Who do we think we are ??

Thoughts about enemies

Not long ago, I watched the 2001 film, "Enemy at the Gates," which centers around the Battle of Stalingrad during World War II. It is a first-rate motion picture, in my view, well acted by people such as Jude Law, Joseph Fiennes, Rachel Weisz and Ed Harris, among others. It is a typical war story in most respects, with a love element to make it complete.

I thought I might like to read the book from which the title came. I ordered it without doing any research, and when it arrived I discovered that while the film is mostly fiction, the book is straight non-fiction. In other words, they have little in common.

No matter. The movie stands on its own and is worth watching; the book stands on its own and is worth reading.

There was one scene in the film which struck me in particular. It consisted of these words spoken by the character of Soviet Commissar Danilov moments before he sacrifices his life:

"I've been such a fool, Vassili. Man will always be man. There is no new man. We tried so hard to create a society that was equal, where there'd be nothing to envy your neighbor. But there's always something to envy. A smile .... a friendship. Something you don't have and want to appropriate. In this world -- even a Soviet one -- there will always be rich and poor. Rich in gifts .... poor in gifts. Rich in love .... poor in love."

Such a basic, fundamental, elemental truth. Yet, so many among the so-called far left, self-styled elitists round the world, such as Barack Obama and the ilk he surrounds himself with, simply cannot grasp it and are determined to turn the United States into a socialist nation, which would then be ultimately and most assuredly destined to collapse within itself.

Human nature declares socialism an impossibility and history defines it a failure: Some men strive to ascend Mount Everest; some men are content to watch cartoons on television. It has always been, and always shall be ....

Sweet child in time

It seems the past persists. Deep Purple will be performing in Sioux City, Iowa, on August 7. That is about a two hundred, seventy-five mile drive for me, and right across the border from where I once lived in South Dakota. Plenty of places to camp out –- in a comfortable bed at the home of friends or, if I really wanted to play coureur de bois again, on a beach alongside the ever-wondrous Missouri River. Sounds like a plan, hah?

Ian Gillan, Ian Paice, Roger Glover and more recent members, Steve Morse and Don Airey, compose the current Deep Purple crew. I regret that Ritchie Blackmore would not be among the players and that Jon Lord is in another existence (sort of), but it sure would be worth the time, money and effort to see even this rendition of a rock legend in concert.

It just occurred to me, if things would have worked out just a little bit differently, this concert would have made a good day-after-birthday present for someone I know. Such is life ....

The mist in the morning

Not long ago, I was asked if I thought of "god" as a "he" or a "she." The opportunity to respond to the question was eliminated almost immediately, so, rather than play games, I will post an answer here:

As for the personification of "god," I was taught, "Our father who art in heaven" .... but I do not follow any organized religion, so that is irrelevant. My imagination revolves around pantheons such as the Old Greek or Old Norse deities, which included any number of gods, both male and female .... but that realm lurks within my "id" and not in my actual reality. My beliefs trend toward a mixture of deism and pantheism (I dislike the term "Mother Nature," too), and my own blend of Native American spirit concepts = if "god" exists, "it" is the mist in the morning and my own conscience coupled with an unfathomable energy which may or may not require our physical being to sustain.

1) If this needs clarification, just whistle ....

2) Of course, my answer might be different tomorrow ....

When I'm cruisin' in overdrive

Fresh from the annals of 2009

I rarely look at my posts from the past and, when I do, it is for specific purpose rather than for general reminiscing. But, the other day, I did wander through several of them. The thing that struck me most was how many videos from YouTube which I selected to accompany my posts have "disappeared." They "do not exist" or "accounts have been closed" or "copyrights have been infringed upon" or, maybe, they were merely a figment of my imagination. The last item is me trying to be funny again.

Anyway, I decided to re-run a post from November 5, 2009. I doubt I will ever do this again .... run some old stuff, I mean .... but it is my mood at the moment, and my moods rule me these days. Perhaps, I am trying to bring back November 2009. I was happier then.

Happiness is momentary. Remember ?? That is me, one of my mantras, one of my absolute truths. I have been spending a considerable amount of time dwelling on the past this winter -- the past two winters, actually. Maybe, I need to read more of Hunter S. Thompson's books. Maybe, I need to do something without rhyme or reason. Maybe, I need to buy a new car and fall in love with it. (Incidentally, the Audi and the Mustang in the 2009 piece are gone and were replaced by a "hot" Mercury, and the Suburban has been replaced by a newer one.)

