But instead, it somehow helped cleanse me of them. There was comfort for me in accepting the arbitrariness of what happened, in regarding it as a spasm of random damage in time and space that, just as randomly, a small number of human beings got the opportunity to repair. We were more capable than I had understood. We were also far more helpless. On the ride back to Gustavus with our gear, I pictured myself, again, as a small blip in empty space. The ride was rough and jumpy as Ogilvy impatiently pounded his boat through the last vestigial wave energy of the storm; Dave and I had to hold on, to plant ourselves on the bench behind him.
But there was a moment when I felt so safe that I loosened my grip, leaned slightly into the motion of the boat, and, closing my eyes, felt myself lift off the seat.
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Jon Mooallem is a writer at large for the magazine who is working on a book about the great Alaska earthquake of His last feature for the magazine was about our climatological future. Rick Steves can tell you how to avoid having your pocket picked on the subway in Istanbul. He can tell you where to buy cookies from cloistered Spanish nuns on a hilltop in Andalusia.
We were, at that moment, very much inside the Western Hemisphere, 4, miles west of Rome, inching through Manhattan in a hired black car. Steves was in the middle of a grueling speaking tour of the United States: 21 cities in 34 days. New York was stop No. He had just flown in from Pittsburgh, where he had spent less than 24 hours, and he would soon be off to Los Angeles, Denver and Dallas. In his brief windows of down time, Steves did not go out searching for quaint restaurants or architectural treasures. He sat alone in his hotel rooms, clacking away on his laptop, working on new projects.
His whole world, for the time being, had been reduced to a concrete blur of airports, hotels, lecture halls and media appearances. In this town car, however, rolling through Midtown, Steves was brimming with delight. Man, oh, man!
It was almost the opposite of the Brooklyn Bridge. The Brooklyn Bridge is one of the most recognizable structures in the world: a stretched stone cathedral. This was its unloved upriver cousin, a tangle of discolored metal, vibrating with cars, perpetually under construction. The car hit traffic and lurched to a stop. Steves paused to scan the street outside. Then he refocused.
This was correct. He reclines jauntily atop the cliffs of Dover and is vigorously scrubbed in a Turkish bath. The show has aired now for nearly 20 years, and in that time, among travelers, Steves has established himself as one of the legendary PBS superdorks — right there in the pantheon with Mr. Rogers, Bob Ross and Big Bird. Like them, Steves is a gentle soul who wants to help you feel at home in the world. Like them, he seems miraculously untouched by the need to look cool, which of course makes him sneakily cool. To the aspiring traveler, Steves is as inspirational as Julia Child once was to the aspiring home chef.
You never knew exactly where his Rickniks as the hard-core fans call themselves would materialize en masse. Some Steves appearances were mobbed; others were sparse. His appeal is slightly cultish. For every Ricknik out in the world, a large contingent of average people have no idea who he is. We arrived, however, to find the bookstore overflowing.
A solid wave of applause met Steves at the door. Fans had been pouring in, the organizer told us, for two solid hours. People sat in the aisles and stood in the back. I noticed a group of hipster somethings standing near the back, and at first I assumed they had all come sarcastically. But as Steves began to speak, they grinned and laughed with absolute earnestness. Everyone here was, apparently, a superfan. At one point, Steves showed a slide of tourists swimming in a sunny French river underneath a Roman aqueduct, and the whole crowd gasped. When he mentioned that his website featured a special video devoted to packing light for women, a woman in the crowd actually pumped her fist.
At the end of his talk, Steves offered to sign books — but not in the traditional way. There were too many people for a signing table, he said, and anyway, single-file lines were always inefficient. This is one of his travel credos: avoid waiting in line. Instead of sitting down, Steves walked out into the center of the room and invited everyone to open their books and surround him. He pulled out a Sharpie. And then he started to spin. Steves held out his pen and signed book after book after book, fluidly, on the move, smiling as the crowd pressed in. A woman asked him where to celebrate Christmas in Europe.
Steves, in midrotation, still signing furiously, told her that he had made a whole special about precisely that question and that it was available free on his website. As he spun, Steves thanked everyone and gave quick, off-the-cuff advice. In an astonishingly short time, he had signed every book.
