My Eighty-One Years Of Anarchy - May Picqueray

MY EIGHTY-ONE YEARS OF ANARCHY– 

MAY PICQUERAY

Obscure anarchists, aren't they the best? There's nothing wrong, of course, with the anarchist grandees such as Bakunin, Kropotkin, Goldman, and Proudhon etc but they are in a way but the very tip of the spear and it's the more obscure ones that give strength to the whole length of that spear, without which the tip would be pretty useless. The obscure anarchists are like a metal horseshoe hidden inside a boxing glove ensuring the delivered blow is a knock-out one.

A case in point is May Picqueray. Born in France in 1898, even as a child Picqueray always felt she was the rebel of the family though it wasn't until the age of twenty when she moved to Paris and met a Serbian medical student who introduced her to anarchist ideas that she became active in actual Anarchist organisations. Two years later she ended up sending a parcel bomb to the US Embassy in France as part of a campaign on behalf of Sacco and Vanzetti. Whilst this act achieved its desired aim as in catapulting the Sacco and Vanzetti case onto the front pages of the French newspapers, it was in the end to no avail and the two men were sent to the electric chair only to be redeemed decades later after their innocence was proven. From there on, however, there was no stopping her.

My Eighty-One Years Of Anarchy is May Picqueray's memoir and whilst it shows that her life has not always been an easy one it shows at the same time that it's been a life worth living. A finer attitude to life, in fact, is hard to imagine. Picqueray was a natural born anarchist so in that sense her fate was sealed from the start. There was simply no avoiding it and subsequently was no avoiding or turning away from injustice when she saw it.

Her story is a sprawling one, taking in many global, historical events. In 1922, for example, she travelled to Moscow as part of the Metalworkers Federation to attend a Trade Union congress there. After witnessing first hand the desperate poverty and hunger out in the streets she mounted a table at the sumptuous banquet laid on for the delegates and loudly denounced the whole affair. How dare these workers' delegates gorge themselves and stuff their faces when Russian workers were perishing of hunger, she cried.

At another grand meal, this time in the Kremlin, Trotsky himself was there and out of the blue asked Picqueray to sing them all a song 'just like in France'. She responded by singing a French anarchist song. On later meeting Trotsky face to face, she refused to shake his hand.

'Unwilling to shake my hand, comrade May. Why would that be?' Trotsky asked her.

'I am an anarchist,' she replied 'and we are divided by Makhno and Krondstadt.'

'I too am an anarchist,' Trotsky claimed 'but the Russian people are an ignorant people. It is necessary to evolve and, for that to happen, we must go through a transitional phase.'

'Which would last how long?' she responded.

'As long as it takes.' Trotsky replied.

Without doubt, it was a curious and fascinating exchange.

Two years later back in France, Picqueray ended up harbouring Nestor Makhno and his family after having fled Russia following the decimation of his troops by the Bolsheviks in the Ukraine. Around the same time she also got to know Emma Goldman and Alexander Berkman, ending up at one point typing up the manuscripts for Goldman's autobiography.

Come the Second World War, Picqueray concentrated her activities on helping the many Spanish refugees thrown into French prison camps after fleeing Spain following the victory of Franco and his forces in the Spanish Civil War. During the German occupation of France she helped to secure and fabricate papers for the resistance and people on the run, as well as harbouring resisters and smuggling people to safety.

Many years later she was – as almost to be expected – involved in the events of May 1968, and in 1974 she launched her own anarchist newspaper entitled Le Refractaire which she remained at the helm of until her passing in 1983 at the age of 85.

Picqueray starts her book with a long quote from the French anarchist Sebastien Faure, whose words set her off at a tender age and continued to guide her throughout her whole life. The bottom line, as Picqueray puts it is that it is on love that anarchy is based.

Picqueray's final message at the end of her book is a passionate one and sums up one of the main reasons for her writing it: 'Let the young take up the torch, let them learn and be unsparing in their efforts. Should events evolve, the anarchist philosophy is still relevant. It is achievable, and it is the most beautiful thing, the thing that will bring happiness through freedom and joie de vivre.

Long live Anarchy! Go for it, young people! Go for it!... for Love, Fraternity, and Liberty!'

My Eighty-One Years Of Anarchy is May Picqueray passing on the anarchist baton to the next generation in the continuing fight for a brighter and better future.

