Brave women, brave men: Janet Montgomery McGovern

In his post "Among the Headhunters of Formosa by Janet B. Montgomery McGovern" blogger Balancing Frogs gives pretty thorough account of this superb book, written by one brave woman back in 1920-ies. I wrote about it in Croatian, in astrosailor on "Headhunters..." , but since with Mr. Brendan we both found the same lack of information on author, who obviously was an interesting woman, I decided to search deeper. With help of a friend, genealogy researcher Nora D. in USA, who was already helping me very much in work on a genealogy project for my island, I got to the Daily Northwestern newspaper in Illinois, from January 5, 1939, where an obituary was issued few days after the death of Ms. Montgomery McGovern.

I copy it here:

The text is:

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"Mother of Prof. McGovern dies"

,

"Mrs. McGovern was a world traveler, author, teacher Mrs. Janet Blair Montgomery McGovern died on December 30. 1938. in Loma Linda, California. She was the mother of Dr. William Montgomery McGovern, professor of politycal science in Northwestern University. Mrs. McGovern was born in Rome, Ga., on October 9. 1874 and was the daughter of a distinguished soldier in the Confederate army, Col. Alexander Blair Montgomery and his wife, Ella Janet Mitchell. After graduating from Shawter College, she also studied at Oxford University in England, where she took a degree. She taught at Briarcliff Manor and the Kyoto Girls school in Japan. Mrs. McGovern travelled extensively in Europe and Asia an as the result of her travels she published several books, including "Among the head-hunters of Formosa" and "Butterflies of Taiwan". She was also newspaper correspondent for several periodical including the New York World, the Literary Digest and the Kobe Chronicle. The last few years she was a tutor in anthropology at the university of New Mexico. As the contributor to the Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute she attracted considerable attention."

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From this article we see she remained active after her return to USA: she wrote scientific articles, was a tutor in New Mexico and, obviously, respected enough that a newspaper across the country would mention her passing away with reverence. Her son was a model for Indiana Jones (only that his life was much more adventurous than Harrison Ford's role), but I suppose she should be a model for Brave Woman of the times. Here I am at least putting the online available information straight.

Russell

Since some time I am reading Bertrand Russell's classic work on history of philosophy "History of Western Philosophy". It is so classic that it is a shame to say I stumbled upon it only so old as I am, when I should read it some 25 years ago. Well, I obviously had more important things to do, and to read about Western philosophy, I had to submerge in this Confucianistic island of Formosa.

When it is like this, I notice that after living in Greece, and visiting it recently, I appreciate Russell's illumination on Greek philosophy. I am speaking as a delighted reader of Homer, rather than as a 21st century tourist, sure.

What kicks in Russell's writing is witty comments from time to time, so nice is how he makes the matter alive with this, not dusty-philosophy of the forgotten library shelves.

I reccomend this review, indeed. Take your time with it, it is not something to be swallowed...but rather licked with pleasure when time permits, and mind is at its leisure mode.

OLPC or One Laptop Per Child -crash of responsibility

I found Ivan Krstic blog which explains what happened with the project I found good idea some 2 years ago when I heard about it. I.Krstic explains-and more so with his essay here, which tells more about himself and people involved than the OLPC project.
Here is more on this, from yahoo news: yahoo on OLPC

But, then, projects are made by people. And when it goes for large humanitarian/educational projects, we know they are almost bound to fail.

But also we know that what matters is these few kids who will actually benefit from the scheme, even of it is the one to fail gloriously. So, at the end, maybe N. Negroponte's idea of "getting as many laptops out there", and anything else (after all disillusions I can imagine he had along the way) is not so much futile.

OLPC, Requiescat in pacem.

About MS Win-Mac-Linux I will not say nothing. In this world of multitude of possibilities for OS (1,2,3,...huh, what is after 3??? Our hyper-giga-mega tech civilization learned to count only to three? Seems so. Long way to go, guys, be happy your latop is running at all, not which OS it is running!) . I am running Linux. If I would run Windows world would not change as much as is dot on an "i". But I do not like to pay Bill's bill, that's all, I prefer to pay my own bills.

Jens Bjorneboe, "The Sharks"

From "The Sharks", Jens Bjorneboe,p.175,

"Only the very strong can live with no fear of losing their autonomy. Still, this is the precondition for loving: not to want power-not to want to OWN someone.

There can be talk of love only when one gives up one's self-assertion, when one lays down arms and capitulates fully. When one no longer defends oneself. Love is the absolute yielding, the total surrender-unconditionally. It knows no reservations, no defence.

Love creates no need to be the strongest, it knows no lust for power, no personality struggle. Love is pure devotion, absolute self-surrender. Only one who is strong enough not to fear losing his personality can love. To love, one must be able to foresake oneself, to make the other free."

Strange to find these words which I could sign, so clearly laid in the last writing of Bjorneboe. But, thinking of 'Moment of freedom', his trilogy which I recommend to anyone as a re-collection on humanity, maybe not so strange. He knew, for certain, power of ... love.

