indian lands.

What I, at least, did not know is what started this tradition the British stopped.

While there are some traces of it in ancient times, I have heard that suttee developed in its present form during the conquest of Tamurlane among Hindu noblewomen who preferred to die with their husbands rather than submit to being the rape-victims and harem slaves of Mohammedan conquerors.

Islam started suttee. Christianity stopped it.


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Modern Man, Monster Man

Posted October 10, 2015 By John C Wright

Larry Correia, that man among men, the Mountain Who Writes, goes to town to trample an insolent papsmear writing in the New York Times who has the effrontery to tell men what a modern man’s manliness consists of. Mr Correia is both heartfelt and hilariously funny, and the terrible tread of his footfalls of mockery indeed leave bruises. He introduces the topic with these words:

More like modern pajama boy man-child. This New York Times article is so remarkably stupid that it has already been mocked across the entire internet.  However, as a manly man of manliness, it is my responsibility to address this piece of fuckwittery. The same way that as a professional working writer I am compelled to respond to stupid writing advice that might otherwise screw up aspiring authors, I have to Fisk this.

See, I have two sons. As a father, it is my duty to point out really stupid shit, so they can avoid becoming goony hipster douche balloons. So boys, this Fisk was written for you.

One of the funnier comments in the comment was a Roman rebuttal from an ancient man, which I here reprint in full. You can find one comment above here:

I place it against the original modern column by the Pajama Boy for sake of contrast between the postmodern and the ancient.

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Superversive Blog: SF Culture Posts

Posted October 9, 2015 By John C Wright

Superversive Blog has the third in an ongoing series on SF and personality types.

The interview is with authoress Ruth Johnston in her new book: Re-modeling the Mind: Personality in Balance

SF Culture Posts

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Another Nail in the Global Warming Coffin

Posted October 9, 2015 By John C Wright

H/t to Vox.

The least new news of the decade:

A former climate modeller for the Government’s Australian Greenhouse Office, with six degrees in applied mathematics, Dr Evans has unpacked the architecture of the basic climate model which underpins all climate science.

He has found that, while the underlying physics of the model is correct, it had been applied incorrectly.

He has fixed two errors and the new corrected model finds the climate’s sensitivity to carbon dioxide (CO2) is much lower than was thought.

It turns out the UN’s Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change has over-estimated future global warming by as much as 10 times, he says.

The model architecture was wrong,” he says. “Carbon dioxide causes only minor warming. The climate is largely driven by factors outside our control.”

While climate scientists have been predicting since the 1990s that changes in temperature would follow changes in carbon dioxide, the records over the past half million years show that not to be the case.

Dr Evans has a theory … the waxing and waning of reflected radiation from the Sun, is the likely cause of global warming.

He predicts global temperatures, which have plateaued, will begin to cool significantly, beginning between 2017 and 2021.

Dr Evans is an expert in Fourier analysis and digital signal processing, with a PhD, and two Masters degrees from Stanford University in electrical engineering, a Bachelor of Engineering (for which he won the University medal), Bachelor of Science, and Masters in Applied Maths from the University of Sydney.


…When it is completed his work will be published as two scientific papers. Both papers are undergoing peer review.


My comment: anyone surprised at news stories like this has not been paying attention for the last eighteen years.

Any attentive observer can tell the difference between the way science is done, and scientists talk, and the way politics is done, and politicians talk.  Politicians talk about the wisdom and effectiveness of policy. Scientist talk about measuring factual events and drawing factual deductions: Dr. Evans, on the other hand, talks like a scientist.

When a man with a science degree talks like a politician about a political matter, he is doing political work, and his credentials as a scientist are irrelevant.

The scientific community of this generation is hopelessly corrupted by the political class and the philosophy of politically correctness, which is, in other words, nihilism.

A return to Christianity will not only have other social benefits, the fear of God might return the the minimal honesty to our men needed to perform scientific work.

Pajama Boy cannot do science.

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Andy Robertson reviews ‘Awake in the Night Land’

Posted October 8, 2015 By John C Wright

AWAKE IN THE NIGHT LAND by John C Wright: a review

 About thirteen years ago, I started a little website.


My wife was only a few years dead then, and she still visited me from time to time.  I would wake up in a bed full of her warmth and musk, and feel her sleeping just beside me.  I would turn over and  kiss her, and she would whisper love sleepily.  I would get up and go to wash my face, and go back to the bedroom to kiss her awake.  Then I would really wake up.