I thought I might mention that way back when the post below originally was published, only Natasha, aka Natalie, a Russian-American, left a comment. "She" was a fascinating woman, who once lived in Syria, and, I think, I know why .... but she is gone now, as are so many from 2009. "She" wanted me to travel to Russia with her, and promised to get me inside an "Avtomat Kalashnikova" plant. I almost said, lead on, baby !! "She" was the original she in my mind, but she never knew it because she left and others arrived and took center stage.

One thing is certain: As someone recently reminded me, ".... incompatibility is a reality in all couples ...."

This obvious, simple truth brought realization to me, that it is time to stop searching for my own interpretation of a holy grail or thinking about third chances or even finding a compatible companion. Sort of time for me to forget Neverland and Sanctuary/Refuge and Mythago Wood.

So, what were you doing in November 2009 ?? Were you happier then than you are now ??

He who walks through life as a chameleon sometimes goes to great lengths to present both an appearance and a persona to fit the occasion. Here is a photograph of Fram, taken while on the road (slightly off it at that precise moment) during a recent excursion. Judging solely from his appearance, it probably is safe to assume he was recognized by few and adored by many while on this trip, and that this "boy racer's" style of driving was somewhat more "accelerated" in an Audi than it would have been in a Chevrolet Suburban.

The chameleon returns .... well, sort of ....

It was not too long ago that I was writing an email and I made this comment: "I am melancholy, but happy, if that makes sense. A paradox. It comes whenever I listen to the music of Boston, which I am doing." Another day, I said I needed to play some heavy-duty rock and roll to prepare myself to be "warlike," so as to be in the proper frame of mind for cheering on the New York Yankees in the World Series. These are not the first times I have said such words in respect to the emotional effects of music, and it hardly is an original thought. After all, once upon a time someone noted, "Music soothes the savage ...."

More recently, again while writing an email after having sold my Chevrolet Suburban, I made this comment: "I should have sold the Ford Mustang and the Audi, and kept the Suburban, I think. The Suburban was more me, and I do not drive crazy in it like I often do in the Mustang and the Audi. Style and mannerisms in dress, in vehicles, in music -- in many things -- affect one's attitudes and behavior more than commonly realized, I believe. I drive like a teenage nut case in my Audi, and like a mature, well-mannered adult in my Suburban."

Image is one of the magic words here. Attitudes and behavior patterns are other key terms in the sense they are influenced by the image we desire, and vise versa. Some examples:

I have a well-worn, black, leather jacket. Some might describe it as a biker's jacket, and it shows the wear on its front that only miles riding against the wind can make upon leather. At times when I wear my hair "a bit longer than the norm," I am more inclined to wear this jacket while out and about than I otherwise am when my hair is cut rather short. Visualize the image, if you would: Biker jacket, jeans, cowboy boots, hair over my shoulders and probably sunglasses. Then imagine my attitude and my behavior, even my speech and my gestures. A chameleon passes among you.

In other moods, I will wear a Marine Corps T-shirt or battle jacket when I stroll the shopping markets. The Marine Corps elements affect my attitude and my behavior differently than does my biker jacket or, going the opposite direction, than does wearing a pin-striped, navy blue suit. Similarly, I might not only appear to be, but actually take on, the persona of entirely different people when I wear cowboy boots in contrast to when I am wearing running shoes. We all do, do we not? Or not? As I wander through the sea of blogs, I wonder how accurate a portrait many internet authors present of themselves.

The interesting part about this, of course, is not only how a piece of clothing will alter attitude and behavior, but how the image presented will influence the reaction of people encountered.

Lightning strikes! After all these months, I am drifting back into thinking and writing about the chameleon mode again -- the reporter as a chameleon. Do you remember him? I dress and act and talk like the image I wish to portray, like the person I wish you to think I am, to accomplish the results I wish to achieve. One day, the reporter wears a leather jacket, jeans and boots to interview a drug dealer; the next day, the reporter dresses in a three-piece suit to interview a bank president. In its most elemental form, the idea is to look, act and talk like the person being interviewed in order to win his confidence and trust.

So, then, there is one consistent element in my life, it seems: The chameleon, or, to take it even one step further, the masked chameleon. By all means, lift the mask and reveal tomorrow. Where have I heard that before?