When love is mentioned, thoughts of God are not far away, this is recognized even by such an ateist like me. Bjorneboe laid it well, also:

The Sharks, p.183:"...man before me was quite simply a GOD, filled with a fathomless supernatural power. And at the next moment I was overwhelmed by one sensation, stronger perhaps than any other feeling I've tasted, stronger than the deepest mortal terror I knew, it was the vast, indescribable experience of my own STUPIDITY. Of stupidity and shame."

Very nice encounter with God (Neptune in this case), indeed! And how appropriate feeling. Bjorneboe really had good sense of humorous reality. Not to feel fear, excitation...but shame. Like she-monkey catched to masturbate with banana :-D

"The Sharks" is very strong reading. VERY. Rarely I find such a concentrated, well laid text. And it is on an eternal topic, where it is not, really, easy to write something new or original. Except for clean-cut factual approach, Bjorneboe is here to be praised for intensivity in his style, indeed. This makes 'The Sharks" a literature gem, a feast. Highly recommendable.

Chernobil, 22nd anniversary-brave Elena

End of april 1986 one region of Ukraina died...or at least got lethal dose. People moved out for few hundred years, and it became a monument of human...stupidity or reason? We can discuss it, but from safe distance, as it is not good idea to put Academy in Chernobil.

The best warning I found online is blog
Elena
Lots of good text and pictures. Lady is crazily brave, biking through the Death Zone. Fast. My bow, Elena.

If you are green, you will become blue, watching this. Rest of us can only...grow gray. It is old blog, few years ago...but do not worry, it will not be outdated for few centuries more.

Show this to kids, think it yourself. I am a physicist, and know well we do not have third choice, except atomic and, hopefully soon, nuclear energy. Windpower is nice thing, but more to remind us we are in NEED, urge for energy.
For producing food, in the end of the chain...

22 years passed. In 578, by some moderate estimates (300-900 years) real estates prices in the region will move from zero, where they are now.

Peter Nadas' Family Story

Nadas is, after I read his "A book of Memories", which is a work unusually thick in feeling, not only paper, one of most pleasant european writers for me. This booklet, on the contrary to the 1st book, is a thin one, but language is the same, peculiar, and reading often has to be back and forth, to understand what's up. From the very beginning when it is not clear at all who is mother, who father and how to hell the change occurs... Nadas is a master of word, and plays, sometimes, a kind of game with a reader.

Imre Goldstein's translation from Hungarian transfers, I feel, the taste of Nadas' language.

For a book "The End of a Family Story", to enclose Jewish family history of last 10 or so generations in 250 pages of small "Penguin" is a formidable achievemnent. And not to tell ther stories all the time, just follow the boy's story and what his grandpa told him...

Highly reccomendable reading, albeit for connesseur's palate only, I am afraid, as many could be repelled by non-transparent language of Nadas. He is, in English rendition, somewhat similar to Salman Rushdie, probably it is because of Middle East air of the jewish stories inside, which are so pregnant with desert sands and winds, anciet cities and people.

If you want to touch today's Literature of Europe, Nadas is for sure one of its most pleasant eminences.

Volcanic hills ride

I took a bicycle ride. Sunny day, road and myself. As I realized later, I
was puzzled to the core, and I needed a hard work-out.

However, this realization came later, well into the ride. It begun as an
innocent Sunday bike ride, something usual for me last months. In the tropic island, winter time is the only time good for bicycle. During warmer parts of the year, with all these hills, it would be very risky thing to do, for an European, used to rather cooler conditions. One does not want to
over-work his heart on 30-some celsius and over 90% humidity.

I went through the sur-realistic scenery of Science Park in the Taiwan Silicon Walley, with all its hiper-giga-mega corporations, enjoying empty sunday streets in what is usually a hectic industrial place. When I turned to a bit off road towards the Baoshan reservoir, which I knew offers a nice sight to the lake with the bridge accross, uphill the first slope, I knew this is one of the days. I felt the seat hot below me, as it had imprint od someone
else's presence. Someone was with me on that ride.

Sight of the lake was just a scenery and a chance to start emptying my water bottle, sun was high, and it was not cool at all. My back was wet, already. What I really wanted, was more hills. So I decided to go to the hardest I know around, today.

Road was unfolding in front of me, with magnificent, albeit foggy views, because of the dust from Gobi desert in mainland China, reaching Taiwan these days. Tops on the opposite of the walley I was encircling were not too real, seen accross the walley, and I was there only few minutes ago! I took the downhill fastest possible, cutting the sharp curves through the forest,
setting my adrenaline well higher.

I knew that in front of me, after that shadowy forest downhill, will be the steepest of the hills...waiting for me in the full sun. At its foot, in a small farm, I encountered a serene scene of young bamboo cutting - four village men worked on it, lively discussing. Omnipresent black dogs observing attentively. Drinking my water, I took my camera out and made a picture, trying to capture the moment. Knowing it is rather in vain, it was too far and all I will get will be four
distant silhouettes. But I could not resist the temptation to try to freeze the time.

