Black America

Der er stærke billeder i starten af videoen. Ikke for sarte sjæle.

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57 kommentarer to “Black America”

  1. Jørgen Says:

    Hej NBPP,

    Jeg synes den var meget lang, videoen. Og selv om det er rigtigt, at slaveriet og racismen bærer hovedansvaret for sorte amerikaneres situation i dag, så synes jeg også, at al den svælgen i Klan-lynchninger og brændende kors er meget lidt produktiv. Det er en offerbevidsthed, og den er fuldt forståelig, for de sorte var vitterligt ofre for de hvide.

    Men hvor relevant er den i dag, hvor fattige sorte ikke kæmper om arbejdspladser med de hvide længere – men med hispanics, kinesere, vietnamesere, tunesere osv? Og hvorfor udgør sorte amerikanere altid i bunden i den til enhver tid givne sociale hakkeorden? Hvorfor bliver de altid overhalet af nytilkomne?

    You tell me. Men selv tror jeg, at racisme kun udgør en meget lille del af svaret. Det har meget mere at gøre med nedarvede traumer og uhensigtsmæssige kulturmønstre. Især sorte mænd virker traumatiserede og (kulturelt) desorienterede.

    Anyway, hvad mener du?

  2. NBPP Says:

    racismen udgør en meget stor del af svaret. hvis du tror at det hele endte med slaveriet så må du tro om igen. politiet arbejdede på at holde de sorte nede bagefter. kender du til cointelpro?

    du kan ikke (helt) sammenligne de sorte med indvandrerne i dk.

    jeg synes du burde se det her: https://nbpp.wordpress.com/2008/08/15/the-black-panther-party-denne-video-skal-ses/

    det er selvfølgelig ikke der min viden kommer fra, men denne video er en slags lille opsamling af det hele.

  3. NBPP Says:

    “Det har meget mere at gøre med nedarvede traumer og uhensigtsmæssige kulturmønstre. Især sorte mænd virker traumatiserede og (kulturelt) desorienterede.”

    det er rigtigt. og det bliver til en ond cirkel, som er svær at komme ud af.

  4. NBPP Says:

    for resten, det var også politiet der ødelagde BPP. BPP gav de fattige afroamerikaner gratis mad, tøj og undervisning. derfor var politiet efter dem.

  5. Knud Larsen Says:

    @ NBPP

    for resten, det var også politiet der ødelagde BPP. BPP gav de fattige afroamerikaner gratis mad, tøj og undervisning. derfor var politiet efter dem.

    Det er jo rent sludder, det ved du forhåbentlig.

  6. NBPP Says:

    @knud

    ej knud, hvordan kan du påstå det? nu ved jeg altså ikke, hvor meget jeg skal tro på når du snakker om islam. for hvis du benægter sådan noget så kan det du påstår om islam ikke være sandt.

  7. Knud Larsen Says:

    @ NBPP

    “Derfor politiet var efter dem” det ER noget sludder, uanset hvad du siger.

    Mon ikke det er mere nærliggende at se på deres opfordring til voldelig revolution, og “proletariatets diktatur”.

    Der er også sludder at sige, at HVIS min mening skulle være forkert, så kan det jeg finder i mine fine “lærde” bøger om islam ikke være sandt.

    Der er jo iøvrigt tradition for at alle mulige religiøse grupper har suppekøkkener og uddeling af dit og dat, – hvis politiet skulle være “efter” alle som gjorde det, så ville de få nok at gøre.
    Tværtimod er man jo glade for at “nogen” giver de fattige noget at spise, sådan gør man det i USA, med frivilligt arbejde og frivillige bidrag. I stedet for offentige systemer.

    “Frivillige” – man forventede at folk på en arbejdsplads betalte til lokalsamfundet “the community chest” – og det var ikke småpenge man skulle op med hvert år.

    Min kone betalte mere samlet i skat og “community chest” af en løn som lignede min, dengang hun kom til DK fra Hawaii.

    Det er godtnok også den mest “sociale” stat i Staterne, men alligevel, ikke mange vidste at det var sådan.
    Man havde forresten også langt billigere kollektiv transport end i Danmark, det rystede også en del venstreorienterede at høre, – man vil meget nødig af med sine fastgroede fordomme.

  8. NBPP Says:

    ej nu må du stoppe. hvad er der i vejen med at bpp opfordrede sit folk til at forsvare sig selv når deres huse blev brændt ned, når deres små piger blev myrdet, når deres kvinder blev voldtaget og når de konstant vi tæsk af politiet?

    COINTELPRO siger jeg bare

  9. nbpp Says:

    som jeg skrev til kimpo: du kalder den sorte mand for voldelig hvis han går ind for selvforsvar. for det er det BPP går ind for og det er det du kritiserer

    Black Panther Party for Self-Defense

  10. Knud Larsen Says:

    @ NBPP

    Det er jo bare ord, – lige som islams om at erobringen af Indien og Spanien var “selvforsvar”.

    Jeg kalder IKKE “den sorte mand” for noget som helst. Der var ikke flere tilhængere af marxistisk revolution og proletariates diktatur blandt sorte, end der var blandt danskere i 1970erne.

    Derudover var der store kulturforskelle på Nord og Syd i USA, det var som to forskellige kulturer – verdener.

    Men du blev jo rasende over at jeg postede nogle relevante *direkte* samtaler fra begyndelsen af 60erne.
    Du skal forske langt mere i emnet, og IKKE bare i helt enøjede publikationer.

    Hvad iøvrigt med et emne som forfølgelsen af kristne i alle muslimske lande, – var det ikke mere relevant i dag? Eller mordene og voldtægterne *I DAG* i Darfur?

    Selvfølgelig må du gå op i hvad der passer dig, men det ER jo dog “water under the bridge”, mens der er tonsvis af problemer med forfølgelse af etniske grupper lige nu i dette øjeblik.

  11. Knud Larsen Says:

    @ NBPP

    Jeg har jo iøvrigt levet på den tid du beskæftiger dig med, og gik meget op i emnet.
    Jeg var bl.a ansat på et amerikansk skib, hvor jeg havde venner blandt den sorte besætning.

    Jeg var en dag inviteret ned i kaptajnens private flotte kahyt, – kaptajn Riethoven, hed han. Vi fik noget at drikke, og han kom med noget om at de sorte skulle bare have noget fisk at æde, og så dit dat dut – kan ikke huske hans bemærkninger.
    Men jeg var tilstrækkelig beruset til at være modig og jeg sagde: “Du er jo fascist” – og jeg forventede at blive fyret på stedet.

    Men gudhjælpemig om han ikke sagde: “Ja, det har du ret i, og der er jeg stolt af” – jeg var lamslået.

    Han underholdt også med at han vidste alt om hvordan kvinder skulle behandles, – man skulle bare være benhård og bestemme det hele og ikke vise nogen form for følelser.

    Han fik besøg af sin kone fra Holland, og da hun forlod skibet stod jeg og så på, han sagde farvel og vendte ryggen til, og vendte sig ikke om, hun stod og vinkede og håbede at se hans åsyn en sidste gang før hjemrejsen.

    Nå, det var lidt nostalgi. Min bedste ven ombord var iøvrigt halvt kineser og halvt sort, en meget speciel mand, med én lang negl på 15 cm, – for at vise at han ikke behøvede at lave manuelt arbejde, – han var styrmand.

    Dengang var verden endnu ung, og man kunne komme rundt mange steder unden at risikere liv og lemmer, – håbet i den tredje verden var endnu levende.

  12. Simon Wedege Says:

    Ni vi snakker om borgerrettigheder, så burde vi også snakke om de kristnes forfølgelse af homoseksuelle i USA?

    Hvad iøvrigt med et emne som forfølgelsen af kristne i alle muslimske lande, – var det ikke mere relevant i dag?

    Mener du, at der er en direkte forfølgelse af kristne i alle muslimske lande? Jeg tror nærmere der er tale om forholdsvis små grupper der angriber kristne, end en direkte forfølgelse. Og det er slet ikke i samme størrelsesforhold som det had mod sorte, der foregik i USA i mange år.

    Men i USA har de også lang tradition for diskriminering og racehad.

  13. Knud Larsen Says:

    @ Simon

    Kristne bliver jo jævnligt dræbt i mange muslimske lande, – landsbyer i Pakistan bliver angrebet og brændt af, – men som en politimand sagde i en TV-udsendelse som IKKE havde det emne: “Kristne og kloakarbejdere bliver dræbt hver dag, – hvad rager det os”

    Uanset hvor slemt det var i USA, og det var slemt, så er langt flere kristne blevet dræbt i muslimske lande end sorte i hele perioden hvor man lynchede.
    Som bekendt blev jo da også alle armeniere slagtet i Tyrkiet, og alle ikke-muslimer jaget ud.
    Og man har *stadig* dhimmilove i de flest muslimske lande, dvs man kan ikke få lov at reparere en kirke fx, og der har været progromer med jævne mellemrum i hundreder af år.
    Sidste år angreb en rasende masse et par kirker i Alexandria i Egypten, og kristne bliver stadig tvangsomvendt osv osv osv.
    Sudan dræbte jo som bekendt et par millioner kristne og animister i syd, – men det lader ikke til at genere muslimer, – heller ikke drabene i Darfur, det er meget mere oprivende at ÈN palæstinenser bliver dræbt.

    Racehad i USA? Naturligvis der er jo racehad i alle verdens lande og som regel langt værre end i USA.
    JEG troede også som ung at USA var kernelandet for racisme, men SÅ kom jeg ud i verden og fandt at racismen var overalt, og i langt grovere grad end den var i USA på det tidspunkt.
    Arabere er jo fx grove racister, – også over for med-muslimer som er sorte.

    Kristne bliver jo forfulgt i Saudi Arabien, i Iran, i Irak, i Gaza og i Pakistan, for at nævne et par steder.

    Kristne i USA forfølger normalt ikke homoseksuelle med andet end moralske forbud og nægtelse af retten til fx ægteskab. Og selv de værste – evangelisterne – har dog en gruppe på 10-20 pct som godt kan acceptere homoseksualitet, man HAR jo også biskopper og præster der er bøsser.