The people were satisfied. The crowd thinned. Steves finally came to a stop. Rick Steves is absolutely American. He wears jeans every single day. He drinks frozen orange juice from a can. He likes his hash browns burned, his coffee extra hot. He has a great spontaneous honk of a laugh — it bursts out of him, when he is truly delighted, with the sharpness of a firecracker on the Fourth of July. Although Steves spends nearly half his life traveling, he insists, passionately, that he would never live anywhere but the United States — and you know when he says it that this is absolutely true.
In fact, Steves still lives in the small Seattle suburb where he grew up, and every morning he walks to work on the same block, downtown, where his parents owned a piano store 50 years ago. On Sundays, Steves wears his jeans to church, where he plays the congas, with great arm-pumping spirit, in the inspirational soft-rock band that serenades the congregation before the service starts, and then he sits down and sings classic Lutheran hymns without even needing to refer to the hymnal.
Although Steves has published many foreign-language phrase books, the only language he speaks fluently is English. He built his business in America, raised his kids in America and gives frequent loving paeans to the glories of American life. And yet: Rick Steves desperately wants you to leave America.
The tiniest exposure to the outside world, he believes, will change your entire life. The more rootedly American you are, the more Rick Steves wants this for you. If you have never had a passport, if you are afraid of the world, if your family would prefer to vacation exclusively at Walt Disney World, if you worry that foreigners are rude and predatory and prone to violence or at least that their food will give you diarrhea, then Steves wants you — especially you — to go to Europe.
Then he wants you to go beyond. He wants you to stand and make little moaning sounds on a cobblestone street the first time you taste authentic Italian gelato — flavors so pure they seem like the primordial essence of peach or melon or pistachio or rice distilled into molecules and stirred directly into your own molecules. He wants you to hike on a dirt path along a cliff over the almost-too-blue Mediterranean, with villages and vineyards spilling down the rugged mountains above you. He wants you to arrive at the Parthenon at dusk, just before it closes, when all the tour groups are loading back onto their cruise ships, so that you have the whole place to yourself and can stand there feeling like a private witness to the birth, and then the ruination, of Western civilization.
Steves wants you to go to Europe for as long as you can afford to, and he also wants to help you afford it. Much of his guru energy is focused on cutting costs. Out of this paradoxical desire — the enlightenment of Americans through their extraction from America — Steves has built his quirky travel empire. His guidebooks, which started as hand-typed and photocopied information packets for his scraggly s tour groups, now dominate the American market; their distinctive blue-and-yellow spines brighten the travel sections of bookstores everywhere.
Steves is less interested in reaching sophisticated travelers than he is in converting the uninitiated. Steves teaches his followers everything from how to pack a toiletries kit to how to make themselves at home in a small hotel room to how to appreciate a religious tradition they may have been raised to despise. In order to enjoy St.
He is simultaneously goofy and dead serious; he can ping, in an instant, from golly-gee Pollyanna cheerfulness to deep critiques of the modern world. I can testify, firsthand, to the power of Rick Steves. In , he spoke at my college. Nothing about the encounter seemed promising. Our campus was a tiny outpost in a tiny town, and Steves delivered his talk not in some grand lecture hall but in a drab room in the basement of the student union. I was poor, shy, anxious, sheltered, repressed and extremely pale.
I was a particular kind of Pacific Northwest white guy — blind to myself and my place in the world. I had never really traveled; I was more comfortable on Greyhound buses than on airplanes. Going to Europe seemed like something aristocrats did, like fox hunting or debutante balls. My girlfriend dragged me to the talk.
I had never even heard of Steves. But what he said over the next hour or so changed the rest of my life. He paces, gesticulates and speaks very fast. He tells his favorite old jokes as if they were eternally new. Onstage, he is a combination of preacher, comedian, salesman, life-hacker, professor and inspirational speaker. Steves told us, that day, how to pack our entire lives into a single bag measuring 9 by 22 by 14 inches.
The back door, by contrast, led to revelations. He showed us impossibly enticing photos: cobblestone piazzas teeming with fruit stalls, quirky wooden hotels among wildflowers in the Alps, vast arsenals of multicolored cheese. He made travel seem less like a luxury than a necessary exploration of the self, a civic responsibility, a basic courtesy to your fellow humans. It seemed almost unreasonable not to go.