Then I went up, in the lowest gears, to conquer the slope in the sun. I found it not at all as hard as I remembered...probably I became more in shape after few weekends of bike rides. Anyway, at the top, I needed few circles around, before the new, smaller hill behind, to catch proper breath and heart rate.

Already during the uphill drive, I had, again, that queer feeling of "what I am REALLY doing?", which I know from my other wanderings of a kind. Wanderings which can be -or rather, have been- along the kilometers of wild, Africa-like beaches of my adriatic island, back in Croatia, or through the forests of Zagorje in Northern Croatia, or in some of Slovenian Alps, or Carpats on the Polish-Slovakian border. Or through my ultimate hills and pastures of my grand-grand parents in the island, with the view accross the Adiatic sea all to Italy. Bicycle rides not to count, which took place at many more sites, Athens in Greece probably the most echoing. When one tops the slopes of Ymittos, above Athens, and spots the Acropolis with the Saronic Gulf and
Pirreus Harbour and its ships, it is the picture which does not leave the mind easily.

Catching the tops again, in the light breeze from the bamboo forest, I realized I am, again, playing my game of "asking the Road". One sets for the road, and along forms the question of the eternal type, rather from some book by Herman Hesse or Richard Bach, and not a Sunday ride along the Tropic of Cancer: "What I am doing? Why I am doing it? Where the Road goes?"

Downhill the next slope was through the mounain village, and I had to pay attention to eventual dogs or people on the road. But I did not slow a bit, my mind already in changed state, with the breeze from the much higher hills, much denser forests, more open seas...

Road was beating under me, its black line waving through the walleys and uphill minor slopes. My body was catching its rhytm, just enjoying it. I felt sweat going down my back, but enjoyed it, as I knew the reward of cooling off will come with the next downhill part.

Peasant was working the field, pausing to speak with someone on the bicycle. I catched the right turn in the village, but on the next bridge accros the stream emerging between the hills, I stopped and opened my bottle again, sweat is taking much water from the body in these conditions. Man on the bicycle passed near me, now I saw it is 50-some man and, with a good-willed smile around the face, yelled, passing by me, something like 'jiaaa', what was encouragement and cheering up, I understood. It did cheer me up, kind of pinning me to this serene rural picture.

Road was flat for me now, for few kilometers. Black thin line. With a white line for a thread - Ariadne, where are you, cursing me, still?

Such flat parts after uphills are the sites of non-flat thoughts, I knew, and I listened attentively to the Road. As if it would like to tell me: "after steep slopes comes green walley, comes rest and peace". Serene mountain village... but I had it, I had it to pain, I have been
professor emeritus already, in my remote village, in seclusion of my own thoughts...

I am not seeking for it, oh Road, you are not telling me this, yes? What are you trying to tell me? What are you showing me? Where are you leading me? Or am I just obusing you?

The answer came with the next uphill portion, which splitted at the top into four roads: The Road is here to go through the hills. But it is not leading. There are many roads. You are using the Road. That is, if you take the road at the first instance. But, again downhill, in fastest and most narrow part of today, where I could just get loose, forgetting about brakes, they would not stop me anyway if there would be need to stop, I knew this was MY road today, I could not "choose" another. Who is using whom?

Along the next, greener than green walley, with purple flowers all accross the fields, I knew: beauties of the scenery, serene fields, orange plantations and tall palm-like betel-nut trees, all along the road, are alread described in Scripts. In eternal Scripts. They have power to divert a
man from himself, from his inner Road, to atach him to their place and time... but if he follows the white line only, the white line of his inner Road, this remains just a gallery, a beautiful collection, but...only a collection. Zoo of thoughts, feelings and passions. The real passions are
somewhere else.

Where?

Where is that passion, oh Road, could you tell me? What is its taste?
"You know it. It is the taste of tears, the taste of sweat, the taste of
sea... the sea you know so well and love so much."

The Road was looking deep into my eyes now. I was still blind, driwing, working my way through the walleys... "But, why... where..."
Silence. I stopped above the farm bathed in sun, to drink from my bottle. Water is finishing, time to turn towards home. Sweat pouring down my neck, I felt tired, but satisfied... I worked through the nice part of the countryside,
now some ...oh, if I go back usual way, there will be many cars, no, I do not want...

I decided to take the hardest hill around, longer and harder than the one from the beginning. Just to avoid crowdy street. I wanted to speak with the Road in silence for a bit more.

When I started to work uphill, smile came to my face. I understood now. The Road is not telling me nothing. Nothing at all. I am speaking to myself, analyzing, trying to rationalize unlogical, nonhuman ways.

The Road is using more basic language. It is here, under me, timeless. Before this asphalt, before the white line, there has been a path ...

It is, yes. It is. It is not outside me. It is not in me. The Road simply IS.

Steep hill, in few long steps, was now just a work-out, I was meeting more cars, more sweat pouring down my body.

The Road answered all my questions and could now just be, follow its white line.

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