    Ser du imamer der er bøsser i muslimske lande? Inden for Maliki retsskolen forlanges der stening af homoseksuelle, og fx Egypten forfølger aktivt bøsser og lesbiske.

    Jeg tror dine proportioner er lidt ude af drift.

    Inden for islam myldrede det jo iøvrigt med bøsser dengang islam var liberal, lovskolerne var også dengang imod, men det var helt almindeligt at ledende personer havde søde drenge i massevis. Og poeter priste deres drengekærester og brugte Koranen s ord til at prise dem “Øjne som perler” osv. På kafeer var der ansat søde drenge som kunderne kunne købe, osv osv osv. Først da Vesten overtog landene som kolonier, blev homofobi indført og den er der altså stadig, – islam er jo som regel hundreder af år om at ændre sig 😉

  14. Knud Larsen Says:

    @ Simon o.a.

    Jeg husker en kendt sort muslimsk “lærd” kvinde i Canada. Hun holdt et religiøst foredrag, og måtte råbe ud “Ja, jeg er goddam sort, og det må I kraftedemig acceptere” – nogle af de fromme muslimer udvandrede da de så hun var sort.

    Hun fortalte at når hun havde en stor niqab på så kunne hun gå for asiater, og blev behandlet fint, men hvis hun nøjede med en hijab, så kunne man se hun var sort, og hendes medtroede skifte fuldstændig indstilling.

    Islam er jo desværre fyldt med fromme hyklerier og løgne, – det er noget af det der virkelig irriterer mig. Man forsøger at fylde “os” med evige løgnehistorier om islams historie og om hvor vidunderlige ikke-racistiske og ikke kønsdiskriminerende og vidunderlige “alle religioner behandles lige” og det er jo løgn over løgn.
    Kvinder kan ikke gå på gaden i muslimske lande, især er det slemt i Egypten, MEN man hævder at det er i Vesten de bliver overfaldet på gader og stræder (hvis de bliver så er det jo ofte af folk fra netop de lande som hævder kvinder er lovligt vildt hvis de vover sig ud af huset)

    Her en en arketypisk lovprisning af islam, – som jeg lige løb ind i, derfor dette sure opstød:

    In a society still tormented by racial strife; where “black” churches are
    continuously fire-bombed by bigots of all kinds; where one rarely sees a
    black person in a “white” church or a white person in a “black” church —
    Islam has so much to offer because Islam does not tolerate the very idea of
    a “black” mosque or a “white” mosque; Islam obliges believers to stand
    together in one line, shoulder to shoulder and foot to foot, and prostrate
    their foreheads to God so that they learn they are all humble servants of
    the Almighty.

    In a society where violence against women has risen to alarming proportions,
    where it is not safe for women to walk alone in the dark, where even
    institutions of higher learning have to provide ‘walk home service’ to
    protect women on campus at night — Islam has much more to contribute than
    escort services or karate lessons. Islam does implant modesty and sense of
    propriety in the minds of the believers, Islam eradicates vulgarity, Islam
    eliminates any possibility that men view women as sex objects.

    Manden som skrev det skulle maskinbankes med våde wienerbrød hver morgen fra kl 8 til 9, indtil han indrømmede at han vidste det var løgn og latin 😉

    Offentliggjort 30.08.08 kl. 16:02

    Der gik en chokbølge igennem det pakistanske parlament, da en parlamentariker i dag forsvarede, at fem kvinder blev begravet levende i den sydvestlige del af landet, fordi de selv ville bestemme, hvem de skulle giftes med.

    Sexobjekter, indeed.

    Trefjerdedele af kvinder i fængslerne i Afghanistan er i fængsel pga voldtægt, – altså at DE er blevet voldtaget. Det er den hellige sharia, som myndighederne siger, og de har desværre ret.

  15. Simon Wedege Says:

    Kristne bliver jo forfulgt i Saudi Arabien, i Iran, i Irak, i Gaza og i Pakistan, for at nævne et par steder.

    Kristne havde det fint under Saddams regime i Irak 😛

  16. Knud Larsen Says:

    @ Simon

    Men han var jo heller ikke så religiøs at det gjorde noget, – før han tabte i Iran og Kuwait.

    Kristne bliver også nu slagtede i Indien:

    ‘They said that it was a horrifying experience. Groups arrived at their villages carrying guns, swords and homemade weapons and even small bombs, which they used to blast the places. The groups targeted every Christian house in their villages. The people had a list of the Christian houses and institutions and none were spared.’ The Church said nearly 3,000 houses had been destroyed, most of them owned by Christians. More than 60 churches were burned down and at least half a dozen convents.

    ‘It is the result of a sustained hate campaign against Christians in Orissa,’ Rev Joseph said.

    Det samme sker i muslimske lande som fx Pakistan, man hører et rygte om at en kristen har generet Muhammed eller revet et blad ud af en Koran, og så angriber rasende masser hele landsbyer.

    Også i helt gamle dage var det jo sådan at en muslim behøvede bare anklage en jøde eller en kristen, så røg man i fængsel og blev hurtigt et hoved kortere.
    Selv Niebuhr fortæller at man ikke skal klage over at man er blevet snydt af en muslim i de muslimske lande, så anklager vedkommende en for at have forhånet islam, og SÅ . . .

    Samme gamle historie i hundreder af år.

  17. Knud Larsen Says:

    @ Simon

    Du har så dine erfaringer med islam fra Indonesien, som jeg er meget atypisk. MEN også der er der gang i islams genfødsel, – og som du kunne se i en udsendelse om landet, så ville religionsministeren fremlægge en lov som skulle forbedre forholdene for kvinder. MEN hun fik de sædvanlige trusler på livet fra de “fromme” og bad sin sekretær om at smide lovforslaget i papirkurven.

    Hvis de fromme får magt, så er fanden løs, – som Stauning sagde. Og det passer overalt og til alle tider.

    Og de fromme behøver som bekendt slet ikke være noget der ligner flertallet, før de fremtvinger deres vilje ved hjælp af trusler på livet.
    Vi kan roligt være nervøse for at islam kommer til at betyde FOR meget i DK.

  18. Knud Larsen Says:

    Jeg = jo

    Utroligt at mine fingre bare selv skriver ord som de gætter på er dem der skal bruges 😉

  19. NBPP Says:

    @knud

    “Utroligt at mine fingre bare selv skriver ord som de gætter på er dem der skal bruges ”

    hehe mine fingre er lige sådan! 🙂

  20. Knud Larsen Says:

    @ NBPP

    Så er vi efterhånden tre styks, også Ulla melder om problemet. Jeg var bange for at de bare var min gamle hjerne der var ved at gå i koma.

    Men det er nok fordi man er længere fremme end fingrene, og fingrene gætter så på hvad det var man ville skrive, – eller noget i den retning.

    Du må skrive rigtig meget når du har dette “syndrom”? Jeg har først fået det de sidste par år, men det bliver værre med tiden.
    Jeg skriver også for meget, men det er svært at beherske sig når tastaturet er lige her og ens hoved er lige oven over, og er fyldt med historier fra hist og pist og nær og fjern.

    Mon ikke du ser filmen om Malcolm X i aften, – jeg er ved at optage en anden film, ellers ville jeg have optaget mr X.

  21. nbpp Says:

    @Knud

    jeg vidste ikke at filmen om Malcolm X (fred være med ham) var i fjernsynet i går. men jeg så den for ikke så lang tid siden på tv2 film. jeg elsker ham så meget at jeg får en underlig fornemmelse i maven når hans navn bliver nævnt (eller hans film). jeg bliver så sur når folk siger “hvem er Malcolm X”? jeg HADER det!. hvordan kan man ikke vide hvem han er?! men de kender godt til mlk, det pisser mig af..!

  22. Knud Larsen Says:

    @ nbpp

    Jeg har også set den før, – det ER vel den samme, mon ikke? – men jeg kan ikke huske detaljer fra den, så jeg ville have set den eller optaget den.

    Især for at se om jeg kunne “forstå” hvorfor du elsker ham så meget 😉

  23. NBPP Says:

    @knud

    jo det er det hehe 🙂

    PS! hvorfor kan du ikke forstå hvorfor jeg elsker ham så meget!? omg nu får jeg det helt dårligt 😦 bare lad være med at svare. (jeg tror nemlig ikke jeg vil kunne lide svaret 🙂 )

  24. Knud Larsen Says:

    @ NBPP

    Jeg kom lige over en bog i min reol, – har vist nævnt den før: Eldridge Cleaver: “Soul on Ice” skrevet i 1965 i Folsom Prison.

    Der er bl.a et kapitel som hedder: Initial Reaction on the Assassination of Malmcolm X – June 19, 1965

    Hvis du gider, så vil jeg poste noget af det interessante, – kun ting du vil blive glad for at læse 😉

    Starten lyder: The only Negroes who were not indignant were a few of the Muslims who remained loyal to Elijah Muhammad. They interpreted Malcolm’s assassination as the will of Allah descending upon his head for having gone astray. To them, it was Divine chastisement and a warning to those whom Malcolm had tempted. It was not so much Malcolm’s death that made them glad; but in their eyes it now seemed possible to heal the schism in the movement and restore the monolithic unity of the Nation of Islam, a unity they looked back on with some nostalgia.

    I suppose that like many of the brothers and sisters in the Nation of Islam movement, I also had clung to the hope that, somehow, the rift between Malcolm X and Elijah Muhammad would be mended. As long as Brother Malcolm was alive, many Muslims could maintain this hope, neatly overlooking the increasing bitterness of their rivalry. But death made the split final and sealed it for history. These events caused a profound personal crisis in my life and beliefs, as it did for other Muslims. During the bitter time of his suspension and prior to his break with Elijah Muhammad, we had watched Malcolm X as he sought frantically to reorient himself and establish a new platform.

    —-

    We watched it all, seeking a cause to condemn Malcolm X and cast him out of our hearts. We read all the charges and countercharges. I found Malcolm X blameless.