Above all, Steves told us, do not be afraid. The people of the world are wonderful, and the planet we share is spectacular. But the only way to really understand that is to go and see it for yourself. So go. My girlfriend and I left the room converts to the gospel of Rick Steves. We bought his book and highlighted it to near-meaninglessness. We started mapping itineraries, squirreling away money, asking relatives for donations. In probably the worst phone call of my life, my rancher grandfather expressed shock and dismay that I would ask him to support this meaningless overseas lark.
Eventually, over many months, we scraped together just enough to buy plane tickets and order minimalist Steves-approved supplies, including a travel towel so thin and nonabsorbent that it seemed to just push the moisture around your skin until you forgot you were wet. We packed exactly as Steves taught us: T-shirts rolled into space-saving noodles, just enough clothes to get us from one hotel laundry session to the next.
Then, for the first time in our lives, we left North America. When I opened it recently, the reality of that long-ago trip hissed out with fresh urgency. My year-old self recorded everything. On our first day in Europe, we bought imported Austrian apples with fat, heavy English coins and saw a woman stumble on a staircase, breaking an entire bag of newly bought china.
We arrived at our first hostel, the Y. As we tried to make out the names of the dead, songbirds sang strenuously in the trees all around us. This juxtaposition — old death, new life — blew my jet-lagged American mind. Reality fills its gaps. That, more or less, was the theme of the trip. For six weeks, we followed the Steves game plan. We shared squalid bunks with other young travelers from Denmark, Australia, Canada and Japan.
In the stately public parks of Paris, we ate rotisserie chickens with our bare hands. One stifling afternoon at the Colosseum in Rome, we watched a worker slam his ladder against the edge of an arch and break off some ancient bricks. He looked over at us, looked down at the bricks, kicked dirt over them and kept working.
Once, I left my underwear on a Mediterranean beach overnight and, since I could not afford to lose a pair, had to go back and pick it up the next day, in full view of all the sunbathers. Wherever we went, Rick Steves was with us. We seemed to have entered the world of his slides: the fruit markets and overnight trains, the sunny French river under the ancient Roman aqueduct.
Sometimes our European hosts, with the quiet pride of someone who once met Elvis, told us stories about Steves. He was a gentleman, they said, a truly good man, and he always came in person to check out their hotels, and he never failed to ask them how their children were doing. By the end of our trip, we were completely broke. We flew home looking ragged, shaggy, weather-beaten and exhausted. But of course Steves was right: Our lives were never the same.
We were still young Americans, but we felt liberated and empowered, like true citizens of the world. The most important things we learned all had to do with home. As the English writer G. I began to realize how silly and narrow our notion of exceptionalism is — this impulse to consider ourselves somehow immune to the forces that shape the rest of the world. The environment I grew up in, with its malls and freeways, its fantasies of heroic individualism, began to seem unnatural.
I started to sense how much reality exists elsewhere in the world — not just in a theoretical sense, in books and movies, but with the full urgent weight of the real. And not just in Europe but on every other continent, all the time, forever. I began to realize how much I still had to learn before I could pretend to understand anything. Some people get there themselves, or their communities help them. But I needed him, and I am eternally glad I was dragged that day to see him talk.
Steves answered his front door slightly distracted. I had come in the middle of his breakfast preparations. He was stirring a block of frozen orange juice into a pitcher of water. This was April , exactly 20 years after my first trip to Europe. I had come to see Steves in the most exotic place possible: his home. He lives just north of Seattle, in a town so rainy it has a free umbrella-share program. There is nothing particularly exotic about the house itself. It has beige carpeting, professionally trimmed shrubs and a back deck with a hot tub.
What was exotic was simply that Steves was there. He had just returned from his frenetic speaking tour of the United States and would be leaving almost immediately on his annual trip to Europe. For now, he was making breakfast: frozen blueberries, Kashi cereal, O. But of course, he could not.
Steves is gone too much, yo-yoing between the misty forests of the Pacific Northwest and the sun-baked cathedrals of Europe. Every year, no matter what else is going on, Steves spends at least four months practicing the kind of travel he has preached for odd years: hauling his backpack up narrow staircases in cheap hotels, washing his clothes in sinks, improvising picnics. He is now 63, and he could afford to retire many times over. Among his colleagues, Steves is a notorious workaholic. On long car rides, he sits in the back seat and types op-eds on his laptop.
His relentless hands-on control of every aspect of his business is what has distinguished the Rick Steves brand. It is also, obviously, exhausting — if not for Steves, then at least for the people around him. He has two children, now grown, and for much of their childhoods, Steves was gone.