My daughters would come to the door-gates of their rooms,  holding up their arms and saying daddy, and I’d pick one up and snuggle her and take her downstairs to where their grandmother had breakfast ready, then go back upstairs for the other, then grab a bacon sandwich and a mug of coffee and walk down to the train station and go to work.  They waved from the windows till I was out of sight.  I’d come home late and just have time to kiss them goodnight.

It was along hard day until they let me telecommute, and I suddenly had a lot of spare time.


There was a man who had a beautiful young wife.
She died, and he dreamed of meeting her again, at the end of time, when the Sun was dead.

I had always been fascinated by the book.  The Final Arcology of mankind, Earth’s Last Citadel, surrounded by an entire universe that had been taken over by Hell.  I wanted to read more stories set in that Land, and now I had the time to do something and a little bit of spare money, I took advice.  I was a subeditor for INTERZONE back then in its glory days, and I had Dave Pringle to explain the legal side of buying fiction to display online.

I set rates and contacted and waited for stories to come in.  Meanwhile I started the trimmings. Essays.  A gallery of book covers.  Then a little step up: Stephen Fabian’s terrific paintings of the Watchers, illustrations for the 1973 edition of THE DREAM OF X, the abbreviated version of THE NIGHT LAND Hodgson published in the US to keep the copyright.   I was careful to pay Fabian for his work, for these pictures are surely the first example of someone actually adding to the original NIGHT LAND, adding something that will always be connected to it from now on.                        .

Look at them. They do not so much illustrate the story as form a collateral theme.

And quite quickly we got our first story, “An Exhalation of Butterflies” by Nigel Atkinson.  This was its basic idea.    Every so often, as a gesture of defiance, the Redoubt turns the production of its Underground Fields over to the creation of  butterflies.  They’re kept on ice for a  few years to build up numbers and then they are all hatched  and sucked up by  the ventilation  system of the Redoubt and ejected Out into the Night.   No practical reason.  Just a gigantic  Fuck You to the forces in the Night and the horror and the darkness.

I thought it was brilliant.  Dave took it for INTERZONE, and I put it online next month.

I tried my own hand and wrote “EATER“.  It was the story of a female Seer, telepathically surveying the Land, who is taken over and used to invade the Redoubt.   The invasion fails and she dies burned body and soul by the  Redoubt defense systems.   It’s a reasonably good tale, and Dave accepted it to run in INTERZONE, and Gardner Dozois gave it a tick mark in his year’s best recommended.  There is nothing special about it, except it was the first time in my life I had ever tried to write a piece of fiction.

The dark, looming, images of the Land had made such an impact on me.  When I started to write stories set in that world, it was as if I remembered a life I had lived in that society, with its prim manners overlaying iron values and its dauntless courage.   I didn’t need to make anything up. I just watched it happen.

Brett Davidson sent me a story from New Zealand with a background that complemented  and extended my own, and I found the person who would be my principle creative partner.   For years we’ve batted ideas back and forth by email late at night.   Other writers joined us and mostly took their lead from Brett and I.   We were building a shared world but one so rich and vivid felt as if we were were discovering something that already existed.  I don’t think I’ve ever had such fun ((while vertical)) in my life.

And then I got a new submission, from John C Wright, which was quite apart from all the other Night Land tales.

I’d written a fusion of  Hodgson’s vision with cutting-edge science, and tried to evoke a credible Redoubt culture, a culture that might really last ten million years.   Therefore my Redoubt was a society of strict moral codes, an actual functional and enforced marriage contract, strong kinship bonds, and sharply differentiated complementary behavior of men and women. ((It strikes me only now that this is mistaken by some readers for archaism. But of course  it isn’t.  It’s futurism.  Or just realism. No society without these values or something like them can survive more than a couple of generations.))  And I’d written of a society rich in technical and scientific knowledge, including as unremarked givens such familiar SF tropes as nanotechnology, cyborgisation, and Artificial Intelligence.   I had some fun integrating these into Hodgson’s “scientific” formulation of reincarnation and psychic predation.

I had done my best to reinterpret the  Night Land as science fiction, and other writers had followed me.   But  John’s story followed his own dreams.