    —-

    Grand Sheik Muhammad Sarur Al-Sabban, secretary-general of the Muslim World League, had offered the services of Sheikh Ahmed, according to the Los Angeles Herald-Dispatch, to “help Malcolm X in his efforts to correct the distorted image that the religion of Islam has, been given by hate groups in this country.”
    I began defending Malcolm X. At a secret meeting of the Muslims in Folsom, I announced that I was no longer a follower of Elijah Muhammad, that I was throwing my support behind Brother Malcolm. I urged everyone there to think the matter over and make a choice, because it was no longer possible to ride two horses at the same time. On the wall of my cell I had a large, framed picture of Elijah Muhammad which I had had for years. I took it down, destroyed it, and in its place put up, in the same frame, a beautiful picture of Malcolm X kneeling down in the Mohammad Ali Mosque in Cairo, which I clipped from the Saturday Evening Post. At first the other Muslims in Fol-som denounced me; some I’d known intimately for years stopped speaking to me or even looking at me. When we met, they averted their eyes. To them the choice was simple: Elijah Muhammad is the hand-picked Messenger of Allah, the instrument of Allah’s Will. All who oppose him are aiding Allah’s enemies, the White Devils. Whom do you choose, God or the Devil? Malcolm X, in the eyes of Elijah’s followers, had committed the unforgivable heresy when, changing his views and abandoning the racist position, he admitted the possibility of brotherhood between blacks and whites. In a letter sent back to the U.S. from the Holy Land, Malcolm X had stated:

    Og lidt mere du kan få, hvis du er interesseret?

  25. Jørgen Says:

    @ Knud

    Spændende. Dét må lige være noget for vores veninde. Men sig mig: Sidder du og taster alt det der ind – eller bruger du en eller anden form for OCR-program og en scanner? Just wondering.

  26. nbpp Says:

    ej hvor er du sød knud 🙂 det skal jeg nok læse.

    har du selv tastede alt det der ind, eller? hvis du har så vil jeg ikke ha’ mere. jeg synes det er synd for dig hehe 😉

  27. Knud Larsen Says:

    @ Jørgen og nbpp

    Jeg skannede et par sider og OCRede dem, hvad gør man ikke for en pige som bnpp 😉

    Jeg poster så resten, før det forsvinder i mine stabler af udklip.

    Har du brug for et super OCR-program Jørgen, så kan jeg tage en skive med?

  28. Knud Larsen Says:

    @ NBPP

    Resten af teksten:

    Malcolm X had stated:
    You may be shocked by these words coming from me, but I have always been a man who tries to face facts and to accept the reality of life as new experiences and knowledge unfold it. The experiences of this pilgrimage have taught me much and each hour in the Holy Land opens my eyes even more…. I have eaten from the same plate with people whose eyes were the bluest of blue, whose hair was the blondest of blond and whose skin was the whitest of white . . . and I felt the sincerity in the words and deeds of these “white” Muslims that I felt among the African Muslims of Nigeria, Sudan and Ghana.

    ———-

    The Black Muslim movement was destroyed the moment Elijah cracked the whip over Malcolm’s head, because it was not the Black Muslim movement itself that was so irresistibly appealing to the true believers. It was the awakening into self-consciousness of twenty million Negroes which was so compelling. Malcolm X articulated their aspirations better than any other man of our time. When he spoke under the banner of Elijah Muhammad he was irresistible. When he spoke under his own banner he was still irresistible. If he had become a Quaker, a Catholic, or a Seventh-Day Adventist, or a Sammy Davis-style Jew, and if he had continued to give voice to the mute ambitions in the black man’s soul, his message would still have been triumphant: because what was great was not Malcolm X but the truth he uttered.

    ——-

    Did it bother the assassins that Malcolm denounced the racist strait-jacket demonology of Elijah Muhammad? Well, we certainly do denounce it and will continue to do so. Did it bother the assassins that Malcolm taught us to defend ourselves? We shall not remain a defenseless prey to the murderer, to the sniper and the bomber. Insofar as Malcolm spoke the truth, the truth will triumph and prevail and his name shall live;

  29. Jørgen Says:

    @ Knud

    Har du brug for et super OCR-program Jørgen, så kan jeg tage en skive med?

    Det må du da gerne. Selv bruger jeg Abbyy Finereader 8 Pro, og det fungerer egentlig meget godt, men jeg er altid frisk på at prøve noget nyt og bedre 🙂 .

  30. NBPP Says:

    @knud

    “Har du brug for et super OCR-program Jørgen, så kan jeg tage en skive med?”

    tage med? skal I mødes? bor du da også på fyn?

  31. Knud Larsen Says:

    @ Jørgen

    Finereader 9.0 😉
    Ja, Abby er den bedste der findes IMO.
    Kan ikke mere huske hvor store forbedringer der var fra 8.0, – men vistnok en del.

    Det er en hemmelighed NBPP 😉
    Nej, jeg bor i Køwenhavn eller omegn.

  32. Jørgen Says:

    @ Knud

    Jep, Finereader blæser dem alle sammen af banen. Det crap, som normalt blir bundled med en ny scanner, er totalt uanvendeligt. Så jo, jeg vil meget gerne ha’ en kopi … host, jeg mener selvfølgelig original, som jeg selvfølgelig har tænkt mig at betale fuld detailpris for. Honest! 😉 .

    @ NBPP

    Alle vi islamoskeptikere mødes af og til, så vi sammen kan planlægge Islams fald. Sidst diskuterede vi et forslag fra Ulla, der gik ud på at oversprøjte først Vollsmose, siden Mecca, med følgende geniale våben fra Pentagons forsøgslaboratorier:

    The Pentagon scientists proposed an “aphrodisiac” chemical weapon that would make enemy soldiers sexually irresistible to each other. According to the proposal, the aphrodisiac would have provoked widespread homosexual behavior among the enemy troops and would have caused a “distasteful but completely non-lethal” blow to morale. For some reason, the project was rejected.

    Forslaget faldt desværre pga. hårdnakket modstand fra Kimpo, der var panisk angst for, hvad der ville ske, hvis han fik noget af stadset på fingrene ved en fejltagelse. En skam, for hvor ville det dog være fedt at pumpe en ordentlig gang bøssegas ind i ventilationskanalerne, næste gang de holder stormøde i Hizb-ut Tahrir. Forestil dig Kassem Ahmad, der med svedig overlæbe ikke kan få øjnene væk fra Fadi Abdullatifs nøgne overkrop, mens denne vrider sig på talerstolen kun iført læderkasket og pumps.

    Ahhh … :mrgreen:

  33. NBPP Says:

    haha din tosse 🙂

  34. Knud Larsen Says:

    @ Jørgen

    Hizb kunne ellers have rejst en masse penge på videoer fra deres stormøde,- så på den måde ‘kunne’ det have været kontraproduktivt.
    Nåede vi at overveje, hvordan vi fik uddelt en pose småsten til hver af HuT’erne, så havde indtjeningsproblemet været løst?
    Medmindre nogle fra de lavere klasser af hang-arounds kom ind bagefter og indsamlede overvågningsvideoerne, så havde der jo været endnu flere penge i sagen.

    Vi kunne også overveje at starte en konkurrerende religion, – til det formål er jeg ved at læse Thorstein Veblens “Den Arbejdsfrie Klasse” fra 1899. Han har et langt afsnit om gudsdyrkelse, hvor man kan få mange fif. Han nævner selvfølgelig at de ting man får brug for er de samme som man brugte når man tilbad høvdingen, – specielle dragter når man nærmede sig. Rige og prangende bygninger. Man har i det hele taget brug for “iøjnefaldende “sløseri”” dvs at smide tid og penge ud til ingen nytte.
    Han skriver om sammenhængen “mellem den fromme indstilling og den røveriske mentalitet”.
    Og om alle krigsmetaforerne man skal have med “kristi stridsmand” “gud som tordner frem med sit sværd fyldt med hellig vrede, og smadrer al trælskhed og forkerthed”.
    Han har mange ideer, men skriver om religionsdyrkelse ud fra en økonomisk synsvinkel.
    Kender du ham? Genial person, født i USA men fra en norsk familie. Det var ham der skrev om “conspicous consumption”, hvordan man altid har vist sin status ved at forbruge på måder, som alle kunne se var helt vild.
    Helt utroligt, hvad de mega-rige fandt på for at vise de havde tonsvis af penge, fx at tænde cigarer med 100 dollar sedler, en af de mere vulgære metoder.

    I morgen kommer der en dokumentar på P1, med optagelser fra 1929 i USA, før krakket. Hørte en bid i dag, det lød ellers interessant, – Ford sagde at engang sagde man, at man var rig, når man havde 1 million dollars, men ikke mere.

    Jeg kom til at tænke på Veblen og på røverbaroner, i lyset af hvordan det er gået i USA de sidste 5 – 10 år.

    Jeg fik den sci-fi idé, at en overklasse af iluminati, hvergang middelklassen har fået for mange penge samlet sammen, fyrer op under børserne og så snupper hele overskuddet.

    Iøvrigt kom Veblens bog til at betyde, at de mega-rige skruede ned for det mest vanvittige “conspicous” forbrug, fordi de vidste, at folk vidste hvad det gik ud på.

    Den gode Veblen var også sprogmand, han beherskede tysk, fransk, italiensk, latin, de skandinaviske sprog inkl. gammelnorsk og “valdrismål” – som jeg ikke ved hvad er.
    Og han var derudover inde i en hel masse fag som historie, arkæologi, etnologi, antropologi, psykologi osv osv – man bliver helt forpustet.
    Det sjove ved ham er at han har en helt anden tilgang end fx Marx og Weber, – og det ER interessant at se hvor mange ting menneskene laver som intet “fornuftigt” formål tjener.

    Og så er vi tilbage ved religionen, – en soldaterkammerat startede en ny religion, da jeg var ung, og jeg har vist stadig opskriften, noget med: “Vi tror på Thor, som hver dag cykler over himmelbuen med solen på sin bagagebærer” – Ved hver fuldmåne bloter vi en stjålen høne (vores økonomi kræver den er stjålen) – sådan cirka skrev han vistnok.