He was building his company, changing the world. For very long stretches, his wife was forced to be a single mother. She and Steves divorced in after 25 years of marriage. Every summer, when the family joined Steves in Europe, his pace hardly slackened: They would cover major cities in 48 hours, blitzing through huge museums back to back. The kids complained so much, on one trip, that Steves finally snapped — if they were so miserable, he said, they could just go sit in the hotel room all day and play video games. They remember this day as heaven. One year, while Steves was away, the children converted to Catholicism.
His son, Andy Steves, eventually went into the family business: He now works as a tour guide and even published a European guidebook. Steves is fully aware that his obsessive work ethic is unusual. He admits that he has regrets. But he cannot make himself stop. He has the fervor of the true evangelist: The more people he meets, the more cities he visits, the more lives he might change. At one point, as we talked, he pulled out the itinerary for his coming trip — from Sicily to Iceland, with no down time whatsoever. Just looking at it made him giddy. What would I do if I stayed home?
Not much. Nothing I would remember. In his house, Steves offered up a little show and tell. He pointed out an antique silver cigarette lighter shaped like the Space Needle. He sat down at his baby grand piano and lost himself, for a few happy minutes, playing Scarlatti. He took me to a room filled with books and reached up to a very high shelf. When Steves was 13, he decided, for no apparent reason, to conduct a deep statistical analysis of the Billboard pop charts. The lines were multicolored and interwoven — it looked like the subway map of some fantastical foreign city.
You could see, at a glance, the rising and falling fortunes of the Beatles red and Creedence Clearwater Revival black and Elvis Presley dots and dashes. Steves kept this up for three years, taping together many pieces of graph paper, and in the end he summarized the data in an authoritative-looking table that he typed on the family typewriter. This is what was in that binder: a systematic breakdown of the most successful bands from to , as determined by the objective statistics of an analytical adolescent weirdo. Steves laughed. It was ridiculous. But it was also a perfect window into his mind.
Even at 13, a powerful energy was coiled inside him — an unusual combination of obsession and precision, just waiting for some worthwhile project to burst out in. And that, coincidentally, was exactly when he found it: the project of his life. In the summer of , when Steves was 14, his parents took him to Europe. They owned a business tuning and importing pianos, and they wanted to see factories firsthand.
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Steves approached this first trip abroad with the same meticulous energy he brought to his Billboard graphs. As he traveled around the continent, he recorded the essential data of his journey on the backs of postcards: locations, activities, weather, expenses. One day, Steves spent 40 cents on fishing gear. Another, he met a year-old man who had witnessed the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand. To keep everything in order, Steves numbered the postcards sequentially. He still has them all packed lovingly into an old wooden box.
On that same formative trip, the Steves family visited relatives in Norway. They happened to be there in July , when Neil Armstrong walked on the moon. Europe was a crash course in cultural relativity. In a park in Oslo, he had an epiphany: The foreign humans around him, he realized, were leading existences every bit as rich and full as his own. That first trip set the course for everything that followed. When Steves was 18, he went back to Europe without his parents. Soon, life in America became a series of interludes between travel. He taught piano to earn money, then stretched that money as far as he possibly could, sleeping on church pews and park benches, in empty barns and construction zones, from Western Europe to Afghanistan.
He turned his cheapness into a science. Instead of paying for a hotel room in a city, Steves would use his Railpass and sleep on a train for the night — four hours out, four hours back. He would stuff himself on free breakfast bread, then try to eat as little as possible for the rest of the day. Naturally, he recorded all this, and today he has an impressive archive of old travel journals.
Their pages preserve, in tiny handwriting, shadowy young dissidents in Moscow, diarrhea in Bulgaria, revolution in Nicaragua. In his 20s, Steves brought his wide-roaming wisdom back to the United States. He started to supplement his piano teaching with travel seminars. His signature class, European Travel Cheap, ran for six hours. Steves could have talked longer than that, but it struck him as impractical for his students. In Europe, he rented a nine-seat minibus and started to lead small tours. Eventually, his seminars and tour notes morphed into his books. It had no ISBN and looked so amateurish that bookstores assumed it was an early review copy.