In this instance, though, my thoughts today originate from questioning how the chameleon persona might affect the individual who is one -- his attitudes and his behaviors -- rather than how it influences the people he encounters and interacts with along the path he travels. Absolutely "fascinating," to revive an oft-used word from the chameleon's past. It might be worth writing a post about someday .... somewhere .... over the rainbow ....

Sailing for somewhere, sometime, somehow

From my point of view, there is a lack of realism to the world that is (rather, the world that was) in this depiction of French King Louis IX departing for the Seventh Crusade in 1248 from Aigues-Mortes / Le Grau de Roi in the south of France. There is a quaintness to it, a fantasy-like quality to it, a view of medieval times absent the poverty, the disease, the cruelty –- much less the horrendous butchery and destruction wreaked in hand-to-hand combat with swords and axes. No, the representation here has more the appearance of a wealthy family setting off on a Sunday afternoon cruise on the blue Mediterranean Sea under a sunny sky. The work, incidentally, is among those in a Fourteenth Century manuscript by Guillaume de Saint-Pathus entitled, "Vie et Miracles de Saint Louis." Louis was captured and ransomed on this venture. Undeterred, he went on to lead the Eighth Crusade in 1270, during which disease did him in, as it did much of his army. Louis should have stayed at home. Moving to (not with) the music, "Greensleeves" came along a bit after the crusades but before Ernest Hemingway, so it seems to even out and to be appropriate without too much stretch of the imagination. Read on, if you are curious.

I wish I could paint

I do not know if this is what Ernest Hemingway had in mind when he wrote the following words in a 1953 letter to art historian Bernard Berenson:

"Christ I wish I could paint. I was painting that town (Aigues Mortes) in my head with the crusaders off loading their baggage and their piss-pots to leave from Le Grau de Roi. I remember that Crusade so well that I always have to be careful not to say I made it. But I didn't make it ...."

While Hemingway did not make it, he probably had seen reproductions of this painting of Louis IX departing from Aigues-Mortes / Le Grau de Roi in the south of France for the Seventh Crusade. The representation here is among those in a Fourteenth Century manuscript by Guillaume de Saint-Pathus entitled, "Vie et Miracles de Saint Louis."

What collared my attention were Hemingway's remarks about "painting that town in my head" and "I remember that Crusade so well that I always have to be careful not to say I made it." If I would have been among Hemingway's biographers, I would have grilled him to elaborate on those words .... on those thoughts.

I have been re-reading some of Hemingway's correspondence from "Selected Letters," edited by Carlos Baker, and a few of his short stories. I am not sure why. I noticed the letters among other books a few days ago, picked it up and began reading it again.  I do admire Hemingway's work. Not long before she died, I wrote a few letters to his fourth wife, Mary, and she was kind enough to respond.

Back on point: I suspect Hemingway was saying that he was so much of a student of the Crusades that, at times, he might have felt he had been there and, actually, might have had dreams of having been being there. This subconscious reality was strengthened and magnified just by having been to Aigues Mortes / Le Grau de Roi, a port "complex" from which crusaders set sail for the Holy Land.

Not long ago, I wrote in a comment somewhere that novelist Ole Rolvaag "is among some of the authors whose books I have held in my hand while walking the streets of Minneapolis and the prairies of South Dakota, retracing the footsteps he took and then wrote about more than one hundred years ago." Hemingway is another author I have done the same with, holding his short story while walking alongside and canoeing in the Fox River (Big Two-Hearted River) in Michigan and others from among his stories while strolling a few boulevards in Paris. It was not difficult for me (especially in the Michigan woodlands) to believe I was walking only a few hundred yards behind Hemingway rather than a few decades behind him.

This is getting too complicated to explain thoroughly but briefly, so I think I will end my discussion now and, maybe .... that is a maybe .... continue it another day .... maybe, even, from another place and another time ....

Essentially, you may or may not understand, these things are a search to see within one's self (me) by seeing within others ....

But, one last thing: I have been near Aigues Mortes / Le Grau de Roi, passed by them, but never there, and now I am curious about them and wondering about the possibility of spending a few days there to see if the ghosts of Hemingway and his crusaders might be found where the land meets the sea ....
 