John Serpico

Porcelain - Moby

PORCELAIN – MOBY

There is a series of videos on YouTube called Jonesy's Jukebox in which ex-Sex Pistol Steve Jones chats to various celebrities in-between playing records in his role as DJ on a radio show in California. It's extremely good, not only due to the interesting guests Jones brings into the studio to chat to but also for his very laid back way of talking to them, making for some very interesting conversations. Jones has obviously met a fair few famous and somewhat eccentric people in his time and is by now well-versed in talking to them. There's one episode, however, where Moby is his guest and the way that Jones looks at him it's as if the aliens have landed.

It's two factors that cause Jones to have this look on his face as if to say 'What the fuck is this?', the first being the calibre of Moby's name-dropping anecdotes along the lines of “I was in my apartment in Upper Manhattan having tea and biscuits with Iggy Pop, David Bowie, Salman Rushdie and Laurie Anderson when I got out my guitar and we all had a sing-along”. The second being Moby's jumpy, excitable enthusiasm for all things as he pulls out his guitar and tries to out-play Steve Jones in precise technical renderings of classic rock songs seemingly plucked from the ether.

Perhaps it's all by accident but Moby comes across as a conversational and musical genius, all wrapped up in the personage of what can only be described as a 'nerd'. There's one particular anecdote that Moby relays regarding an encounter with erstwhile rock god Gene Simmons where Simmons walks up to Moby and says to him “You are a powerful and attractive man”, before walking off again. What with Gene Simmons' testosterone-fuelled machismo and Moby's weedy physique, it's almost certain that Simmons was being sarcastic but Moby seems genuinely proud of the encounter as if Simmons had been acknowledging a kindred soul. This anecdote, of course, serves only to add to Jones' perplexity.

So, what the fuck is Moby? Have the aliens really landed? Well, after having read Moby's memoir, Porcelain – all 500 pages of it – I must admit I'm none the wiser. Yes, that's 500 pages of Moby talking about his life. Can you imagine?

Apparently, Moby is a descendent of Herman Melville so because of this probably feels that anything he writes should be on the same epic scale, so as to keep the tradition going. The problem being, however, that while Moby knows how to write he isn't actually a good writer. He's a classic case of someone badly in need of an editor but due to whatever reason, one hasn't been deployed. Hence 500 pages that could have easily been slashed by half and in doing so make for a much better book.

I'm not sure if Moby owes me a personal debt of gratitude for ploughing through his memoir or if I should be thanking him because by the time I got to the 300^th page I started to wonder what I was doing with my life? Might there not be better ways to spend my time rather than reading a book such as this? Might there not be better books to read? Like Moby Dick, perhaps? Or Tolstoy's War And Peace? Is it just me, I wondered? Is there something wrong with me? Why are writers from such esteemed organs as The Guardian, New Statesman, Mojo, and Rolling Stone able to laud Moby's book with grand plaudits but I'm barely able to muster the will to live?

To be fair, Porcelain isn't the worst book I've ever read and in fact there are some decent bits in it such as when Moby is describing New York during the late Eighties/early Nineties when it was still a dangerous place to live and when everyone except him and his immediate circle of friends seemed to be on crack. Or when he's talking about aspects of the early New York rave scene and the changes to it brought about by the changing of drugs being devoured from Ecstasy to Ketamin.

There's a lot missing from it, however, such as any decent mention of the New York Hardcore punk scene in which Moby was once involved, frequenting hundred of shows at CBGBs apparently. Or any real examination of his Christianity or how he became vegan and an advocate of animal rights. There's no explanation of how he managed to attend and DJ at practically every club in New York and managed to remain drug-free. How could this have been humanly possible?

A strange thing about the book is that it only starts to get better and more amusing about two thirds in when Moby suddenly starts drinking a lot. The people he meets become more interesting as does his anecdotes. The book at this point starts to flow more easily as he suddenly reveals he's got a very good sense of humour. His sex life even begins to improve though the thought of Moby having sex isn't really an alluring one it must be said.

I've got nothing against Moby, I should add. He's a likeable fellow and a lot of his records are actually really good particularly the albums 18 and Hotel. His Animal Rights album, however, is a crock of shit which was universally slated and rightfully so. He did, however, blot his copy book by the absolute selling out of his Play album. So much so that there was a time, in fact, when you couldn't put the television on without hearing something from Play being used as the theme music to some advertisement or other and it was just too much in the end. Overkill, essentially.