    Men i vore dage er der jo masser af muligheder for at lave en syntese af gode gamle afprøvede religioner, og det burde være relativt let at overbevise en mindre stak proselytter til at begynde med. Husk at alle religioner startede i det små.

    Man kunne måske stikke Scientology, – de siger man har 10 milliarder ånder siddende i kroppen, men bare man betaler så får man dem jaget ud. Vi kunne uppe med ekstra 100 milliarder ånder, evt ligefrem jinnier, og så se om vi fik fingre i nogle frafaldne scientologer.

    Igen et sidespring, jeg fik engang fat i det allerhelligeste dokument fra Scientology, det var vist en frafalden nordmand som lækkede det på Nettet, hvor det var i en dags tid. Det var så afsindigt vanvittigt at man næsten besvimede af chok’et, dét var det man betalte over en million kroner for at få lov at klappe øjne på. Så man skal huske at jo mere vanvittige en idé er, jo bedre er den til at starte en ny religion. Scientologys stifter Ron Hubbart nåede at skrive at den lette måde at tjene penge på er at starte en ny religion, – den kan de ikke lide inden for den religion han så kort efter startede.
    Han var jo forresten Sci-fi forfatter, hvad man godt kan se fra hans hellige skrifter.

    Nå, NU . . .

  35. NBPP Says:

    du har meget på hjertet knud eheh. gad vide hvo’n det er at snakke med dig personligt. jeg tror du snakker mere end mig selvom det er mig der er pigen. hehe 😀

  36. Jørgen Says:

    @ Knud

    He-he, Veblen og Hubbard – og så i samme indlæg!

    Førstnævnte skrev jeg om i mit speciale (Coming Home at a Price: John Dos Passos and the Riddle of Alienation), eftersom hans Theory of the Leisure Class i høj grad inspirerede Dos Passos’ værk og politiske overbevisning. Sidstnævnte … well, jeg har faktisk læst hans “hovedværk” inden for sci-fi-genren, nemlig Battlefield Earth, der skam er ganske underholdende.

    Men Veblen var nu bedre 😉 . Han var som sagt Dos Passos’ helt, og nedenfor finder du hans poetiske mini-biografi om Veblen fra The Big Money, del III af The U.S.A. Trilogy. (Og så krydser jeg fingre for, at NBPP ikke henretter mig for det GIGANTISKE copy-paste-stykke, jeg hermed belemrer hendes blog med 🙂 ).

    The Bitter Drink

    Veblen,
    a grayfaced shambling man lolling resentful at his desk with his cheek on his hand, in a low sarcastic mumble of intricate phrases subtly paying out the logical inescapable rope of matter-of-fact for a society to hang itself by, dissecting out the century with a scalpel so keen, so comical, so exact the the professors and students ninetenths of the time didn’t know it was there, and the magnates and the respected windbags and the appluaded loudspeakers never knew it was there.

    Veblen asked too many questions, sufferend from a constitutional inability to say yes. Socrates asked questions, drank down the bitter drink one night when the first cock crowed,

    but Veblen

    drank it in little sips through a long life in the stuffiness of classrooms, the dust of libraries, the statleness of cheap flats such as a poor instructor can afford. He fought the bogy all right, pedantry, routine, timesavers at office desks, trustees, collegepresidents, the plump flunkies of the ruling usinessmen, all the good jobs kept for yesmen, never enough money, every broadening hope thwarted. Veblen drank the bitter drink all right.

    The Veblens were a family of freeholding farmers. The freeholders of the narrow Norwegian valleys were a stubborn hardworking people, farmers, dairymen, fishermen, rooted in their fathers’ stony fields, in their old timbered farmsteads with carved gables they took their names from, in the upland pastures where they grazed the stock in summer.

    During the early nineteenth century the towns grew: Norway filled up with landless men, storekeepers, sheriffs, moneylenders, bailiffs, notaries in black with stiff collars and briefcases full of foreclosures under their arms. Industries were coming in. The townsmen were beginning to get profit out of the country and to finagle the farmers out of the freedom of their narrow farms.

    The meanspirited submitted as tenants, daylaborers; but the strong men went out of the country as their fathers had gone out of the country centuries before when Harald the Fairhaired and Saint Olaf hacked to pieces the liberties of the Northern men, who had been each man lord of his own creek, to make Christians and serfs of them, only in the old days it was Iceland, Greenland, Vineland the Northmen had sailed west to; now it was America.

    Both Thorstein Veblen’s father’s people and his mother’s people had lost their farmsteads and with them the names that denoted them free men. Thomas Anderson for a while tried to make his living as a traveling carpenter and cabinetmaker, but in 1847 he and his wife, Kari Thorsteinsdatter, crossed in a whalingship from Bremen and went out to join friends in the Scandihoovian colonies round Milwaukee.

    Next year his brother Haldor joined him.

    They were hard workers; in another year they had saved up money to pre-empt a claim on a hundred and sixty acres of uncleared land in Sheboygan County, Wisconsin; when they’d gotten that land part cleared they sold it and moved to an all-Norway colony in Manitowoc County, near Cato, and a place named Valders after the valley they had all come from in the old country.

    There in the house Thomans Anderson built with his own tools, the sixth of twelve children, Thorstein Veblen was born.
    When Thorstein was eight years old, Thomas Anderson moved west again into the blacksoil prairies of Minnesota that the Sioux and the buffalo had only been driven off from a few years before. In the deed to the new farm Thomas Anderson took back the old farmstead name of Veblen.

    He was a solid farmer, builder, a clever carpenter, the first man to import merino sheep and a mechanical reaper and binder; he was a man of standing in the group of Norway people farming the edge of the prairie, who kept their dialects, the manner of life of their narrow Norway valleys, their Lutheran pastors, their homemade clothes and cheese and bread, their suspicion and stubborn dislike of townsmen’s ways.
    The townspeople were Yankees mostly, smart to make two dollars grow where a dollar grew before, storekeepers, middlemen, speculators, moneylenders with long heads for politics and mortgages; they despised the Scandihoovian dirtfamers they lived off, whose daughters did their wives’ kitchenwork.

    The Norway people believed as their fathers had believed that there were only two callings for an honest man, farming or preaching.

    Thorstein grew up a hulking lad with a reputation for lazines and wit. He hated the irk of overrepeated backbreaking chores around the farm. Reading he was happy. Carpentering he liked or running farmmachinery. The Lutheran pastors who came to the house noticed that his supple mind slid easily round the corners of their theology. It was hard to get farmwork out of him; he had a stinging tongue and was famous for the funny names he called people; his father decided to make a preacher out of him.

    When he was seventeen he was sent for out of the field where he was working. His bag was already packed, horses hitched up. He was being sent to Carleton Acaemy in Northfield, to prepare for Carleton College. As there were several young Veblens to be educated, their father built them a house on a lot near the campus. Their food and clothes were sent to them from the farm. Cash money was something they never saw.

    Thorstein spoke English with an accent. He had a constitutional inability to say yes. His mind was formed on the Norse sagas and on the matter-of-fact sense of his father’s farming and the exact needs of carpenterwork and threshingmachines.

    He could never take much interest in the theology, sociology, economics of Ccarleton College where they were busy trimming down the jagged dogmas of the old New England Bibletaught traders to make stencils to hang on the walls of commissioningmerchants’ offices.

    Veblen’s collegeyears were the years when Darwin’s assertions of growth and becoming were breaking the set molds of the Noah’s Ark world;

    when Ibsen’s women were tearing down the portières of the Victorian parlors, and Marx’s mighty machine was rigging the countinghouse’s own logic to destroy the countinghouse.

    When Veblen went home to the farm, he talked about these things with his father, following him up and down at his plowing, starting an argument while they were waiting for a new load for the wheatthresher. Thomas Anderson had seen Norway and America; he had the squarebuilt mind of a carpenter and builder, and an understanding of tools and the treasured elaborated builtupseasonbyseason knowledge of a careful farmer.

    A tough whetstone for the sharpening steel of young Thorstein’s wits.

    At Carleton College young Veblen was considered a brilliant unsound eccentric; nobody could understand why a boy of such attainments couldn’t settle down to the business of the day, which was to buttress property and profits with anything usable in the débris of Christian ethics and eighteenth-century economics that cluttered the minds of college proressors, and to reinforce the sacred, already shaky edifice with the new strong girderwork of science Herbert Spencer was throwing up for the benefit of the bosses.

    People complained they never knew whether Veblen was joking or serious.

    In 1880 Thorstein Veblen started to try to make his living by teaching. A year in an academy at Madison, Wisconsin wasn’t much of a success. Next year he and his brother Andrew started graduate work at Johns Hopkins. Johns Hopkins didn’t suit, but boarding in an old Baltimore house with some ruined gentlewomen gave him a disdaining glimpse of an etiquette motheaten now but handed down through the lavish leisure of the slaveowning planter’s mansions straight from the merrie England of the landlord cavaliers. (The valleyfarmers had always been scornful of outlanders’ ways.)

    He was more at home at Yale, where in Noah Porter he found a New England roundhead granite against which his Norway granite rang in clear dissent. He tok his Ph.D. there. But there was still some question as to what department of the academic world he could best make a living in. He read Kant and wrote prize essays. But he couldn’t get a job. Try as he would he couldn’t get his mouth around the essential yes.
    He went back to Minnesota with a certain intolerant knowledge of the amenities of the higher learning. To his slight Norwegian accent he’d added the broad “a.”

    At home he loafed about the farm and tinkered with inventions of new machinery and read and talked theology and philosophy with his father. In the Scandihoovian colonies the price of wheat and the belief in God and Saint Olaf were going down together. The farmers of the Northwest were starting their long losing fight against the parasite businessmen who were sucking them dry. There was a mortgage on the farm, interest on debts to pay, always fertilizer, new machines to buy to speed production to pump in a halfcentury the wealth out of the soil laid down in a million years of buffalograss. His brothers kept grumbling about this sardonic loafer who wouldn’t earn his keep.

    Back home he met again his college sweetheart, Ellen Rolfe, the niece of the president of Carleton College, a girl who had railroadmagnates and money in the family. People in Northfield were shocked when it came out that she was going to marry the drawling pernickety bookish badly-dressed young Norwegian ne’erdowell.