So long, March .... bye-bye, Winter .... unfinished original & four addendums

FramWinter begins November 1 and ends March 31. Snow and cold might yet torment us for a while longer, but they cannot last. I will also say happy birthday today to Benny and to Bud, who managed to arrive just before March departed. The music, I would think, is self-evident .... I might change it .... I could not decide with what "music to end March by" .... but, perhaps, the selection is an omen and may be appropriate since the Rolling Stones will be in town on June 3. (Yes, really. Can you believe it?) Actually, this is an unfinished post, but I put it up anyway because I like to note the end of my birth month and I ran out of time .... hmmmm .... out of time. I might add more to this post. I have thought of publishing something like this, and then just adding new thoughts to it periodically -- a never-ending post, so to speak.

Scene II, Act I / "A Wife for a Month" by John Fletcher 1624

"I would chuse March, for I would come in like a Lion ....

But you'd go out like a Lamb when you went to hanging."

Lassiter / "Riders of the Purple Sage" by Zane Grey 1912

"I reckon you will. An' I'll never ask you. I'm a man of strange beliefs an' ways of thinkin', an' I seem to see into the future an' feel things hard to explain. The trail I've been followin' for so many years was twisted en' tangled, but it's straightenin' out now ...."

Addendum No. 01 / April 4, 2015: Never an ending ??

I just might try this for a while .... a never-ending post, I mean.

It will be an interesting end of May / beginning of June for me. On May 26, I will be taking former wife No. 2 to the Mayo Clinic for a follow-up medical appointment; on May 28, I will be an observer at an event about twelve hours flight time from home; on June 3, I will be attending the Rolling Stones concert back home .... I just purchased four tickets .... rock 'n' roll, baby ....

I have decided to open this post up for comments, at least temporarily, since it is "temporarily never-ending." What is life without experimentation? Although I prefer the past in many ways, like it or not life is learning about the present ....

Addendum No. 02 / April 7, 2015: The story of books

Wolf Larsen / "The Sea-Wolf" by Jack London 1904

"Wolf Larsen answered with an indescribable air of sadness .... 'My mistake was in ever opening the books.'"

Among my earliest memories are of my mother reading to me. Then, she taught me to read. It was the only area in which I excelled when I entered school.

I was eleven when I approached the librarian to check out four or five books from the "adult section" of the local public library. There was nothing left in the "children's section" either unread by me or of interest to me. The librarian telephoned my mother, who said it was fine for me to have them, and I left the building on my way to an entirely new world of reading material.

It was just a few weeks later, my self-confidence at new heights, a clerk at a local bookstore asked me who was reading the books I was buying. I replied that I was reading them. She shook her head and rolled her eyes. The books were not salacious in any way, simply, rather, it would seem, unusual reading for boys: Biographies on men like Adolph Hitler and Joseph Stalin; studies on space and undersea exploration, and on archaeological discoveries; novels by prominent literary writers: James Joyce, Norman Mailer, Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Henry Miller; philosophy from Bertrand Russell.

That was the beginning. Having had a pair of dynamic English teachers in terms of reading throughout my six years of junior and senior high school fueled the fire and opened still broader vistas. Having had a professor in college who often read poetry in class with emotion and a Virginia accent and another who enjoyed reading passages in Old and Middle English sent me deeper into classic poetry and into understanding the evolution of language.

The pattern never changed, only the number of books I consumed any given year. During peak periods, I was reading up to about one-hundred-fifty a year. I no longer read voraciously, but I always am working on something.

I live alone, so I usually am reading a book while I am eating .... most of the food I eat is cold by the time I finish it.

I live alone, so I usually fall asleep at night with a book next to me.

I live alone, so I usually ....

Addendum No. 03 / April 10, 2015: Newspaper work
Ernest Hemingway / Letter to Charles Fenton 1952

"In newspaper work you have to learn to forget every day what happened the day before .... I was working on a newspaper and so I cannot remember as I should .... newspaper work is valuable up until a point that it forcibly begins to destroy your memory. A writer must leave it before that point. But he will always have scars from it."

 

Those who wander by here on occasion probably know that I have been an on-again / off-again journalist. The last time I actually was gainfully employed practicing it (regular hours / regular paycheck) was May 2009 .... although I still occasionally indulge, both formally and informally. Anyway .... I have been thinking about stories / interviews I wish I would have the opportunity to do. Here are a couple, in no particular order.