His character names were derived from classical Greek, not generic IndoEuropean sememes. The manners of the society were likewise closely modeled on the ancient pagans. Dozois has called this an air of distanced antiquity, and it works well, but I repeat it’s distinctly different from my own, which is not antique at all. His was not a technically sophisticated society and seemed not to have a scientific attitude to the alien Land that surrounded it. It ran off rote technology and was ignorant of the workings of much of the machinery it depended on. It was doomed and dwindling and dark and candle-lit, a tumbledown place with a hint of Ghormenghast to it. (I know John will hate that comparison, and I apologize). The story was one of childhood friendship, rivalry, disaster and rescue. The writing style was, incidentally, brilliant.

I bought it and published it in our first hardcopy anthology, ENDLESS LOVE. It got into Dozois’ BEST SF and several other yearly anthologies and created a minor sensation. There are still places where the first taste of Hodgson’s work a casual reader will get is the translation of “Awake in the Night” in that year’s Dozois, and the story is an entry drug not only for THE NIGHT LAND but for Hodgson himself and all his work. This was a story which Hodgson might have written if he had been a more gifted weaver of words. John remarked to me at one point that he was surprised at the story’s popularity. I think we both understood that despite its author’s talent, the real power resided in the way it had stayed faithful to Hodgson’s own visions, without elaborating them too much. The whole world could now see and share Hodgson’s original Night Land. They were seeing it through John’s eyes, not mine, but that didn’t matter to me.   This was what I had set the NightLand website up for.

I expected a whole series of tales from John set in his version of The Night Land, but his next story was a radical departure from anything that he or any of the rest of us had ever done. It surpassed not only Hodgson’s talents but, damn it, Lovecraft’s. When I read “Awake in the Night” I felt some envy, but when the ms for “The Last of All Suns” crossed my inbox I felt something like awe.

It’s almost impossible to describe this story without employing spoilers, because there is nothing else like it to compare it to or to hint that it is like. Baldly, then: the universe is in its final contraction, falling back on itself into a massive black hole, the last of all suns. In one sliver of it, life remains: a gigantic starship, millions of years old . On board this Starship,ruling it, are the great powers and forces of the Night, who have been victorious not only in the Night Land they turned Earth into but throughout the cosmos.

To oppose them on the ship there are a scattering of human escapees, their bodies artificially regrown from some ancient recording, their souls compelled to one final reincarnation for unknown reasons. The oldest is a Neanderthal, or something similar. The youngest is an inhabitant of the Last Redoubt. Yet it is now so very much later than even the Last Age of the Redoubt that the entire time span from the earliest to the latest lives of these reincarnated ones is like the blink of an eye at the start of a long, dark, night.

And now what can I say? How can I possibly describe what happens next?  Even if I could, I would probably have to go beyond what is allowable in a review.  As I said, this story is unique.  I can’t describe its plot as “like” anything else.  I’d have to go through it section by section, practically retell it.

Yet certain things can be said.  For example, I can tell you that when these resurrectees talk to each other, their language automatically translated  by some mental trick, their concepts of the universe are so diverse that only method they have to communicate with each other is to employ the metalanguage of myth.  And yet this works, and Wright’s genius effortlessly makes it credible to the reader that it would work.  By selectively recounting the foundational myths of their diverse societies, they are able to discuss their situation, plan their actions, and the plot is rapidly and convincingly advanced.

One recalls the marvelous passage in Lovecraft’s “The Shadow Out Of Time” which lists the enormous range of human societies the Great Race of Yith has plucked its time-swapped prisoners’ minds from.  The dialogue in this story is the sort of language those time-stolen scribes would have had to employ to talk to each other.  And Wright drops a few hints that let us know that “The Shadow Out Of Time” is exactly the ur-SF story he is drawing from here.   Wright excels Lovecraft – Lovecraft  – by this enormous margin; he does not merely list the societies his characters have been plucked from; he gives us their dialog, word for word, and effortlessly makes it believable.

And this is only one tiny facet of a story that integrates THE NIGHT LAND with THE HOUSE ON THE BORDERLAND and goes on to swallow the modern mythos of Lovecraft and Stapledon and most of the GraecoRoman foundational myths of Western society.  And modern physics, as easy as an after-dinner mint.

Finally it comes down to this. In place of a soulless mathematical Episode of Inflation or the mindless flutings of Azathoth, Wright gives us  cosmos that is founded on the pattern of eternal love between man and woman.  And he does it convincingly.  He does it without breaking a sweat or drawing an extra breath.

There was a man who had a beautiful young wife.

She died, and he dreamed of meeting her again, at the end of time, when the Sun was dead.