And maybe that's what it is with Porcelain, the book? It's just overkill, basically? It's just too much? Too much froth and not enough bite? I'm not really sure. In fact, I'm not really sure about anything any more after finishing it. Then again, 500 pages of Moby is enough to daze and confuse anyone. Perhaps Moby can say a prayer for me? Especially as I've got Then It Fell Apart - the sequel to Porcelain, clocking up to another 400 pages - waiting on my shelf to be read. Whispering my name: 'John, John, come and read me'. Like a Siren calling me to the rocks.

Yes. Pray for me.

John Serpico

Penguin Modern Poets - Gregory Corso - Lawrence Ferlinghetti - Allen Ginsberg

PENGUIN MODERN POETS –

GREGORY CORSO – LAWRENCE FERLINGHETTI – ALLEN GINSBERG

Poetry used to always be published in expensive hardback books but during the 1960s and 1970s in an attempt to introduce contemporary poetry to the general reader a series of inexpensive paperbacks were published containing some thirty poems by each of three modern poets in a single volume. These were the Penguin Modern Poets and apparently the venture was an outstanding success.

There was an unlikely encounter once upon a time between Freddie Mercury and Sid Vicious where Freddie greeted Sid with a “Aha! Mr Ferocious!”, to which Sid replied “'Ello, Fred. Still trying to bring ballet to the masses are we?”

If true, this was an interesting exchange for not only Freddie's witty greeting but also for Sid's retort which was actually ambiguously multi-layered. Was Sid saying this so as to mock Freddie due to ballet being an uncool art form to try and foist upon the public, or was he implying that Freddie was on a hiding to nothing in trying to promote ballet as the general public were an ignorant bunch who would never appreciate it? Knowing Sid, it could have been either – or both. “I've met the man in the street,” as Sid is quoted as once saying “And he's a cunt.”

Poetry isn't all 'Moon in June' and chasing butterflies with nets though that's probably a not too uncommon perception. It all depends on how discerning the reader is and what they are presented with and what they discover by actively seeking or venturing out beyond the given horizons. As with anything, of course.

Penguin Books' endeavour to bring poetry to the masses was a noble one. Somebody back then obviously possessed of a love of poetry took a gamble and it paid off - and not only financially. The influence of this series is incalculable. The man on the street might well be a cunt, as Sid advised, but there is a vast number who are curious of mind and have a thirst for culture and knowledge only hindered by access and economics. Penguin Modern Poets was a solution and nothing less than a key to a kingdom.

The series is no longer available so can only nowadays be bought second-hand. Number 5, first published in 1963, features poems by Gregory Corso, Lawrence Ferlinghetti, and Allen Ginsberg. The Beat poets, of course. Ferlinghetti and Ginsberg I've read before but for some reason I've not actually read a lot by Gregory Corso though I'm fully aware of who he is. 

The value in this book (and subsequently the whole series?) was instantly proven by it instigating me to read-up on and investigate Corso further. The wikipedia page on him was the obvious place to start and though badly composed, it was sufficient enough to nudge me to YouTube and various old interviews with him there along with recordings of him reciting some of his poems.

No frat boy was Corso but rather a product of deprivation and poverty, terrorised by time in jail at an early age but then also finding salvation there through encountering books by the classical poets. Another chance encounter – this time in a bar – with Allen Ginsberg led to further salvation through him becoming an integral inner circle member of the Beat poets.

That's not to single Corso out for special attention in this book, however, because none of the poets featured are any better than the other. There are no single lines to quote and no particular poems to highlight for special praise. They are all equally good.

No, on reading this book it caused something else and that was to consider the meaning of being a poet and why anyone would choose to be one? There's no money in it, that's for sure, so why bother? According to Plato, “at the touch of love everyone becomes a poet” and therein lies the answer. No-one writes a poem from a position of hate. As Che Guevara even once said: “At the risk of seeming ridiculous, let me say that the true revolutionary is guided by a great feeling of love. It is impossible to think of a genuine revolutionary lacking this quality.”