Hearing Patti Smith singing, "Be My Baby," in one of my recent posts brought back thoughts of Ronnie Specter. I would so love to be able to talk with her about her experiences in the world of music and her days with Phil Specter. She must be a walking encyclopedia regarding many of the key elements in the history of rock 'n' roll. After the interview, I would like to take her out to dinner.

I had a brief association with the rodeo circuit when I was young, and I would like to sit down with a few of these fellows -- the last of the real cowboys -- and hear them talk about the things they have done and seen. I have had one-on-one sessions with professional football and baseball players. I have not interviewed any "major league" athletes from other sports, but I think rodeo guys might be the realest of the real among any and all professional athletes.

War, contrary to the opinion of some, is not my obsession or something I idealize, but over time I have interviewed a number of extraordinary warriors. I would like to talk with more of them and compare notes and hear their individual stories. At the top of my list right now is Robert O'Neill, the SEAL who shot and killed Osama bin Laden. In actuality, though, I would rather interview him twenty years from now when the event has entered the realm of history and he has had ample time to reflect upon it and to live with it in a personal sense.

Just to mention a male member of the rock 'n' roll ensemble from the past generation (or two), I would pick Ritchie Blackmore to interview because, in my opinion, he is the best of the guitar men, among the quietest publicly and, actually, comes off as being sort of weird.

I will keep this list to five individuals or types for now, and I suppose I am obligated to mention a politician. I have had some memorable moments with a few, some American and some not, including two sitting presidents and one sitting vice president -- none of whom are alive today. I cannot think of one American politician living today I really would especially care to sit in the same room with to interview -- but, to spread our wings and stretch our horizons, I would love to have a long talk with Vladimir Putin. In terms of politicians among us today, he probably is the realest of the real and, most certainly, the most interesting, the most dangerous, the most historically and nationalistically driven.

Pausing for a moment and thinking a bit more, I would love to reminisce with Fidel Castro, too. Yes, I might even prefer to talk with him even more than with Putin. Castro is history; Putin still is making it, so he can wait.

I suppose I should not mention this, but I will. The best interviews come when a bottle or two of liquor is part of the paraphernalia in the room. That is when words like trust, honor and simpatico become part of the process and the interview turns into a conversation and a true learning experience. I have had a couple of "adventures" such as that, and, selfish man that I am, getting to see inside someone is more important to me than a newspaper story few will ever read.

By the way, Fenton was a biographer, and I think Hemingway remembered everything about his newspaper days very well .... he just did not want to share those memories with Fenton.

Addendum No. 04 / April 13, 2015: Memory of a girl & a dance
Keith Reid & Gary Brooker / "A Whiter Shade of Pale" 1967

"That her face, at first just ghostly,
Turned a whiter shade of pale
She said, 'There is no reason
And the truth is plain to see.'"

I remember a girl and sometimes think of her.

I was working at my first job as a newspaper reporter. She was seventeen and, would you believe, I was interviewing her because she was a high school super star? She was the best woman athlete, the top scholar, active in many extra-curricular programs and very attractive. She was about to graduate as No. 1 in her class, had college plans and seemed to be on her way to a bright future.

I remember the same girl about a year later.

I noticed her at an after-hours bar on the outside of city limits. I was waiting for "my love" of the moment, a divorced mother of three who was twenty-five and said she had gotten pregnant the "first time" she "had done it." I will not go into the details of our romance, but I will mention her ex-husband had hit her one night in my presence at a bar, and, as the expression goes, I proceeded to "wipe up the floor" with him. The ex-husband's father, a local political figure and office holder, later threatened to "destroy" me. You might imagine how I reacted to that:

"Thank you, sir, but neither you nor your son matter to me in the slightest. I suggest you keep it that way," said I, with my best smirk on my lips. So ended that conversation and any problems with son or father.

Back on point: I was bored while waiting for my girlfriend, so I approached the former high school super star and her boyfriend. I knew him mostly by reputation. I had heard that she had gotten deeply involved with alcohol and drugs through her boyfriend, who openly abused her. I spoke with her for a few minutes while he was engaged in a game of pool, then asked her if she wanted to dance. She did.

She seemed distracted and disoriented while we were dancing, but when I asked her if she was going to a well-advertised party the next night she slipped out of her daze instantaneously. She stopped our dance, looked into my eyes with near-glaring intensity and replied, "Are you? I'll go if you will."

