Roland Barthes — noted obscurantist, died in a street accident. But was it an accident? Did he die then or later? Indeed, what is death?
Why were Bulgarians there on the zebra crossing? Where is the notebook that Barthes always carried with him as he read the signs? But evidently not the one in front of him which said 'Ne march pas.
Why are several witness short of fingers? Is Michel Foucault completely nuts? Why do those two over there always carry umbrellas? Did the Gulf War occur? Such a lot of questions, it must be a seminar. The President of the Republic himself assigns the investigation of this accidental death to Commissar Jacques Bayard!
Bayard soon finds that he has landed on Mars. They all delight in reviling him in polysyllabic words while proclaiming their humanity.
Bayard cracks a tooth clenching his jaw while trying to get one of these useless clowns to answer a simple question. He resists the temptation to slap them around. Though his self-control weakens when he remembers the good old days in Algeria when a slap was the start of an interrogation in a basement room that could be hosed out later. To navigate this world of extra-terrestrials Bayard press-gangs a cicerone and translator, a Phd student from the mud heap of Vincennes, Simon Herzog, and off this mismatched pair goes: First to Bologna to interview the master reader of signs, semiologist Umberto Eco who can tell them nothing useful at great length.
And behind the moustaches are more Bulgarians. How Binet managed to publish this libellous and delightful book is the real mystery here.
Who would have thought that was possible. Of course the joke is on all those PhDs who incant their names with reverence. Ten thousand men — doughboys — a day were entering the Western Front.
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By November more than four million American men were under arms. Behind them was an unprecedented mobilisation in industry, agriculture, railroads, and shipping. Women joined the work force and blacks moved north to work in war industries.
And there was more. Part of the more was a patriotic anti-Germanism that made it dangerous to be called Schmidt, Eisenhower, Kresbach, Diffenbaker, or anything else that some fool might think was German. Lutheran churches were burned by self-appointed patriots and police had blind eyes. Cities like Baltimore that had more Germans than anything else were patrolled by the army. Mecken had to adopt a low er profile. Labour leaders who criticised exploitative armaments manufacturers were imprisoned without trial.
Hysteria was in the air along with kerosene. Kayser rolls were off the menu. Our hero, Chicago Cubs second baseman, Mickey Rawlings lives on double plays, drag bunts, run and hits, choke-ups, tag-ups, inside slides, pick-offs, stolen bases, balks, sac flies, inside the park homers, and barely notices any of this until…….! Then his infield teammate and double play partner, shortstop, Ed Kaiser is murdered. For a time it seems he was killed because of that name, and that seemed plausible in the time and place, but no, there was more to it.
The more emerges as Mickey, reluctantly, becomes involved in the labyrinth of wartime Chicago between home games and road trips.
One thing leads to another and he is warned off, which, per the conventions of the genre, stimulates his competitive desire to find out more. Profiteers, opportunists, corrupt officials, naive churchmen, jaded journalists, vigilantes, plank thick coppers, all put in Auntie bob sucks and rims dilettante paul appearance.
This entry is the third in a series of kimis set in the world of baseball. This one has more life in it, and just enough baseball to offer background. Mickey mixes with many historic figures of the era like Shoeless Joe Jackson, who forgot his spikes once and never lived it down, Burleigh Grimes, Fred Merkle, and their ilk. Only reality could combine such colossal stupidity, egotistical incompetence, and Auntie bob sucks and rims dilettante paul hypocrisy.
In short, it seems like a typical episode of Fox News. The basics, for those born yesterday, are these. In there came to light the personal diaries kept for thirty years by one Adolf Hitler. It was a sensation and a flock of carrion eaters landed on it to exploit the find. It all started with an inveterate liar and forger who had eked out a living selling Nazi relics on the black market, since trade in such things was illegal in West Germany. When he could not Auntie bob sucks and rims dilettante paul the real thing he learned to make replicas.
His clients did not seem to notice, or mind if they did notice, so he kept at it.
Since trading and possessing such items was illegal the clients did not seek expert opinion or dare to compare notes. Forger also discovered that the objects that commanded the highest prices were those connected personally to Hitler. He followed the marks, and forged Hitler signatures, early letters, and paintings, a lot of paintings, hundreds. When asked he always said he got the goods from a contact in East Germany, whose name he had to protect because there the penalty for trading in Nazi relics in the DDR was capital.
One day a lowly reporter from the Stern magazine came along. He was a Nazi obsessive, and he bought a few items.
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Note, though Stern was at the time aligned with the Socialist Party, this reporter was a dreamy fantasist way down the pecking order. He kept buying from Forger, no questions asked.
Then Forger, on the look out for new ways to add value to his small business, broached the prospect of diaries. This was perfect for Fantasist. He tried to interest the editors of Stern in buying the diaries but they rejected them as preposterous and irrelevant. There were many previous examples of forged material from that era, and to their minds this was another pathetic example of that. They knew Fantastist Auntie bob sucks and rims dilettante paul what he was and left it at that.
Fantastist did not give up easily. In time he by-passed the editors and made contact with the management of Stern. Stern was owned by a holding company which in turn was a subsidiary of the leviathan Bertelsmann corporation.
Fantastist convinced Herr Decisivie, the chairman of the board, that this was the scoop of the century. To make it a scoop everything had to be kept secret. So Decisive consulted no one and gave Fantastist a blank cheque to get the diaries: Fantastist went back to Forger and created a demand for diaries.
Forger set to work at his usual standard. Over two years he produced 50, words spread over fifty A4 booklets.
When Forger later learned of this surtax he readily spilled beans on Fantastist. At Stern secrecy remained the watchword. To get some verification very limited graphology tests were done but they were so constrained as to prove nothing, or everything to those who wanted to believe.
Herr Decisive was sure of this own genius. Negotiations with international buyers like News Limited in the UK and Newsweek in the USA brought more people into the secret and doubts were expressed, but dismissed by Fantastist and Decisive as petty jealousies.
to Gussie, musical to Annie,...
Decisive had no interest in disproof. Then Decisive ordered the Stern editors, who had to this point known nothing about this matter, to prepare a special issue. They objected, asking for checks to be made which would perforce reveal the secretbut were overruled.
The international buyers wanted verification but were stalled. They, too, were blinded by the scoop and did not press the matter. At each stage everyone seems to have assumed someone else had verified the diaries. Or so they said in hindsight.
Even as the presses rolled out 75, copies of a special, large issue of Stern, a press conference announced the find to the world. It was a fiasco.
Faced with a roomful of skeptical journalists some of whom brought along historians from all over the world, the house of cards collapsed. Hugh Trevor-Roper who had authenticated the diaries made a fool of himself, and spent years afterward trying to rewrite this history at least to his own satisfaction.
The utterly cynical David Irving played both sides against his bank overdraft and won the lottery that night. News Limited and Newsweek sold unprecedented numbers of their publications and counted that a commercial success, even while switching to reporting on the hoax that they had generated.
In West Germany there was a police investigation that laid it all bare, sending the little fry: Forger and Fantastist to the slammer - they were held for a time in the same prison specially built for members of the murdering Red Army Faction.
Stern, the Sunday Times, and Newsweek had to show that they took it seriously and scapegoats had to be sacrificed to maintain public confidence in the integrity of the mastheads. In each case management, circling the wagons, agreed Auntie bob sucks and rims dilettante paul scapegoats had to come from down the food chain. Where better than the editors who at each publication had resisted the story until ordered by management to run it. Yet they were the ones fired.
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to Gussie, musical to Annie, painting to Robert Redhead.4 Miss In the Church of St. Paul's, Herne Hill, a monumental tablet was also erected to .
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