This was the birth of the Rick Steves empire. Rick Steves both is and is not his TV persona. Offscreen, he allows himself to be much more explicitly political. He has the passion of the autodidact. Growing up, Steves led a relatively sheltered existence: He was a white, comfortable, middle-class baby boomer in a white, comfortable, middle-class pocket of America. Travel did for him what he promises it will do for everyone else: It put him in contact with other realities.
He saw desperate poverty in Iran and became obsessed with economic injustice. He studied the war industry and colonial exploitation. In the early days, Steves injected political lessons into his European tours. Sometimes he would arrive in a city with no hotel reservations, just to make his privileged customers feel the anxiety of homelessness.
In Munich, he would set up camp in an infamous hippie circus tent, among all the countercultural wanderers of Europe. Today, Steves is more strategic. His most powerful tool, he realizes, is his broad appeal. He has an uncanny knack for making serious criticism feel gentle and friendly. But other nations have some pretty good ideas too.
Steves learned this strategy, he said, from his early days running tours, living with the same people for weeks at a time. Survival required being pleasant. Instead, he pointed out different perspectives with a smile. He became fluent in the needs of American tourists. I want to preach to organizations that need to hear this, so I need to compromise a little bit so the gatekeepers let it through to their world. This balancing act has become increasingly difficult over the past two decades, in a world of terrorism, war, nationalism and metastasizing partisanship. After the Sept. They canceled tours and cut back budgets.
Steves, however, remained defiantly optimistic. Dragons of Autumn Twilight 2. Dragons of Winter Night 3. Time of the Twins 2. War of the Twins 3. Dragons of Summer Flame 1. Dragons of a Fallen Sun 2. Dragons of a Lost Star 3. The Soulforge 2. The Doom Brigade 2. The Wrath of Ashar 2. The Usurper 3. The Way Beneath Series: Godwars. Forbidden Magic 2. Dark Magic 3. Wild Magic Series: Exile. Exile's Children 2. Exile's Challenge H. The Wizard Hunters 2. The Ships of Air 3. Into the Dark Lands 2. Children of the Blood 3. Lady of Mercy 4.
The Broken Crown 2. The Uncrowned King 3. The Shining Court 4. Sea of Sorrows 5. The Riven Shield 6. The Hidden City 2. City of Night 3. House Name 4. The Breaking of Northwall 2. The Ends of the Circle 3. The Dome in the Forest 4. The Fall of the Shell 5. An Ambush of Shadows 6.
Song of the Axe 7. Shadowmarch 2. Shadowplay 3. Shadowrise 4. Shadowheart Series: Otherland. City of Golden Shadow 2. River of Blue Fire 3. Mountain of Black Glass 4. The Dragonbone Chair 2. Stone of Farewell 3.gatsbyproperty.co.uk/fizun-tcnica-manual.php
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To Green Angel Tower, part 1 4. Seetee Ship 2. The Legion of Space 2. The Cometeers 3. One Against the Legion 4. Wilson 1. Lord of the Fading Lands 2. The author, Sidney L. Gulick, who must have been one of the very earliest members of Mothers Against Drunk Drivers ! Indeed, as is evidenced by the horrific visage on the cover of this brand new reprint, it is the despicable white race that bears watching.
This book is an essential addition to any contrarian's library. On the 8th of February, , Japan crossed swords with a European people. And from the destruction of the Variag on that day until the fall of Port Arthur on the 1st of January, , nothing but failure has been Russia's fate, nothing but success Japan's fortune. For the first time in history has an Asiatic people successfully faced a white foe. The Russo-Japanese war marks an era, therefore, in the history of the Far East, and of the world, for now begins a readjustment of the balance of power among the nations, a readjustment which promises o halt the territorial expansion of white races and to check their racial pride.
To appreciate the significance of this war as one act in the tragedy of the white peril we must understand Japan. How has she attained the power, material and temperamental, which is enabling her to face the white man and to conquer him? This question we study in our earlier chapters. In those that follow we study the significance of the war, and the problems of the Far East in their world-setting. We are not concerned with dates and battles, with armies and heroes. Rather shall we consider movements and tendencies, national ambitions and international relations. Emphasis is laid on the peril to the Far East of the white man's ambitions and methods.
Justice to white races, however, demands recognition also of the blessings they confer upon those lands. In a real sense the white peril is becoming the white blessing of the Orient. Yet the aim of the present work in these pages precludes adequate emphasis of this point. Certain graceful writers, masters of imaginative style, have described Japan as ideal in every direction, a view widely popularized to-day by Japan's brilliant military record. But of course no thoughtful man will be misled, for national as well as individual perfection is impossible.