I am not that man. That man was a fiction. I know death is merely the end, there is no reincarnation, that her presence in my bed was merely dream, and we shall never meet again in any age or realm or dimension,  not hand in hand looking out from the battlements of the Last Redoubt of Man nor anywhere else.

So how can I write about Eternal Love? Is love a laughable delusion, or is it the only real thing? I’m quite an old man now, suddenly and cripplingly ill, but it seems only yesterday that she was in my arms and our lips and hands were always reuniting.  I understand human sociobiology, I took the red pill decades ago, without the help of the Internet.    I understand what they call Game nowadays. I’ve read and admired its accurate application, I respect people who truly are using this to strengthen marriage, but the bloggers with their bedpost  scores and their flag counts are children fighting for bottles of fizzy drink. Love is another dimension. Love is the only thing stronger than death. And I’m writing this as a man who has lost his loved one and might meet death quite soon.

I don’t “believe” in love.  I know.

It’s odd that the one flaw in this, John’s best story, is the portrayal of the Mirdath-figure, the multi-souled narrator’s eternal mate. The story rings like fine bronze when the men from different aeons resurrected in the death starship speak to each other: but it klunks juat a tiny bit whenever she pops up her eager-sex-partner-and-ideal-mother head. Surely the eternal female would in most of her incarnations be an ordinary unexceptional woman only made special by love? But I’m not going to fuss about this.

There is nothing like this story, nothing like it, anywhere else. It is incomparable.

John sent us two more stories. They are both good stories, but I’m going to end this review with only brief mentions of them.

“The Cry of the Night hound” concerns a doomed attempt to domesticate these monsters, and were it not for Wright’s ever-beautiful prose and his moving portrayal of his Redoubt society in  (temporary) decay, it might be judged rather improbable.

“Silence of the Night” is a mad,fractured episode that must come from a time close to the Fall.   I think it does not work too well, though the beautiful writing and imagery carries it through.

I don’t know if Wright has written himself out, and said all he has to say about the Night Land. Maybe he has. Maybe not.  (But if you have, I have a theme for you, John, that I think you’ll like, that might rekindle your interest, that might produce something as good as “The Last Of All Suns”. I really do. But I gave it to another writer who has first dibs on it, and he’s doing nothing. If he gives it up, you’ll hear from me.)

Anyhow. I messed up the marketing of “The Last Of All Suns”, and the story fell into an obscurity from which I hope this new edition will rescue it. Now it’s been republished by professionals, along with Wright’s other three Night Land tales, I hope it sells a million copies.

A final word.

Did the stuff about my wife with which I stared this review strikes you as forced, unreal?   Probably.  But it was in fact the simple literal truth.  I really did experience that, many times, though I have no doubt it was merely a dream.

Perhaps I could have made this review more plausible by leaving it out, even though it was the truth?  Indeed I could have.   And perhaps in the same way I could have made this review more effective, more believable, by being less effusive, by toning down my praise a bit.  Perhaps I could have.  But I’m not going to do that.   If you doubt my word, doubt away.  But truth is truth, and I don’t see why I should dodge it just to convince you. Buy this book, read the stories, read especially “the Last of all Suns”, and whatever you think about me after reading this review, when you have read the book you will know that every word of praise I give it here is the truth.

– Andy Robertson


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Narcissus reviews ‘Awake in the Night Land’

Posted October 8, 2015 By John C Wright

Naturally, as a gentleman, I can only express gratitude that my stories are being read at all, anywhere, by anyone, and it would ill behoove me to take that for granted.

I hope I am allowed to raise a mild if polite objection that one should read any story for the sake of the story being told, and not as a Rorschach inkblot used only as an excuse to express one’s own self-absorbed political-sexual obsessions.

Any tale is ill used when used as the looking glass of Narcissus.

Certain of the critiques here are valid, others less so. The reviewer finds my use of names and situations taken from Greek myth to be distracting, for example, because I do not vary the meaning from the original. This is a legitimate difference of judgment, and I defer to the tastes of the reader.

On the other hand, the point and meaning of the scene where something called ‘the new learning’ introduces a theory of the origins of the world which the readers know is false but the characters do not is completely lost on this reviewer. The point is that the men of that era do not know for certain men of our era ever existed, so vast is the depth of time. The point is not to make a sly comment on the modern controversy of young-earth creationism versus Darwinism, which, by the bye, is not a controversy where I side with the young-earth creationists. (Setting a story countless tens of millions of years in the future would be an odd choice indeed to serve as a vehicle to make a rhetorical point that the cosmos is six thousand years old.)