To be a poet and to compose a poem is in itself an act of love. It's a declaration of having love in one's heart. A declaration of love. A declaration of being alive and an inkling of being aware of what that might mean. To write even just one poem in your life is a life well spent. Whether a poem is any good or not is academic. Subjective. Every act of creativity in whatever medium is meaningful. One act leads to another to another and to another. Corso, Ferlinghetti, Ginsberg, Kerouac et al begat the beatniks who begat the hippies who begat the punks along with a million other off-shoots along the way including me sat on a train writing these thoughts down.

All this from a book bought for 10p in a second-hand shop in Exmouth. It can't be bad.

John Serpico

Gobbing, Pogoing And Gratuitous Bad Language - Edited by Robert Dellar

GOBBING, POGOING AND GRATUITOUS BAD LANGUAGE –

AN ANTHOLOGY OF PUNK SHORT STORIES

Another day another anthology of short stories, this time compiled and edited by Mad Pride founder Robert Dellar. Gobbing, Pogoing And Gratuitous Bad Language is a collection of twenty-one punk rock stories (twenty-two if you include Nick Blinko's pages from his sketch book) written according to the blurb on the back cover by the world's leading punk authors.

What exactly qualifies you for being a 'punk author' is, of course, debatable and a question that Dellar addresses with the inclusion of a haiku-like poem by Robert Wyatt. 'Not strictly 'punk' in itself,' Dellar writes 'Wyatt's work has always been admired within punk circles for its intense spirit and sincerity'. I would tend to agree. What constitutes 'punk writing', however, is a whole other debate due to punk always being an organic concept rather than something cast in stone and held within strict parameters. Was Dellar on a hiding to nothing in trying to wrap some cloak of punk rock identity around these stories? I suspect so.

Mark Perry understands this and ably demonstrates it in what is by far the best story in the collection: 'Elvis was a punk / so was Jerry Lee', he writes in a Crass album sleeve lyrics style 'Chuck wasn't / Lennon was a punk / Macca tried, but failed / Townsend was a punk turned poet / Moon was one of the great punks / so was Hendrix / and Iggy / Zappa maybe although he was too careful, too deliberate / Lenny Bruce was a comedy punk / Dennis Hopper was a film punk / Bolan was a hippy pop elf punk and beautiful person / Patti was all punk / as was Sid / the greatest punk band were Crass / they lived the life / The Clash signed to CBS, so that counts them out / ATV – at times punk, sometimes avant-jazz-punk'.

Mark Perry was a visionary and I say that without any doubt or hesitation. Was it not he who launched Sniffin' Glue fanzine? Was it not he who wrote How Much Longer? Was it not he who forged a bridge between punk and the free festival culture of the 1970s? The Pistols and The Clash had a lot more in common with Here And Now, Hawkwind, and the Edgar Broughton Band than they would care to admit. Was it not Mark who saw through the false divisions and realised that actually, the Stonehenge free festival path was the way for punk to go if it was ever to survive, rather than running into the arms of the major record companies.

'Punk could have been so much better / but it fucked up / who cares? / it moves on / ever changing' Mark continues in a free-form flow of consciousness 'Punk is about creative energy / sexual energy / throwing yourself in the fire of eternal love / commitment / devotion / a punk life – a creative life'. And then in one fell swoop, Mark defines the meaning of punk, or if not the meaning then a meaning but one a lot better than most others: 'Punk is a word / trying to describe a feeling'.

Mark Perry's salvo, entitled A Punk Life, is a very good piece of writing and unfortunately for all the other authors featured in the book is the first entry, setting a near impossible to equal benchmark. Maybe if some of the authors had known the quality of Mark Perry's piece beforehand they would have upped their game? But of course they didn't so we read the consequences.

Nutbourne City Limits by Martin Cooper is rubbish but he's forgiven because he's the ex-singer and guitarist in Salad From Atlantis, a Brighton band I used to quite like. Mental Punk Rock Diaries by Nikki Sudden is an exercise in punk rock reminiscing that's nice because he's no longer with us, having passed away in 2006. Indeed, so too with Robert Dellar, who passed away in 2016. Stewart Home's contribution, Cheap Night Out, is short – just three pages, in fact, and for this reason alone it's good. Lisa Pember's story is genuinely good. Entitled A Warning To Young Girls, it is that very thing and a mighty sensible one too.

Unexpectedly, there's a fair amount of sex in a few of the other stories although even this fails to save them. The book ebbs and wanes and half-way through I'm getting bored. It needs to be said that just because a story is short, it doesn't make it any better. But then like the cavalry appearing on the hill along comes Old Punk, written by Ted Curtis, and the book is saved.