She knew me in the sense of who I was and what I did. Her eyes had gone from vacant to deeply penetrating. One of her hands was literally clutching my shirt like it was a lifeline to safety. It was clear what she was asking and what she was offering. She was desperate to leave the life she had fallen into -- the centerpiece of which revolved round drugs -- and was asking me to take her from her boyfriend, even offering herself for the chance to escape. Her boyfriend approached and tried to cut in on our dance. I told him to get himself a beer and tell the bartender to put it on my tab. He snickered and left.

I told her that my girlfriend had plans for us the next night, which did not include the party. She sighed, we danced through the same song a second and then a third time, and that was that. I never saw her again.

Cutting to the chase: My girlfriend and I broke up a few weeks later when I moved on to another job and another town. This girlfriend was one of three women other than my two former wives with whom I had a serious relationship. (Seem like too many / too few ??) To be honest, the fact that she had three children with two of them already in school frightened me more than a little, but I was very emotionally attached to her for a while.

When recalling that era in my life, the girl I remember most is not my divorcee girlfriend, but, rather, the one-time high school super star. I never have been able to get her out of my mind -- her face and her eyes and her voice. It makes me shudder thinking about it at times. I played the same song three times on a jukebox. That is all the longer we were together -- fifteen or twenty minutes -- dancing, but I remember how she wore her hair, what she was wearing, even her shoes. I see her listless at first, then her entire being awaken when I mentioned the party. She was a beautiful girl, absolutely, and very intelligent and very talented; I would have said yes to the party had I not been involved with another woman.

It is possible this young lady made it out of a dismal existence on her own. I never heard and I never will know, but I cannot help from wondering if I might have been able to assist her to escape from it if only I had gone to that party. I have been unable to forget that she sought my help and I did not give it.

Then, there is the song we danced to .... when I hear it now my mind drifts and I will close my eyes and I still am dancing with her. There are times I question if I walked away from something even more .... even, maybe, from the end of a rainbow. Why else does the memory linger so strongly, so distinctly? But, mostly, it bothers me and almost haunts me in a sense that I did not try to help her.

Just music 3 .... well, a few words, too ....

I am including here a few paragraphs I wrote in a comment at another post. I like what I wrote, I am lazy, I think a few who visit me here might like to read those words, but might not notice them in a comment at another post. See? I have invented three reasons for reprinting those words here and now. For a bit of music, we have a guitar solo from Ritchie Blackmore and a very stylized and (from my point of view) weird rendition of a 1960s classic,"Be My Baby," from John Lennon. I am not sure whether to laugh or to applaud, but it makes me smile. Off we go:

A couple of points, though. It is not only the Old Norse and Thor's Hammer and Snorri Sturluson and Gwyn Jones which/who charm me, it also is the emigrant/immigrant movement. In terms of the Norwegians, I have read the thirty-some volumes in the Norwegian-American Studies series published by the Norwegian-American Historical Association, not to mention (but I will anyway) an indeterminate number of other history books, studies, memoirs and novels about the same topic, plus countless other books which involve the exploration and settlement of the United States. History is the name of one of my primary games -- whether old or recent -- and philosophy, religion, mythology, psychology, sociology, etc., all are among the "vegetables" that are mixed into the "stew" named history which I consume with a passion.

Read a few of Ole Rolvaag's novels, for instance. He is among some of the authors whose books I have held in my hand while walking the streets of Minneapolis and the prairies of South Dakota retracing the footsteps he took and then wrote about more than one hundred years ago. This is using the past to understand the present.

As for the idealization of war, I think you confuse idealization with fascination. There are a few reasons why I have participated in military life. Here are two: One is to experience everything I am able in this life and, thereby, to explore my own being and, by extension, to see more deeply into the nature of man in general; another is because I do believe in good and evil / right and wrong, and I feel an obligation to be ready to fight and, possibly, to die for what I do believe.

(Read some books) by Victor Davis Hanson and, if you are at all interested in the Marine Corps, the books of Colonel Joseph Alexander.

As I said in a comment, "In terms of war, there obviously are necessary ones and others which should never have been fought." I would think that sentence alone would eliminate your interpretation of my interest in war as "idealization." Put most simply, I am a student, and a serious student attends classes as well as reads books.