    Her family hatched a plan to get him a job as economist for the Santa Fe Railroad, but at the wrong moment Ellen Rolfe’s uncle lost control of the line. The young couple went to live at Stacyville where they did everything but earn a living. They read Latin and Greek and botanized in the woods and along the fences and in the roadside scrub. They boated on the river and Veblen started his translation of the Laxdaelasaga. They read Looking Backward and articles by Henry George. They looked at their world from the outside.

    In ’91 Veblen got together some money to go to Cornell to do postgraduate work. He turned up there in the office of the head of the economics department wearing a coonskin cap and gray corduroy trousers and said in his low sarcastic drawl, “I am Thorstein Veblen,”

    but it was not until several years later, after he was established at the new University of Chicago that had grown up next to the World’s Fair, and had published The Theory of the Leisure Class, put on the map by Howell’s famous review, that the world of the higher learning knew who Thorstein Veblen was.

    Even in Chicago as the brilliant young economist he lived pioneer-fashion. (The valleyfarmers had always been scornful of outlanders’ ways.) He kept his books in packingcases laid on their sides along the walls. His only extravagances were the Russian cigarettes he smoked and the red sash he sometimes sported. He was a man without smalltalk. When he lectured he put his cheek on his hand and mumbled out his long spiral sentences, reiterative like the eddas. His language was a mixture of mechanics’ terms, scientific latinity, slang, and Roget’s Thesaurus. The other profs couldn’t imagine why the girls fell for him so.

    Tongues wagged so (Veblen was a man who never explained, who never could get his tongue around the essential yes; the valleyfarmers had always been scornful of the outlanders’ ways, and their opinions) that his wife left him and went off to live alone on a timberclaim in Idaho and the president asked for his resignation.

    Veblen went out to Idaho to get Ellen Rolfe to go with him to California when he succeeded in getting a job at a better salary at Leland Stanford, but in Palo Alto it was the same story as in Chicago. He suffered from woman trouble and the constitutional inability to say yes and an unnatural tendency to feel with the workingclass instead of with the profittakers. There were the same complaints that his courses were not constructive or attractive to bigmoney bequests and didn’t help his students to butter their bread, make Phi Beta Kappa, pick plums off the hierarchies of the academic grove. His wife left him for good. He wrote to a friend, “The president doesn’t approve of my domestic arrangements; nor do I.”

    Talking about it he once said, “What is one to do if the woman moves in on you?”

    He went back up to the shack in the Idaho woods. Friends tried to get him an appointment to make studies in Crete, a chair at the University of Pekin, but always the bogy, routine, businessmen’s flunkies in all the university offices… for the questioner the bitter drink.

    His friend Davenport got him an appointment at the University of Missouri. At Columbia he lived like a hermit in the basement of the Davenports’ house, helped with the work round the place, carpentered himself a table and chairs. He was already a bitter elderly man with a gray face covered with a net of fine wrinkles, a Vandyke beard and yellow teeth. Few students could follow his courses. The college authorities were often surprised and somewhat chagrined that when visitors came from Europe, it was always Veblen they wanted to meet.

    Those were the years he did most of his writing, trying out his ideas on his students, writing slowly at night in violet ink with a pen of his own designing. Whenever he published a book, he had to put up a guarantee with the publishers. In The Theory of Business Enterprise, The Instinct of Workmanship, The ested Interests and the Common Man,he established a new diagram of a society dominated by monopoly capital,

    etched in irony
    the sabotage of production by business,
    the sabotage of life by blind need for money profits,

    pointed out the alternatives: a warlike society strangled by the bureaucracies of the monopolies forced by the law of diminishing returns to grind down more and more the common man for profits,

    or a new matter-of-fact commonsense society dominated by the needs of the men and women who did the work and the incredibly vast possibilities for peace and plenty offered by the progress of technology.

    These were the years of Debs’ speeches, growing labor-unions, the I.W.W. talk about industrial democracy; these years Veblen still held to the hope that the workingclass would take over the machine of production before monopoly had pushed the western nations down into the dark again.

    War cut across all that; under the cover of the bunting of Woodrow Wilson’s phrases the monopolies cracked down, American democracy was crushed.

    The war at least offered Veblen an opportunity to break out of the airless greenhouse of academic life. He was offered a job with the Food Administration, he sent the Navy Department a device for catching submarines by trailing lengths of stout bindingwire. (Meanwhile the government found his books somewhat confusing. The postoffice was forbidding the mails to Imperial Germany and the Industrial Revolution while propaganda agencies were sending it out to make people hate the Huns. Educators were denouncing The Nature of Peace while Washington experts were clipping phrases out of it to add to the Wilsonian smokescreen.)

    For the Food Administration Thorstein Veblen wrote two reports; in one he advocated granting the demands of the I.W.W. as a wartime measure and conciliating the workingclass instead of beating up and jailing all the honest leaders; in the other he pointed out that the Food Administration was a businessman’s racket and was not aiming for the most efficient organisation of the country as a producing machine. He suggested that, in the interests of the efficient prosecution of the war, the government step into the place of the middleman and furnish necessities to the farmers direct in return for raw materials;

    but cutting out business was not at all the Administration’s idea of making the world safe for democracy;
    so Veblen had to resign from the Food Administration.
    He signed the protests against the trial of the hundred and one wobblies in Chicago.

    After the armistice he went to New York. In spite of all the oppression of the war years, the air was freshening. In Russia the great storm of revolt had broken, seemed to be sweeping west; in the strong gusts from the new world in the wast the warshodden multitudes began to see again. At Versailles allies and enemies, magnates, generals, flunky politicians were slamming the shutters against the storm, against the new, against hope. It was suddenly clear for a second in the thundering glare what war was about, what peace was about.

    In America, in Europe, the old men won. The bankers in their offices took a deep breath, the bediamoned old ladies of the leisure class went back to clipping their coupons in the refined quiet of their safe-deposit vaults.

    The last puffs of the ozone of revolt went stale in the whisper of speakeasy arguments.

    Veblen wrote for the Dial,
    lectured at the New School for Social Research.
    He still had a hope that the engineers, the technicians, the nonprofiteers whose hands were on the switchboard might take up the fight where the workingcass had failed. He helped form the Technical Alliance. His last hope was the British general strike.

    Was there no group of men bold enough to take charge of the magnificent machine before the pigeyed speculators and the yesmen at office desks irrevocablly ruined it and with it the hopes of four hundred years?

    No one went to Veblen’s lectures at the New School. With every article he wrote for the Dial the circulation dropped.
    Harding’s normalcy, the new era was beginning;
    even Veblen made a small killing on the stockmarket.
    He was an old man and lonely,
    his second wife had gone to a sanatarium suffering from delusions of persecution.
    There seemed no place for a masterless man.

    Veblen went back out to Palo Alto
    to live in his shack in the tawny hills and observe from outside the last grabbing urges of the profit system taking on, as he put it, the systematized delusions of dementia praecox.
    There he finished his translation of the Laxdaelsaga.

    He was an old man. He was much alone. He let the woodrats take what they wanted from his larder. A skunk that hung round the shack was so tame he’d rub up against Veblen’s leg like a cat.

    He told a friend he’d sometimes hear in the stillness about him the voices of his boyhood taking Norwegian as clear as on the farm in Minnesota where he was raised. His friends found him harder than ever to talk to, hardre than ever to interest in anything. He was running down. The last sips of the bitter drink.

    He died on August 3, 1929.

    Among his papers a penciled note was found:
    It is also my wish, in case of death, to be cremated if it can conveniently be done, as expeditiously and inexpensively as may be, without ritual or ceremony of any kind; that my ashes be thrown loose into the sea or into some sizable stream running into the sea; that no tombstone, slab, epitaph, effigy, tablet, inscription or monument of any name or nature be set up to my memory or name in any place or at any time; that no obituary, memorial, portrait or biography of me, nor any letters written to or about me be printed or published, or in any way reproduced, copied or circulated;

    but his memorial remains
    riveted into the languages:
    the sharp clear prism of his mind.

    Powerful stuff, ikke sandt?

  37. Jørgen Says:

    @ Knud

    He-he, Veblen og Hubbard – og så i samme indlæg!

    Førstnævnte skrev jeg om i mit speciale (Coming Home at a Price: John Dos Passos and the Riddle of Alienation), eftersom hans Theory of the Leisure Class i høj grad inspirerede Dos Passos’ værk og politiske overbevisning. Sidstnævnte … well, jeg har faktisk læst hans “hovedværk” inden for sci-fi-genren, nemlig Battlefield Earth, der skam er ganske underholdende.

    Men Veblen var nu bedre 😉 . Han var som sagt Dos Passos’ helt, og nedenfor finder du hans poetiske mini-biografi om Veblen fra The Big Money del III af The U.S.A. Trilogy. (Og så krydser jeg fingre for, at NBPP ikke henretter mig for det GIGANTISKE copy-paste-stykke, jeg hermed belemrer hendes blog med 🙂 ).

    The Bitter Drink

    Veblen,
    a grayfaced shambling man lolling resentful at his desk with his cheek on his hand, in a low sarcastic mumble of intricate phrases subtly paying out the logical inescapable rope of matter-of-fact for a society to hang itself by, dissecting out the century with a scalpel so keen, so comical, so exact the the professors and students ninetenths of the time didn’t know it was there, and the magnates and the respected windbags and the appluaded loudspeakers never knew it was there.

    Veblen asked too many questions, sufferend from a constitutional inability to say yes. Socrates asked questions, drank down the bitter drink one night when the first cock crowed,

    but Veblen

    drank it in little sips through a long life in the stuffiness of classrooms, the dust of libraries, the statleness of cheap flats such as a poor instructor can afford. He fought the bogy all right, pedantry, routine, timesavers at office desks, trustees, collegepresidents, the plump flunkies of the ruling usinessmen, all the good jobs kept for yesmen, never enough money, every broadening hope thwarted. Veblen drank the bitter drink all right.

