John C. Wright's Journal

If asked whether I believe that there are limits on free speech, I reply that the Common Law limitations evolved from Anglo-American law are sufficient to protect other rights and interest threatened by any abuse of free speech: libel, slander, fraud, conspiracy, incitement. For the record, shouting “Fire!” in a crowded theater, despite what you have heard, is protected speech: but stirring up a panic that negligently or intentionally causes a stampede where persons are injuried or property damaged, is not protected. Uttering death threats is not protected. Asking others to commit crimes is not protected.

The libel leveled at the Covington High School children by the media-political machine, by Hollywood celebrities, and by the thoughtless and ruthless enemies of the people who comprise the Fake News, is not protected.

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I ran across this passage in my religious reading. I thought it was a fascinating idea:

‘Mary has authority over the angels and the blessed in heaven. As a reward for her great humility, God gave her the power and the mission of assigning to saints the thrones made vacant by the apostate angels who fell away through pride.’

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Accusing Brett Kavanaugh of being a serial rapist was not enough. Now the NPCs are accusing a polite,decent, honest, and clean cut youth of every evil imaginable. Even after it was debunked, the Left keep lying and lying and lying.

You may have seen the MAGA hatted Catholic highschool sophomores being harassed by fake martyr, male Tawana Brawley, and lying agitator Nathan Phillips, and then mobbed by a fake twitter mobs, then doxxed by hate-filled Lefties, and then libeled by the fake news.

Their own school rushed to condemn the youths, as did Conservative commentators, and their own diocese.

But now the full footage has come out, and all the accusations are now revealed, to any who have eyes to see, to be not merely false, but the exact reverse of the truth. The racists and gay-bashers and avatars of hate who were yelling out slurs were the man beating the drum and those with him.

As of the time of this writing, all the news stories returned by a Google search of this story continue to report the now-exploded leftwing narrative.

See here

https://www.theamericanconservative.com/dreher/the-covington-catholic-bonfire-at-the-stake/

And see more here

https://www.dietofworms.us/transcripts/magastudents

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Christmas reading by our Friendly Neighborhood Christmas Celt!
NATIVITY by John C Wright

This is a A Tale for Christmas Day. It was first published in THE BOOK OF FEASTS AND SEASONS — Tales Inspired by Feasts and Fasts of the Calendar published by Castalia House (November, 2014).

Nativity

“Mr. Went, if you could visit anyone in the world, any time, any place, who would you go see? Oh, not for a long time. Long visits are never permitted. But just for a moment, just for an embrace, a long look, no longer?”

His words were not in English, and I did not speak any modern Romance tongues, but he must have been a priest or a scholar, because he and I could make ourselves understood to each other in Latin and in Greek, two living men with two dead languages in common.

I was not sure where I was. The streets in these ancient cities are narrow and crooked, and they don’t put the names on street signs.

The stranger in the top hat and long coat did not linger to hear an answer. Now he paused to listen to some children singing carols — I remember they sang O Come Emmanuel, but the words were not in English — while waiting for me to climb the alley. I had stopped.

It was not that I was tired, it was just that I was used to the broad and flat streets of the Midwest, so, to me, the sight of a cobblestone street turning into broad stairs for part of its climb was a novelty. It was, no doubt, a street older than my whole nation.

I wanted to make a comment to my wife, but she, of course, was not there. In my pocket was a small Christmas gift for her, wrapped in gold paper. I had put it in the pocket of the dark and formal coat I donned for the funeral. I had intended to leave it at the grave, but the idea of bright, cheery, frivolous colors of wrapping paper beneath the granite headstone, on the darkness of the newly-turned earth, seemed unbearably hateful to me.

And I still wanted to make a comment to her, share my thoughts, share my life. And I could not. So I had paused, wrestling with the aching emptiness inside me.

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This vignette also appears in THE BOOK OF FEASTS AND SEASONS Tales Inspired by Feasts and Fasts of the Calendar, Castalia House (November, 2014). It was first published in Dappled Things, Mary Queen of Angels, web publication, (2009 issue). 

Not quite science fiction, but not mainstream either. 

On the People’s Business

By John C. Wright

I was passing through one of the poorer sections of the country, going toward the capital.

Travel was difficult. There was occasional rail service, and overloaded trains (their roofs overhung dangerously with half-naked children, calm-faced mothers bent beneath drooping bundles) clattered their smoky way through narrow cuts and under stunted bridges—but no buses were running. To go from one tattered train station to another, one walked or hitch-hiked. Despite the recent violence here, people with cars (Europeans, shop owners, or Party Members) nearly always stopped, and nearly always made a detour if you were in need.