Highly admiring Japan as I do, absence of criticism in the following pages does not signify acceptance of the popular unbalanced admiration. Gulick was not the only writer to view the outcome of the Russo-Japanese War as a watershed of race relations in Asia and even the world at large. Though Gulick had dedicated his life to the spread of Christianity, he appears to have acknowledged, to some extent, "the failure of Christianity to conquer the evils of Christendom" page Gulick seems to have realized that, whatever "blessings" western civilization might confer on some non-western societies, it could not fulfill its humanitarian promise so long as it was mediated by Christians who saw nothing wrong with white supremicism.
In my words, rather his, the Church was incapable of abluting its own sins because, institutionally, it had swallowed the apple of racist imperial ambition, worms and all. The Great War of also suggested that something was lacking in western civilization. In Der Untergang des Abendlandes [The twilight of the eveninglands], translated as The Decline of the West , the German philosopher-historian Oswald Spengler espoused a cyclical theory of the rise and decline of civilizations and argued that Europe may have reached its peak.
Spengler began the two-volume work, first published in and revised in , before the war, so its scope goes far beyond Germany's defeat. Most observers of Japan, though, did not share Gulick's optimism that Japan was no threat to others. Koreans at the time had good reason to think of Japan as a peril, since both the Sino-Japanese War of and the Russo-Japanese War of had begun in Korea. And Japan annexed the Korea in By the early s, the "Japanese peril" had spread in earnest to the Chinese continent, already having reached Taiwan in And the rest is history.
Well, not quite. So, too, is the "Pacific War" of That Japan's military actions in Asia during the s and s were partly based on intentions to liberate Asia and the Pacific of Euro-American colonialism cannot be denited. The operational word is "partly". Partly, not entirely, since Japan clearly had its own imperialist designs on the region. But "partly" is enough to require that the "white peril" in Asia be taken into account in any revision of regional history. Gulick, D. The "D. In Chapter IX -- Criticisms Criticized -- Gulick presents one of the most cogent, for its time, arguments for ending racism in US immigration and naturalization laws pages Let it be clearly understood, then, that the proposals of this volume have nothing to do with free Asiatic immigration.
What we do urge will all possible emphasis is that those whom we do admit, and sho are to stay here permanently, whatever their race may be, should be urged and helped to learn our language and our ways and to enter thus into wholesome relations with our government and our people. American-born children are citizens, whatever their race. The withholding of citizenship from Asiatic parents will not have the slightest effect upon the chance that their American-born boys and girls may intermarry with girls and boys of long American ancestry, if they are mutually attractive.
Gulick, to be sure, is a racialist, since he believes race exists, and finds no problem in labeling individuals and populations racially according to their putative "race". Nor is he advocating interracial marriage. He is simply not against such marriages if individuals of different races happen to be attracted to each other. What is important is that Gulick advocated raceless citizenship at a time when such an idea was unpopular in the land of the free and the home of the brace.
He had been criticized for his advocacy of raceless citizenship, and even snubbed during an appearance before the Senate Committee on Immigration in -- hence the title of this chapter. Gulick is one of the few writers of his time to understand Kipling. On the second page of Chapter IX he takes to task those who misquote Kipling to defend their racism. The ultimate consequences are pictured in lurid colors. Asiatics, they insist, could not possibly take real part in maintaining a democracy, for they believe in despotism, not only in the government, but also in the family; democratic principles are intrinsically unacceptable tot hem and even unintelligible.
Those who present these assertions commonly claim that an unbridgeable chasm separates the Caucasian from the Asiatic mind. They glibly quote the lines from Kipling:. The alleged unbridgeable chasm between the East and the West is in fact non-existent. The minds and hearts of men are essentially the same, whatever the race. In spite of all their admitted differences, the East and the West have far more in common than appears to the casual traveller and the superficial student. Those who quote Kipling are hardly fair to him when they stop with the lines that correspond to their a prior opinions and fail to quote the lines that controvert them.
Immediately following the four lines quoted above, Kipling adds:. Sidney Lewis Gulick was born in the Marshall Islands to missionary parents. His father was born in the Sandwich Islands Hawaii to missionary parents. Sidney's paternal grandparents died in Kobe, Japan, where they had gone live with another of their sons, a younger brother of Sidney's father.