    The Veblens were a family of freeholding farmers. The freeholders of the narrow Norwegian valleys were a stubborn hardworking people, farmers, dairymen, fishermen, rooted in their fathers’ stony fields, in their old timbered farmsteads with carved gables they took their names from, in the upland pastures where they grazed the stock in summer.

    During the early nineteenth century the towns grew: Norway filled up with landless men, storekeepers, sheriffs, moneylenders, bailiffs, notaries in black with stiff collars and briefcases full of foreclosures under their arms. Industries were coming in. The townsmen were beginning to get profit out of the country and to finagle the farmers out of the freedom of their narrow farms.

    The meanspirited submitted as tenants, daylaborers; but the strong men went out of the country as their fathers had gone out of the country centuries before when Harald the Fairhaired and Saint Olaf hacked to pieces the liberties of the Northern men, who had been each man lord of his own creek, to make Christians and serfs of them, only in the old days it was Iceland, Greenland, Vineland the Northmen had sailed west to; now it was America.

    Both Thorstein Veblen’s father’s people and his mother’s people had lost their farmsteads and with them the names that denoted them free men. Thomas Anderson for a while tried to make his living as a traveling carpenter and cabinetmaker, but in 1847 he and his wife, Kari Thorsteinsdatter, crossed in a whalingship from Bremen and went out to join friends in the Scandihoovian colonies round Milwaukee.

    Next year his brother Haldor joined him.

    They were hard workers; in another year they had saved up money to pre-empt a claim on a hundred and sixty acres of uncleared land in Sheboygan County, Wisconsin; when they’d gotten that land part cleared they sold it and moved to an all-Norway colony in Manitowoc County, near Cato, and a place named Valders after the valley they had all come from in the old country.

    There in the house Thomans Anderson built with his own tools, the sixth of twelve children, Thorstein Veblen was born.
    When Thorstein was eight years old, Thomas Anderson moved west again into the blacksoil prairies of Minnesota that the Sioux and the buffalo had only been driven off from a few years before. In the deed to the new farm Thomas Anderson took back the old farmstead name of Veblen.

    He was a solid farmer, builder, a clever carpenter, the first man to import merino sheep and a mechanical reaper and binder; he was a man of standing in the group of Norway people farming the edge of the prairie, who kept their dialects, the manner of life of their narrow Norway valleys, their Lutheran pastors, their homemade clothes and cheese and bread, their suspicion and stubborn dislike of townsmen’s ways.
    The townspeople were Yankees mostly, smart to make two dollars grow where a dollar grew before, storekeepers, middlemen, speculators, moneylenders with long heads for politics and mortgages; they despised the Scandihoovian dirtfamers they lived off, whose daughters did their wives’ kitchenwork.

    The Norway people believed as their fathers had believed that there were only two callings for an honest man, farming or preaching.

    Thorstein grew up a hulking lad with a reputation for lazines and wit. He hated the irk of overrepeated backbreaking chores around the farm. Reading he was happy. Carpentering he liked or running farmmachinery. The Lutheran pastors who came to the house noticed that his supple mind slid easily round the corners of their theology. It was hard to get farmwork out of him; he had a stinging tongue and was famous for the funny names he called people; his father decided to make a preacher out of him.

    When he was seventeen he was sent for out of the field where he was working. His bag was already packed, horses hitched up. He was being sent to Carleton Acaemy in Northfield, to prepare for Carleton College. As there were several young Veblens to be educated, their father built them a house on a lot near the campus. Their food and clothes were sent to them from the farm. Cash money was something they never saw.

    Thorstein spoke English with an accent. He had a constitutional inability to say yes. His mind was formed on the Norse sagas and on the matter-of-fact sense of his father’s farming and the exact needs of carpenterwork and threshingmachines.

    He could never take much interest in the theology, sociology, economics of Ccarleton College where they were busy trimming down the jagged dogmas of the old New England Bibletaught traders to make stencils to hang on the walls of commissioningmerchants’ offices.

    Veblen’s collegeyears were the years when Darwin’s assertions of growth and becoming were breaking the set molds of the Noah’s Ark world;

    when Ibsen’s women were tearing down the portières of the Victorian parlors, and Marx’s mighty machine was rigging the countinghouse’s own logic to destroy the countinghouse.

    When Veblen went home to the farm, he talked about these things with his father, following him up and down at his plowing, starting an argument while they were waiting for a new load for the wheatthresher. Thomas Anderson had seen Norway and America; he had the squarebuilt mind of a carpenter and builder, and an understanding of tools and the treasured elaborated builtupseasonbyseason knowledge of a careful farmer.

    A tough whetstone for the sharpening steel of young Thorstein’s wits.

    At Carleton College young Veblen was considered a brilliant unsound eccentric; nobody could understand why a boy of such attainments couldn’t settle down to the business of the day, which was to buttress property and profits with anything usable in the débris of Christian ethics and eighteenth-century economics that cluttered the minds of college proressors, and to reinforce the sacred, already shaky edifice with the new strong girderwork of science Herbert Spencer was throwing up for the benefit of the bosses.

    People complained they never knew whether Veblen was joking or serious.

    In 1880 Thorstein Veblen started to try to make his living by teaching. A year in an academy at Madison, Wisconsin wasn’t much of a success. Next year he and his brother Andrew started graduate work at Johns Hopkins. Johns Hopkins didn’t suit, but boarding in an old Baltimore house with some ruined gentlewomen gave him a disdaining glimpse of an etiquette motheaten now but handed down through the lavish leisure of the slaveowning planter’s mansions straight from the merrie England of the landlord cavaliers. (The valleyfarmers had always been scornful of outlanders’ ways.)

    He was more at home at Yale, where in Noah Porter he found a New England roundhead granite against which his Norway granite rang in clear dissent. He tok his Ph.D. there. But there was still some question as to what department of the academic world he could best make a living in. He read Kant and wrote prize essays. But he couldn’t get a job. Try as he would he couldn’t get his mouth around the essential yes.
    He went back to Minnesota with a certain intolerant knowledge of the amenities of the higher learning. To his slight Norwegian accent he’d added the broad “a.”

    At home he loafed about the farm and tinkered with inventions of new machinery and read and talked theology and philosophy with his father. In the Scandihoovian colonies the price of wheat and the belief in God and Saint Olaf were going down together. The farmers of the Northwest were starting their long losing fight against the parasite businessmen who were sucking them dry. There was a mortgage on the farm, interest on debts to pay, always fertilizer, new machines to buy to speed production to pump in a halfcentury the wealth out of the soil laid down in a million years of buffalograss. His brothers kept grumbling about this sardonic loafer who wouldn’t earn his keep.

    Back home he met again his college sweetheart, Ellen Rolfe, the niece of the president of Carleton College, a girl who had railroadmagnates and money in the family. People in Northfield were shocked when it came out that she was going to marry the drawling pernickety bookish badly-dressed young Norwegian ne’erdowell.

    Her family hatched a plan to get him a job as economist for the Santa Fe Railroad, but at the wrong moment Ellen Rolfe’s uncle lost control of the line. The young couple went to live at Stacyville where they did everything but earn a living. They read Latin and Greek and botanized in the woods and along the fences and in the roadside scrub. They boated on the river and Veblen started his translation of the Laxdaelasaga. They read Looking Backward and articles by Henry George. They looked at their world from the outside.

    In ’91 Veblen got together some money to go to Cornell to do postgraduate work. He turned up there in the office of the head of the economics department wearing a coonskin cap and gray corduroy trousers and said in his low sarcastic drawl, “I am Thorstein Veblen,”

    but it was not until several years later, after he was established at the new University of Chicago that had grown up next to the World’s Fair, and had published The Theory of the Leisure Class, put on the map by Howell’s famous review, that the world of the higher learning knew who Thorstein Veblen was.

    Even in Chicago as the brilliant young economist he lived pioneer-fashion. (The valleyfarmers had always been scornful of outlanders’ ways.) He kept his books in packingcases laid on their sides along the walls. His only extravagances were the Russian cigarettes he smoked and the red sash he sometimes sported. He was a man without smalltalk. When he lectured he put his cheek on his hand and mumbled out his long spiral sentences, reiterative like the eddas. His language was a mixture of mechanics’ terms, scientific latinity, slang, and Roget’s Thesaurus. The other profs couldn’t imagine why the girls fell for him so.

    Tongues wagged so (Veblen was a man who never explained, who never could get his tongue around the essential yes; the valleyfarmers had always been scornful of the outlanders’ ways, and their opinions) that his wife left him and went off to live alone on a timberclaim in Idaho and the president asked for his resignation.

    Veblen went out to Idaho to get Ellen Rolfe to go with him to California when he succeeded in getting a job at a better salary at Leland Stanford, but in Palo Alto it was the same story as in Chicago. He suffered from woman trouble and the constitutional inability to say yes and an unnatural tendency to feel with the workingclass instead of with the profittakers. There were the same complaints that his courses were not constructive or attractive to bigmoney bequests and didn’t help his students to butter their bread, make Phi Beta Kappa, pick plums off the hierarchies of the academic grove. His wife left him for good. He wrote to a friend, “The president doesn’t approve of my domestic arrangements; nor do I.”

    Talking about it he once said, “What is one to do if the woman moves in on you?”

    He went back up to the shack in the Idaho woods. Friends tried to get him an appointment to make studies in Crete, a chair at the University of Pekin, but always the bogy, routine, businessmen’s flunkies in all the university offices… for the questioner the bitter drink.

    His friend Davenport got him an appointment at the University of Missouri. At Columbia he lived like a hermit in the basement of the Davenports’ house, helped with the work round the place, carpentered himself a table and chairs. He was already a bitter elderly man with a gray face covered with a net of fine wrinkles, a Vandyke beard and yellow teeth. Few students could follow his courses. The college authorities were often surprised and somewhat chagrined that when visitors came from Europe, it was always Veblen they wanted to meet.