More to the matter, the reviewer here was trying so hard to find some anti-feminist thought-crime in my retelling of the Antigone myth, that she was forced to conclude that Antigone was an insignificant character.

Since, as we have noted above, I did not change the meaning of the original story, in effect the reviewer is arguing that Antigone is not a major character in the Antigone myth.

Similar mental gymnastic distortions are undertaken to find other female characters to be insignificant: Hellenore, for example, is insignificant because the story is told in flashback. Why Elsie, the mother of the human race in the final story, the girl who basically saves the universe, is insignificant eludes me. Having invented bogus reasons for claiming major characters are not major, the reviewer clucks her tongue at me for not having a sufficient quota of major female characters.

There is some slippery mathematics involved to minimize the number of female characters, so that a complaint could be lodged that there were not enough. It is roughly a third of the speaking roles.

I suppose I should be thankful that I was not taken to task for failing to portray a full quota of neuro-atypical Mohammedans, one-handed Lithuanians, blind Eskimos, and lefthanded hermaphrodite Zulus.

Also, that women in Hodgson’s background, a book published in 1912, were not permitted to expose themselves to such indescribably spiritual and physical dangers as would make swift suicide preferable was cause from some cawing and coughing from this reviewer.

Perhaps persons who cannot imagine cultures different from our own, in aeons and on planets remote from our own, with political and social opinions remote from our own, should not read science fiction at all.

Let this serve as a warning to those with ears to hear: political correctness is like eating the food of the elves, which spoils the tongue for any earthly fare. One’s enjoyment of innocent pleasures is lost, and one sees with the eyes of a troll, to whom fair is foul and foul is fair, once one views all things through the myopic lens of political correctness. It robs you of pleasure and gives you nothing in return.


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Feast Day of Our Lady of Victory

Posted October 7, 2015 By John C Wright

One of the things that most delights me, aside from eternal life and infinite bliss, in becoming a Christian is my recovery of a sense of the texture of time.

Catholics see the world in an additional dimension which the flat vision of the one-eyed skeptic cannot see, nor even imagine: for us, bread is not merely bread, but divine flesh immaculate, the manna of angels; water is not merely water, but the promise of John the Baptist, the salvation of Noah, the dryshod pathway of Moses out of bondage; and fire is not merely fire; marriage is not merely a contract for the exchange of sexual services or living arrangements, but the very image of the covenant of salvation, and the wedding feast of God to His bride the Church: and so for all trees, beasts, birds, stars, and things both humble and grand.

Being a Christian is like living inside a poem, where every word carries a freight of meaning, or walking in procession inside some great palace of gold and marble richly adorned with statue and fresco, mosaic and stained glass, so that the pillars are caryatids of ancestral queens, the door panels are carved with historic scenes, the tapestries are prophecies, and even the gargoyles of the drainpipes grin, and everything was meant to carry a sign to the eye.

The modern mind is dyslexic and sociopathic toward nature, and sees nothing but dead gibberish, disproportion, distortion, aberration. At the feast table of the five senses nature lays before us, the modern men taste only straw.

When it comes to the calendar, likewise, the times and seasons are not merely chemical changes in flora and fauna correlative to astronomical motions, but rich in history, message, and meaning. I was bemused to learn that the workingmen in the so called Dark Ages had more feast days and more time off than we moderns. Instead of fretting about diets year round, and making a nuisance of themselves at Thanksgiving feasts, men of former ages would fast during fast days and feast during feast days, and many things which by right should not pass out of memory on those days they would recall, which the modern generation, addicted to distraction, makes haste to forget.

Let us therefore remember this day, October 7th, with thanksgiving. Lepanto was the first setback for the spreading Turkish Empire. The victory came due to the power of the rosary: who says otherwise cannot call himself an historian.

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Grand Inquisitor, Call Your Office

Posted October 5, 2015 By John C Wright

It is a sad commentary on our times that one can no longer tell the difference between satire and reality.


Protestant Bishop, I should mention, of the Church of Sweden. Married, or rather ‘married’ to one of her own sex.

I wonder what Jeremiah would say about this?

 For both prophet and priest are profane; yea, in my house have I found their wickedness, saith the Lord.

 Wherefore their way shall be unto them as slippery ways in the darkness: they shall be driven on, and fall therein: for I will bring evil upon them, even the year of their visitation, saith the Lord.


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