Though nothing at all like Mark Perry's contribution, Curtis' story is still on a par with it but for very different reasons. There is pathos and bathos here; depth, perspective and attention to the minutia, full of recognisable cultural and geographical references. A perfectly composed snapshot of an age and place giving succour to Mark Perry's dictum that punk is indeed a word trying to describe a feeling.

Mark Perry's and Ted Curtis' stories both start and (almost) end the book so in effect act as bookends, and for these two stories alone the book is worth it.

John Serpico

Poems And Prose - William Blake

POEMS AND PROSE - WILLIAM BLAKE

There's Poems And Prose by William Blake... and all the rest is propaganda.

Year Of The Monkey - Patti Smith

YEAR OF THE MONKEY – PATTI SMITH

How strange it must be living Patti Smith's life. Just a thought that occurred whilst reading Year Of The Monkey. At the start of the book Patti mentions she's just finished the last of three nights in a row performing at the Filmore, in San Francisco. Can you imagine? Three nights of ecstatic, classic rock'n'roll that for some would probably be as near to a religious experience they will ever get, and that quite possibly includes Patti herself.

Patti, however, just casually mentions it almost as a 'by the way', as though it was no big deal. What is more significant to her is some guy with a greasy ponytail leaning over and puking on her boots on the last night and whether this is a good or a bad sign to end the year on? 'Well, considering the state of the world,' she surmises 'who could tell the difference?'

Patti wanders into a thrift store and buys an old Grateful Dead tie-dye T-shirt with Jerry Garcia's face on it. It's an impulsive buy, she says. She later hitches a ride to San Diego with a couple who ask for eighty-five dollars advance payment for gasoline. At a truck stop she gets out to go to the bathroom and on her return she sees the car speeding off into the distance, leaving her there stranded. Meanwhile, Patti's friend for over forty years, record producer extraordinaire Sandy Pearlman, is lying in a coma in a hospital.

All these things and more are fused together like fragments of a dream to create an encompassing dream-like experience but rather than the fragments it's the dream in totality that Patti is more interested in, and it's this that she writes about.

It's unlikely that Patti's a rich person at all but at the same time she's not going to be poverty-stricken, so if need be she's going to be able to afford new clothes if required. It's interesting then that she would instead buy an old, second-hand tie-dye T-shirt peeled from the body of some old Deadhead. It's interesting that rather than catching a coach or even a taxi, she would instead hitch a ride with a couple of potential psycho killers. Rather than staying at a Hilton hotel she chooses instead to stay at some rickety, old motel called the Dream Inn.

All things, however, are connected and nothing is coincidental so perhaps all things are meant to be? 'I was dreaming in my dreaming', as Patti sings on People Have The Power though that could easily be changed by dropping just one letter to 'I was dreaming in my dreamin' but in the book she fails to make that connection for some reason. Dreamin'? Dream Inn? Dreaming in my Dream Inn? It's like an exercise in Carl Gustav Jung's theory of synchronicity.

Throughout Year Of The Monkey there is a continuous sense of mortality as Patti marks the passing of time and the passing of life as she approaches her seventieth birthday. Her friends and those she admires fall and pass away continuously: Muhammad Ali, Sandy Pearlman, Fidel Castro, Carrie Fisher, Sam Shepherd. 'This is what I know.' she writes 'Sam is dead. My brother is dead. My father is dead. My mother is dead. My husband is dead.'. It's like an echo of Jack Kerouac's lament at the end of The Dharma Bums where he asks: 'Are we fallen angels who didn't want to believe that nothing is nothing and so were born to lose our loved ones and dear friends one by one and finally our own life, to see it proved?'

All is dream. The dream of life. Dream for free because if nothing else we're free to dream. Is there, however, such a thing as the end of dream and if so where might that be? And if there is an end of dream would it not follow that there is also a birth of dream? Subsequently, might there be an afterbirth of dream? Come the end of Year Of The Monkey, Donald Trump is elected as the next President of the United States so yes, perhaps there is an afterbirth of dream and he's the full, dayglo embodiment of it?

'Yet still I keep thinking that something wonderful is about to happen.' Patti writes 'Maybe tomorrow. A tomorrow following a whole succession of tomorrows.' She concludes, however, that 'The trouble with dreaming is that we eventually wake up'...