    Those were the years he did most of his writing, trying out his ideas on his students, writing slowly at night in violet ink with a pen of his own designing. Whenever he published a book, he had to put up a guarantee with the publishers. In The Theory of Business Enterprise, The Instinct of Workmanship, The ested Interests and the Common Man,he established a new diagram of a society dominated by monopoly capital,

    etched in irony
    the sabotage of production by business,
    the sabotage of life by blind need for money profits,

    pointed out the alternatives: a warlike society strangled by the bureaucracies of the monopolies forced by the law of diminishing returns to grind down more and more the common man for profits,

    or a new matter-of-fact commonsense society dominated by the needs of the men and women who did the work and the incredibly vast possibilities for peace and plenty offered by the progress of technology.

    These were the years of Debs’ speeches, growing labor-unions, the I.W.W. talk about industrial democracy; these years Veblen still held to the hope that the workingclass would take over the machine of production before monopoly had pushed the western nations down into the dark again.

    War cut across all that; under the cover of the bunting of Woodrow Wilson’s phrases the monopolies cracked down, American democracy was crushed.

    The war at least offered Veblen an opportunity to break out of the airless greenhouse of academic life. He was offered a job with the Food Administration, he sent the Navy Department a device for catching submarines by trailing lengths of stout bindingwire. (Meanwhile the government found his books somewhat confusing. The postoffice was forbidding the mails to Imperial Germany and the Industrial Revolution while propaganda agencies were sending it out to make people hate the Huns. Educators were denouncing The Nature of Peace while Washington experts were clipping phrases out of it to add to the Wilsonian smokescreen.)

    For the Food Administration Thorstein Veblen wrote two reports; in one he advocated granting the demands of the I.W.W. as a wartime measure and conciliating the workingclass instead of beating up and jailing all the honest leaders; in the other he pointed out that the Food Administration was a businessman’s racket and was not aiming for the most efficient organisation of the country as a producing machine. He suggested that, in the interests of the efficient prosecution of the war, the government step into the place of the middleman and furnish necessities to the farmers direct in return for raw materials;

    but cutting out business was not at all the Administration’s idea of making the world safe for democracy;
    so Veblen had to resign from the Food Administration.
    He signed the protests against the trial of the hundred and one wobblies in Chicago.

    After the armistice he went to New York. In spite of all the oppression of the war years, the air was freshening. In Russia the great storm of revolt had broken, seemed to be sweeping west; in the strong gusts from the new world in the wast the warshodden multitudes began to see again. At Versailles allies and enemies, magnates, generals, flunky politicians were slamming the shutters against the storm, against the new, against hope. It was suddenly clear for a second in the thundering glare what war was about, what peace was about.

    In America, in Europe, the old men won. The bankers in their offices took a deep breath, the bediamoned old ladies of the leisure class went back to clipping their coupons in the refined quiet of their safe-deposit vaults.

    The last puffs of the ozone of revolt went stale in the whisper of speakeasy arguments.

    Veblen wrote for the Dial,
    lectured at the New School for Social Research.
    He still had a hope that the engineers, the technicians, the nonprofiteers whose hands were on the switchboard might take up the fight where the workingcass had failed. He helped form the Technical Alliance. His last hope was the British general strike.

    Was there no group of men bold enough to take charge of the magnificent machine before the pigeyed speculators and the yesmen at office desks irrevocablly ruined it and with it the hopes of four hundred years?

    No one went to Veblen’s lectures at the New School. With every article he wrote for the Dial the circulation dropped.
    Harding’s normalcy, the new era was beginning;
    even Veblen made a small killing on the stockmarket.
    He was an old man and lonely,
    his second wife had gone to a sanatarium suffering from delusions of persecution.
    There seemed no place for a masterless man.

    Veblen went back out to Palo Alto
    to live in his shack in the tawny hills and observe from outside the last grabbing urges of the profit system taking on, as he put it, the systematized delusions of dementia praecox.
    There he finished his translation of the Laxdaelsaga.

    He was an old man. He was much alone. He let the woodrats take what they wanted from his larder. A skunk that hung round the shack was so tame he’d rub up against Veblen’s leg like a cat.

    He told a friend he’d sometimes hear in the stillness about him the voices of his boyhood taking Norwegian as clear as on the farm in Minnesota where he was raised. His friends found him harder than ever to talk to, hardre than ever to interest in anything. He was running down. The last sips of the bitter drink.

    He died on August 3, 1929.

    Among his papers a penciled note was found:
    It is also my wish, in case of death, to be cremated if it can conveniently be done, as expeditiously and inexpensively as may be, without ritual or ceremony of any kind; that my ashes be thrown loose into the sea or into some sizable stream running into the sea; that no tombstone, slab, epitaph, effigy, tablet, inscription or monument of any name or nature be set up to my memory or name in any place or at any time; that no obituary, memorial, portrait or biography of me, nor any letters written to or about me be printed or published, or in any way reproduced, copied or circulated;

    but his memorial remains
    riveted into the languages:
    the sharp clear prism of his mind.

    Powerful stuff, ikke sandt?

  38. Knud Larsen Says:

    @ Jørgen

    Det MÅ jeg nok sige!

    Utrolig interessant og utrolig flot skrevet en nydelse at læse.

    Jeg har vist ikke læst noget af Dos Passos, ellers har jeg glemt det, men det lyder ikke sandsynligt. Så man burde nok lige læse trilogien, ja, ja, det er jo bare 1300 sider mere 😉

    Der er ikke timer nok i døgnet, og dage nok i livet, til at man når det man gerne ville.

    Men det var dog mærkeligt, at du netop havde skrevet om Veblen, jeg regnede ikke med at nogen mere kunne huske ham,- jeg er aldrig stødt på nogen før.
    Min “Leisure Class” bog er iøvrigt på norsk, de er nok mere interesseret end andre.

    Sacco og Vanzetti, – og måske den svenske “Berg”, som blev myrdet på omkring samme tid. Længe siden jeg har set dem nævnt.

    Men det ER som om det “næsten” er relevant igen, – jeg opdagede forresten i går aftes at jeg havde en ikke læst bog: “What Liberal Media” fra 2002, om hvordan “man” i USA lader om om medierne er venstreorienterede, – skrevet af en mand som selv er en del af medierne (han VIL også kritisere sine egne arbejdsgivere, men siger at han VIL være venligere over for personlige venner end han burde) – Jeg fik startet på den, og den ser OGSÅ lovende ud. Snart kan jeg have en meter halvlæste bøger liggende åbne oven på hinanden. Jeg skifter læsning efter mit øjeblikkelige humør.

    @ NBPP

    Nej, jeg taler ikke hele tiden, men KAN nogen gange tale for meget – åbenbart – Jeg fortalte min søster om “mødet” med to skolekammerater, den ene forlod Danmark for USA, da vi var 16 år gamle. Vi mødtes fire mand i min fødeby, – jeg sagde noget med, at det var vigtigt, at alle fik lov at berette, så man passede på ikke at tale for meget. Så sagde hun gud hjælpe mig: “Kunne du det?” 😉

    Jeg har én veninde, hvor man skal vente på det mikrosekund hvor hun holder en vejrtrækningspause, for at komme til orde, – og så er der andre, som hellere lytter end taler.

    Hvis jeg “taler”, er det ofte fordi det er mindre “stressende”, end at sidde og kigge på andre der taler 🙂
    Jeg er sådan en, hvor *andre* har talt om “din ro”, mens jeg selv føler jeg er “nervøs”.

    Nå, det var lidt lomme-psykologi.

    Kommer i tanke om hende der ville shanghaie mig til at undervise på Niels Brock talte om at de studerende havde brug for “din ro” – men det havde jeg altså også selv, så jeg måtte melde fra.

    Jeg GAD vide, hvad DU vil blive til, det bliver noget helt specielt, det er jeg overbevist om. Jeg regner jo med statsminister som minimum, men dem der lever vil se, que sera, sera, whatever will be, will be, og det er jo så sandt som det er sunget.

  39. Jørgen Says:

    @ Knud

    Jamen, hvis du ku’ li’ det, så ka’ du jo ligeså godt få noget mere fra samme skuffe. Nedenfor kapitel 6.2 fra mit speciale, hvor jeg kommer ind på forskellen på Marx’, Veblens, Dos Passos’ (og implicit Webers) syn på begrebet Entfremdung – altså moderne menneskers fremmedgørelse fra produktionsmidlerne, naturen og hinanden:

    6.2. Dos Passos’ and Veblen’s Views of Alienation

    However, Marx’ prophecy that, in communist utopia, society would regulate production to the benefit of all illustrates a crucial aspect of Marxist and socialist ideology: the belief in the necessity of the centralized state. Central government, large-scale industrial production, and strict regulation of the forces of supply and demand, these were the tools available to communists wanting to build a de-alienated paradise.

    In marked contrast to such statism stood the cure for alienation advocated by American radicals. Unlike most brands of socialism and Marxism, American radicalism has traditionally been opposed to a strong central government. For historical reasons, American radicals have generally favoured syndicalism and anarchism over state collectivism. Thus, the IWW viewed the state as an enemy and felt that nationalized industry would be much harder for organized labour to resist than private companies. To the Wobblies, utopia was a decentralized place, a society in which anarcho-syndicalist communities would allow workers to participate in the democratic process on a local level. In autonomous communes, co-ops, and collectives, workers would be able to live out what Thorstein Veblen, another American radical, referred to as their “instinct of workmanship” – i.e. the supposedly instinctive human drive to work in a way that is efficient and not wasteful. This radical vision differs from that of Marxism because it views man, not so much as a creative homo faber, as a homo conscientiosus – a creature that finds fulfilment in work because, by working, it contributes to the common good.

    In The Big Money (1936), part three of the U.S.A. Trilogy (1938), Dos Passos makes Veblen’s vision his own: one of the major themes of the novel is American business civilization and the way it corrupts the instinct of workmanship. A case study of such corruption is Charley Anderson, an initially amiable mechanic from the Midwest, who, because he succumbs to the lure of the big money, finds himself alienated from his natural, Veblenian instincts. Instead of using his mechanical skills for the good of the commonwealth, Charley becomes a capitalist and a speculator. He indulges in “conspicuous consumption,” which Veblen defined as “[the] ostentatious consumption of valuable goods as a means of reputability to the gentleman of leisure.” Such ostentation, Veblen argued, was in reality nothing but glorified wastefulness, which might be traced back to “barbarian” cultures where the parading of one’s loot had served important, ceremonial purposes. In The Theory of the Leisure Class (1899), Veblen suggests the persistent importance of such ceremonial to modern barbarians – i.e. to the members of the business leisure class, whom he despised. Thus, in his ironic analysis, the orgies of display by the nouveaux riches and the parading of ornamental wives on Fifth Avenue corresponded to similar ceremonies among “primitive” tribes: the robber baron, like the barbarian chieftain, was eager to demonstrate his prowess by showing off his trophies.

