Jerusalem, War, Fun

Just a thought about Simon Sebag's Montefiore's Jerusalem, or a line within, where he writes:

Few soldiers, few novelists have captured the fun of war like Usmah. To read him is to ride in the skirmishes of Holy War in the Kingdom of Jerusalem. He gloried in his battlefield anecdotes of derring-do, devil-may-care cavaliers, miraculous escapes, terrible deaths and . . . spurting blood.

I'm not sure how much firsthand experience of the fun of war Montefiore has had - a quick look seems to reveal his previous professional life outside of writing to consist of banking - but anyway, whatever his experiences, how refreshingly old school not to yield to the wilting and joyless sanctimonies of the present, and instead not just apologise for war as an occasionally necessary evil but actually celebrate the Boys Own fun of it all. Hurrah!

I wonder if in the bounteous remainder of the book that awaits me whether I will come across as similarly liberating an expression as:

Few men, few novelists have captured the fun of rape like - . . . 

Mass-rape being of course, along with the obvious thrills of things like dismemberments and less obvious ones like mass-starvation, always a pretty inevitable attendant to the great fun-filled wars that have comprised and lit up the great canons of that which we are pleased to call History. Not of course that I am in any way saying the generally incidental phenomena of rape should expect to be considered on any kind of par with the more historically relevant thrills and glories as hacking off of limbs and heads and the like.

Jerusalem, Montefiore, etc . .. injection

I recently bought 'Jerusalem The Biography' by Simon Sebag Montefiore, the back cover of which includes quotes by such political and, of course by natural extension, intellectual luminaries as Henry Kissinger - "Magnificent . . . a treasure trove", and Bill Clinton - "Spectacular . . . It's a wonderful book."
Humbled as I am to be in such company, I would add - "A tedious monotonous read which I am trying to force myself to wade through for the doubtful purposes of self-education."

. . . Ok, a bit unfair . . . or no, not that unfair, that does largely describe my experience of reading it. It's one of those books which I wish whose information could be ingested in the form of say an injection - a quick way of gathering its endless reams of  "This happened, then this happened, and then this, then this, and then this, and would you believe it, followed by this . . . " etc.

That the method of injection wouldn't be an entirely painless way of ingesting the book, and for some like myself a bit mentally uncomfortable, well this would add some measure of authenticity to the experience.

Sitting, Politeness

Are you sitting comfortably? Not that I care whether you are or not . . . not that is though that I wish you discomfort; I was just being polite. Well if that's my version of politeness, you might say . . .

Well no, this, that is the above, my explanation, my excusing of myself, so to speak, was really just laziness, lack of effort, some kind of shorthand for the sake of convenience - not that it's proving very convenient - and I suppose instead I better try to be more accurate, more a servant in the interest of truth - not that I'm looking to be such a servant. Can you imagine someone describing himself as such . . .  "I am a servant in the interest of truth" - the shamelessness of it . . . or perhaps the stupidity . . . or maybe both. It would be like coming out with a book called "The Audacity of Hope."

 Picture yourself standing there, in front of your publisher, your publisher to be:

"I've written a book."
"Right, right. What's it about?"
"It's about myself, my struggle."
"Your struggle. And have you a title?"
"'I have. It's called 'The Audacity of Hope.'"

Anyway, whatever about that kind of audacity, I was trying to explain myself, why I began as I began with the polite question about the sitting, only it wasn't politeness . . . but who cares what it was! It was a beginning, a gaining of momentum, a prelude . . .

But, and here's the sadness, when you come back to it maybe it really was politeness after all . . . only I couldn't carry it off and the waves of irony broke out. It didn't take them long. And so whatever this might have turned out to be, this is what it is instead. Not that it matters any great amount.