John Serpico

Rethinking Camelot - Noam Chomsky

RETHINKING CAMELOT – NOAM CHOMSKY

The world is indeed a wonderful place as Louis Armstrong once advised, though made horrible by people, particularly those with a hard-on for power. Of course, that's not how Noam Chomsky would ever describe it but that's the gist of it. According to the economist philosopher Adam Smith, every age of human history reveals the workings of 'the vile maxim of the masters of mankind: All for ourselves, and nothing for other people', which according to Chomsky still stands to this day.

To this Chomsky also adds that throughout history the rabble (meaning you and me) have sought more freedom and justice, and have often won improved conditions of life. The 'men of best quality', however, have been less than delighted with these developments. There has been broad agreement among them that the rabble should not be permitted to interfere in the management of public affairs and should instead be mere spectators, not participants, as modern democratic theory holds. Kept in line with 'necessary illusions' and 'emotionally potent oversimplifications'. And if this fails there is always State violence and State control to fall back on in the form of truncheons and other assorted armoury. This is the Western model designed to protect Western values so as to protect the Western economy designed to favour the rich and the powerful.

As historians recognise, the Cold war began in 1917 not 1945, and in its earlier years Russia was never regarded as a military threat though it was always viewed as a virus that had to be contained if not destroyed. Arguably, Russia's expansionist plans were always a Western construct based on such suggestions as the Russians not having entirely proven they were without such expansionist ambitions. Which leads us directly (or in a roundabout way, at least) to the Vietnam War and Rethinking Camelot by Noam Chomsky.

'What were you doing when Kennedy died?' as the question goes but for Chomsky this is irrelevant. Instead, what is of more concern to him is Kennedy's legacy and how it's been manipulated to suggest that Kennedy was a dove rather than the actual hawk that he was – and which Chomsky sets out to prove.

On taking office in 1961, Kennedy immediately escalated US military support for its client regime in South Vietnam and then soon after escalated it further before then also authorising the use of napalm. The reason given for such concern over Vietnam was that if it fell under the Communist control of Ho Chi Minh and the Viet Cong, it wouldn't be too long before the whole of Southeast Asia went the same way and this was just a stake too high to afford to lose.

Chomsky points out, however, that it was actually Ho Chi Minh's ultra-nationalism that made him unacceptable, not his services to the 'Kremlin conspiracy' or 'Soviet expansion' – which means everything you have been told about the Vietnam War is a lie. Equally, JFK's deification by liberals, based on his supposed intention before being assassinated of withdrawing from Vietnam without victory is also wrong.

As might be expected, Chomsky is meticulous with his study and when he says there is 'no hint of any intention by JFK to withdraw without victory – quite the contrary', then you'd better believe it. Thousands of of government documents and reports have now been released for the period covering the Vietnam War and Chomsky seems to have trawled through them all.

There are, of course, insights aplenty regarding the political so-called 'planning' of the war, not least the incomprehension as to how the Viet Cong were able to draw their fellow countrymen onto their side but the Americans were not. The Viet Cong 'have an amazing ability to maintain morale' and are able 'continuously to rebuild their units and to make good their losses', exhibiting 'the recuperative powers of the phoenix'. This is 'one of the mysteries of this guerilla war', JFK's specialist on political warfare lamented, adding that 'we still find no plausible explanation for it'.

With this kind of absolute perplexity going on, America's war in Vietnam was doomed to failure, really. So much so that as Chomsky points out, it would be comical if the consequences for the victims were not so disastrous.

Interestingly and rather encouragingly, Chomsky also pulls out some choice insights regarding the effect of the war at home in the USA. Apparently, in considering further troop deployments to Vietnam, the government's chief advisors wanted to ensure that 'sufficient forces would still be available for civil disorder control', fearing that an escalation of the war might lead to 'increased defiance of the draft and growing unrest in the cities', running the risk of 'provoking a domestic crisis of unprecedented proportions'.

Rethinking Camelot is yet another valuable book in Noam Chomsky's canon, shedding a light upon a period in America's history that has always previously been obscured by propaganda and diversionary tangents. It's an illuminating exercise that cannot fail to leave the reader wondering how such a war as the one in Vietnam was ever allowed to happen and how any similar war must never be allowed to happen again. I wonder if Trump has ever read Chomsky? Indeed, I wonder if very many people at all have actually read him?

John Serpico