    The conflict between workmanship, which was fundamentally sound, and conspicuous consumption, which was essentially parasitical, is reflected in Veblen’s theory of economics. Here he distinguishes sharply between business on the one hand, and industry on the other. The industrial system, he wrote, required men to be diligent, efficient, and cooperative, while those who ruled the business world were only concerned with making a profit and showing off their wealth. Charley Anderson starts out as being reasonably diligent and efficient, but once he sells his soul to Mammon his fate is sealed.

    Following the typical Dos Passos formula, Charley plunges into a downward spiral of debauchery and dissipation, at the end of which he kills himself in a drunken accident. His death is devoid of grandeur, and it leaves the reader with no sense of tragic loss. By embracing the gospel of wealth, Charley has sinned against his own nature and become an object – an object not even pitiful anymore, but merely sordid. Dos Passos’ moralistic condemnation remains tangible, and one is reminded of the Puritanical young aesthete who, some twenty years before writing The Big Money, had attacked the idolatrous moneylenders of Batum. With one important difference, we might note: by 1937, Dos Passos had demoted Marx to a lower rank than Veblen. But apart from that, his jeremiad against the worshippers of Mammon remained the same. In the words of Iain Colley:

    Wealth is the central value to which all subsidiary values of manner, taste and style accrue. It is no accident that The Big Money includes a Biography of Veblen, or that Charley’s downfall is, in part, the destruction of a man who forsakes “efficiency” for the prospect of sheer wealth.

    Indeed, if Charley, whom the reader first encounters in The 42nd Parallel (1932), had only been more of a radical his destruction might have been delayed. Of course, he would still have been defeated, for in U.S.A. everybody loses sooner or later. But Dos Passos might have allowed him to peter out like Mac, or to fail with a residue of integrity left like Ben Compton or Mary French. However, radicalism was never strong in Charley, and it certainly stood in no comparison to Dos Passos’ own radicalism, which was neither a pose nor a political phase to be outgrown in time. To Dos Passos, radicalism constituted an outlook on life that went far beyond politics and transitory partisanship: to him, it was a Weltanschauung.

    Det er seks år siden jeg skrev ovenstående, og ved du hvad – da jeg søgte efter det på min harddisk, kunne jeg ikke engang huske titlen på mit speciale. Time sure flies, og epoxydampe og pot virker åbenbart ikke skærpende på hukommelsen. 😉

  40. Knud Larsen Says:

    @ Jørgen

    Så røg der et langt indlæg fra mig, – damn. kom til at ramme en tast da jeg lige skulle citere en linje fra en bog, og så vupti

    vil lige se om det skulle være et eller andet sted, – men sikkert ikke

  41. Knud Larsen Says:

    @ Jørgen

    Hvor dælen forsvinder en tekst hen når den bare fordufter?

    Jeg har flere gange bestem mig til kun at skrive i en editor, MEN der er et eller andet specielt ved at skrive her i feltet.

    Men altså – Virkelig flot formuleret, OG jo stadig i høj grad relevant, især da med finanskrisen.

    Hukommelse: gætter på at du også ser for mange ord, og så ryger der noget ud i den ene ende når nye kommer ind, FIFO, first ind, først ud.

    Og så skrev jeg noget om polyhistorer som Veblen, hvordan vi jo ikke har mange af dem mere.

    Og om mit speciale som jeg godt kan huske titlen på, men som viste sig at være uoplukkeligt, forældet Word Perfect, da en fyr på dk.politik gerne ville læse det. Fik fat i et WP program som kunne åbne, men har ikke fået det gjort.

    OG hvis du evt er på jagt efter et eller andet program kan du maile om det, måske har jeg købt det – i Bilka eller Brugsen.
    Du kan betale det halve af min anskaffelsespris 😉

    Så skrev jeg om Gregory Bateson som jeg lige fandt, hans “Mind and Nature, a necessary unity”
    OG efter lidt omsvøb ville jeg lige citere ham for hvor han underviste i 1950erne, – good old Palo Alto, OG, det var hans pointe, dels på en skole for psykiatere og dels på en skole for unge beatniks.
    Han stillede de fremtidige psykiatere spørgsmålet om en kort definition af ordene “sakramente” og “entropi” – kernen i tro og videnskab. De kunne ikke svare.
    Beatnikkerne præsenterede han for en død krabbe, og udfordrede dem til at “bevise” at dette havde været et levende væsen.

    Nå, jeg er hele tiden ved at ramme forkert, – og glemte det jeg ville nævne med Bateson, – så nu trykker jeg lige …

  42. Jørgen Says:

    @ Knud

    Hvor dælen forsvinder en tekst hen når den bare fordufter?

    Et nærmest teologisk spørgsmål, som jeg også tit har funderet over 😉 . Nogle gange kan man nå at redde den ved at trykke CTRL + Z – hvis man vel at mærke ikke har foretaget mere end ét tastanslag, siden man kom til at slette den. Selv er jeg gået væk fra teksteditorerne, og anvender også bare skrivefeltet. For at undgå utilsigtede sletninger, blokmarkerer jeg jævnligt det, jeg har skrevet, hvorefter jeg trykker CTRL + C, så det bliver sendt over i Windows’ clipboard. Hvis der så sker en ulykke (hvilket der også jævnligt sker for mig), kan jeg genskabe det meste af det, jeg har skrevet, ved at trykke CTRL + V. Metoden er ikke skudsikker – nogle gange glemmer jeg at kopiere – men har trods alt reddet mig i adskillige situationer.

    PS! Skrev selv mit speciale i WP 8, som jeg var en af de sidste, standhaftige ronkedorer på mit studium til at bruge. Bruger kun Word nu til dags, og havde i øvrigt ingen problemer med at importere mit speciale i Office XP (well, bortset fra et par layoutmæssige fejl, men de var hurtige at rette).

  43. Knud Larsen Says:

    @ Jørgen

    Jeg har også tit brugt at kopiere til klippebordet, men glemmer det ofte.

    Teksten ryger når jeg rammer et eller andet med venstre hånds lillefinger, – ved ikke om det er windows-tasten, men det kan man jo da eksperimentere med.
    Jeg bruger også en “rullemus”, og kan komme til at ramme noget dér, – nå, min kone siger altid der er nisser i computeren, og det er sikkert den bedste forklaring.

    Mit speciale var åbenbart allerede formatteret til brug for en matrixprinter, og muligvis med en version tidligere end WP8, – jeg fik fat i et “kigge på tekster” program, og der kunne jeg da se at teksten var der.

    Jeg havde ikke forestillet mig at der var gået så lang tid, – altså at man skulle tilbage til matrix-tiden. Måske lever vi virkelig i en matrix?

  44. Knud Larsen Says:

    @ Jørgen eller NBPP

    Spurgte lige Ulla, men I ved måske mere om det tekniske,- hvordan er det med LInks og wordpress?

    Hvad sker det med dem?

  45. Jørgen Says:

    @ NBPP

    Som udgangspunkt sender WordPress automatisk indlæg med mere end ét hyperlink til moderation (går ud fra, det er en anti-spam-ting). Blogejeren kan så vælge at øge mængden af tilladte links, inden moderationsfællen klapper i – eller stramme skruen yderligere, så også indlæg med kun ét link skal godkendes manuelt, inden de dukker op på bloggen.

    Mohammed Jawad har gjort det sidste, fordi hans blog hjemsøges af ad- og spyware-links, siger han. NBPP, Helen, Ulla, Gülay og Hodja har til gengæld valgt at lade begrænsningen stå på default – dvs. med muligheden for ét hyperlink pr indlæg, inden moderationsfiltret aktiveres.

    @ NBPP

    Speaking of which, har du ikke lyst til at skrue op for antallet af tilladte links pr. indlæg? 🙂 Det ville gøre det lidt lettere at lave kildehenvisninger.

  46. Jørgen Says:

    Ups! “Moderationsfællen” = moderationsfælden

  47. Knud Larsen Says:

    @ Jørgen

    OK, jeg sendte ét link i et indlæg til Ulla, men det dukkede ikke op? Jeg skal måske prøve igen.

    Da jeg sendte link til atlas og til en pdf-fil, blev de jo så modereret, men jeg har da heller ikke opdaget dem siden?

    Ét link er også OK, bare man ved det, så kan man sende i enkeltindlæg, MEN det er naturligvis bedre med to, så man ikke fylder hele raden ude til højre.

    Ulla foreslog iøvrigt at man søgte via “søg”, og jeg testede med “Dick”, men man kan åbenbart IKKE søge generelt, man skal kende måneden en tråd startede, og heller ikke dér syntes jeg det virkede ordentligt.

  48. nbpp Says:

    @jørgen

    “Speaking of which, har du ikke lyst til at skrue op for antallet af tilladte links pr. indlæg?”

    jo, for din skyld 🙂

    ej, det kan jeg godt, for jeg kan ikke se pointen i at tillade et link men ikke flere links..

  49. Jørgen Says:

    @ NBPP

    Tak, søde! 😀

  50. nbpp Says:

    @jørgen

    😉

    @Knud

    “Jeg GAD vide, hvad DU vil blive til, det bliver noget helt specielt, det er jeg overbevist om. Jeg regner jo med statsminister som minimum, men dem der lever vil se, que sera, sera, whatever will be, will be, og det er jo så sandt som det er sunget.”

    heeh hvor er du sød 🙂 nu får vi at se.. det bliver i hvert fald noget med politik!

  51. Knud Larsen Says:

    @ NBPP

    Det lyder godt!

  52. NBPP Says:

    @knud

    ja og husk at du skal stemme på mig når det er. det har du lovet mig! 😉

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