A man who owned a laundry drove me all the way to the train station, rushing with mad haste across rutted and potholed roads, chatting and laughing the whole time. In return I paid the overweight guards at the checkpoints their bribes. I gave him my bottle of aspirin for his sick wife: he seemed to think all Europeans were doctors. Despite the desperate poverty of the land, the people seemed cheerful, full of life. To my human eyes, there was nothing to condemn.

I first noticed the angel across the platform when I went in to buy my ticket. Admittedly, the sight made me nervous.

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Razorfist on Sargon of Akkad’s gag order from Patreon.

Before you ask, yes, I am looking into alternative funding platforms. I don’t want to give these people another dime, much less a cut of the money donated freely by generous patrons.

This little gem of mine first appeared in THE BOOK OF FEASTS AND SEASONS Tales Inspired by Feasts and Fasts of the Calendar  Castalia House (November, 2014). It enjoys a certain small fame among the deplorable.

The Queen of the Tyrant Lizards

By

John C. Wright

There was no time. That is the first thing to remember. I did not know what was about to happen. That is the second thing to remember.

Imagine a time line. Select a zero point. To one side is an infinity of tomorrow, starting with positive one. To the other is an infinity of yesterday, starting with negative one. But between the positive and the negative infinities, what is there? Less than nothing, less than half of nothing, a pinprick, a dot, a point, less time than it takes to decide to murder them all.

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The hiatus of LOST ON THE LAST CONTINENT continues, as my time is consumed now with STARQUEST. Soon I hope to return to regular episodes.

One of my rarer offerings, this story first appeared in Dark Discoveries: Issue 31, edited by James R. Beach. It is a quarterly magazine, which I believe is still in business.

The Scepter of Nowhere

***

It happened so quickly. We used to be human beings, you see.

When I heard the bomb go off, I ran to the door at the end of the corridor. It had two narrow slits for windows, one in each leaf of the door.

Outside was an alley leading to a chainlink fence. Beyond the fence was a rubbish yard. At the other end of the alley two cars were parked, bumper to bumper. The wall opposite was pierced with countless dark windows, and the roof was crenellated with chimneys and utility boxes.

Something in the scene terrified me. It was automatic, the echo of many dark evenings in missions in dangerous parts of the world. Later, I saw dimly with my mind what my instinct saw clearly: the alley was a killing ground, with no escape route. The cars were a choke-point, either wired to explode, or holding gunmen. Snipers in the windows, or in the broken ground on the far side of the chainlink fence would have perfect concealment and a clear shot at anyone trapped in the alley, or trying to climb the fence.

What about the other way? I ran back up the corridor, but it was too late.

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I used the island of Sark in the English Channel as the location for my fantasy book IRON CHAMBER OF MEMORY, taking, as authors must, a great deal of poetical license in describing it.

I also fell in love with it. I hope Dame Sybil will forgive me the licenses I took by inventing a make believe heir to her position, and various murders and wild events a story needs. The rural, unspoilt, unlit island is precisely the sort of spot many a writer, weary of the frenetic modern world, wishes he could live, myself not the least.

However, the most fantastic and unbelievable things about the island are not my inventions, but real. Here is an article about one aspect of the history of Sark.

If I may quote

The place is a time capsule. Cars are banned. Residents get around by bicycle, and the local ambulance and fire trucks are pulled by tractors. With little noise pollution, the island’s soundscape is a symphony of coastal winds, crashing waves, the clip-clop of horse-drawn carriages, and the rustle of waving fields bursting with whimsically named flowers: foxgloves, toadflax, dog violets, and oxeye daisies. Since there are no streetlights on Sark, the Milky Way gleams on moonless nights.

http://mentalfloss.com/article/559912/dame-sybil-hathaway-sark-feudal-lord-outclassed-nazis-ww2

More of the article is below:

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Because the Democrats hate you. Everything they are saying about Trump applies to you.

It may be a violation of Internet manners to post the whole column, but this was too good not to share. Andrew Klavan from the Dailywire website:

I had to brave the snow and darkness to venture out after work hours to a late Friday Mass. Holy days of obligation being obligatory, donchaknow.

Today’s lesson: if a teen aged little Jewish girl in a conquered country before the invention of running water can be humble and faithful enough to move the mighty world’s crooked axis, so can you.

It is not too soon for Christmas music, is it?