This will hurt me...

Self-portrait, Newell Beach, Far North Queensland. April 2021. Passchendaele: A New History by Nick Lloyd As one might expect, this is a deep and convincing exploration of the Third Battle of Ypres. Deep and scholarly in tone, I was struck by how this study seems to buck against the more recent trend in the field to view Haig and the British high command more favourably than the works of the mid-twentieth century. Of particular note, I appreciated the extent to which division between the political and military arms of both the German and British/ Commonwealth sides of the front drove much of the poor decision-making that contributed to so much unnecessary bloodshed. I'd recommend this one to anyone seeking to understand events in a little more depth. ⭐ ⭐ ⭐ 1/2

Finally! Irrevocable proof! Jesus was a traitor! Imagine that, anointing the Fritz on the way to butchering the good guy. What a bugger. I’d love to see the logic behind the central tenets of Christ that would generate an assumption that he’d be anointing his approval of trench warfare…

Juliana Hatfield? Alice in Chains? The Jesus Lizard? Soul Asylum? I'm not even sure which artists actually qualify as 'slacker', and for the life of me I can't see the utility value of them in the trenches. Sure, you can chuck them at the Jerrys, but there's every chance that they'll catch that Porno for Pyros record and play it on full bore. That would be a fate worse than mustard gas!

Does this mean that we should eat more semi-subsistence farmers too?

Alternate slogan: " If the Kaiser can't kill 'em, we sure as hell will! "

Continuing along the theme of black and white, and buildings in Hobart, here is a photograph that I took in the Elizabeth Street Bus Mall this morning. I am not sure how I feel about it. I think that I like it, but it seems a bit solemn and sombre. I think that this is because of the book that I had just finished on the way in had left me in that frame of mind. The book is Casualty Figures: How Five Men Survived the First World War , by Michele Barrett. The book is not about the millions who died in the First World War; but rather it explores the experiences of countless numbers of men who lived as ‘long-term casualties’. That is, not those of profound physical trauma, but of the desolate trauma of the slaughter that they managed to escape alive. To do this, Barrett explores the lives of five ordinary personnel who endured war, how they dealt with its horrors, both during and long after the war's end. Through this, she attempts to shed light on the nature of the psychological dama...

A grey old day today, as this photograph will attest. At the moment I am halfway through Pat Barker's Regeneration trilogy, which I am enjoying - if that is the right word - very much. I will endeavour to put pen to paper (fingers to keyboard?) afterwards and talk a little bit about them, but for the moment the experience has sent me back into the work of the poets of World War One. For whatever reason, this grey sky had me thinking of a poem by Wilfred Owen that I first read maybe twenty years ago, and remains a favourite today. I thought that I would share it. Somehow, the words are even more powerful when you know a little about Owen's life and his eventual fate. Strange Meeting by Wilfred Owen It seemed that out of the battle I escaped Down some profound dull tunnel, long since scooped Through granites which titanic wars had groined. Yet also there encumbered sleepers groaned, Too fast in thought or death to be bestirred. Then, as I probed them, one sprang up, and stared ...