Sidney Gulick was himself ordained in the Congregational Church in For twenty-five years between and , he served in with the American Board of Commissioners for Foreign Missions. During his last seven years he was a professor of theology at a university in Kyoto and a lecturer at another. Back in the United States, Gulick campaigned against anti-Asian legislation in California and elsewhere in the country.
His efforts failed to halt the Immigration Act of , which all but closed the door to Asian immigration and continued to deny Asian immigrants access to US citizenship. Gulick threw himself into the formation and running of the Committee on World Friendship Among Children. He originated its doll exchange program, under which American children sent dolls to children in Japan. Beginning in , thousands of "Friendship Dolls" were sent to schools in Japan during the Hinamatsuri doll festival each spring.
Though many of the dolls did not have blue eyes, they came to known in Japan, and are mostly known today, as Aoime no ningyo in Japanese or American Blue-eyed dolls in English. In racialist contexts, "aoime" [blue-eyed] is the Japanese equivalent of "slant" or "sland-eyed" in English. It reflexively substitutes for "foreigner" or "westener" or "American" -- and for other terms that also signify "white" in racialist parlance. During the war, many of the dolls were destroyed because of their association with the American enemy.
Today they are proudly displayed in schools that have managed to save them, and there are numerous websites devoted to dolls, which have also come to be prized by collectors. Gulick himself was suspected of being a spy for Japan. According to a grandson, he wrote, regarding his efforts to improve US-Japan relations by revising US immigration laws -- in America, "I am as truly a missionary working for Japan as if I were in Japan.
Its mission, according to its website at www. The publication under review commemorates the Archivist of the "Yellow Peril" exibit held at the institute from 3 February to 31 July The artifacts in the visual part of the essay are from the collection. The running text was written by Dylan Yeats, who the colophon lists as the editor. The book shows only part of the blow-up doll. The on-line exhibition shows all her charms. Tchen, a cultural historians, "can affirm this is an important item to collect" -- but wonders if he would have gone into a sex shop and bought one himsel. Someone has to wonder what such sex toys mean -- "How do the allures and fears of sexuality and race interlink?
One problem everyone faces is what to keep and what to toss. Every person who gathers anything for whatever reason, or who inherits anything, has to do a triage. Somethings are saved. Other things are thrown, dumped, burned, or buried. On a personal level, tossing all my accumulated stuff is not a big deal. But on a societal level, collecting and tossing, remembering and forgetting is of monumental importance.
Prevailing norms govern. Taboos kick in. Does "We the People" mean "Meat vs. Rice" as labor's founding father and immigrant Samuel Gompers believed? This pamphlet Yellow Peril: Collecting Xenophobia is a sharp reminder of what's been tossed out and forgotten. Hopefully, Yellow Peril and all the other imagined racial terrors can be left behind as a curious historical artifact. Time will tell. But, I for one, am not going to bet on it. Now, more than ever, understanding the ignored past can help us avoid the same dangerous mistakes today. In his foreword, Tchen pursues the "imperative of collecting" theme in terms of the "categories" that librarians and other archivists have placed materials -- "Yellow Peril" -- "Orient".
Eventually, categories such as "Japanese in the U. Tchen does not say why, for example, "Japanese American" is better than "Japanese in the U. He probably assumes that most of his readers will understand that -- in the minds of not a few people -- "Japanese in the U. Tchen does not appear to understand that such racialism -- such conflation of nationality with putative race -- is a problem everywhere. The problem with Tchen's own reductionism -- his conflation of "Japanese in the U.
For this would be the legal sense of the term -- reflecting usage in both US and Japanese government statistics which report the number of Japanese nationals who in the United States. One is not entirely sure -- from Tchen's usage of "Japanese Americans" -- what he means by "Japanese" and "Americans". Presumably "Americans" is a nationality. Presumably "Japanese" is a national ancestry.
If so, then "Japanese American" would have to include all people who are Americans by nationality and who, in their personal histories, have some family or other connection with Japan or Japanese nationality -- regardless of their racial ancestry -- since, under Japanese law, Japanese nationality is a raceless civil status. One gets the impression, though, that Tchen is merely swapping one racialist label for another. His inclusion of "Japanaese in the U. In , Japanese Americans were assumed to be security threats and imprisoned in concentration camps on U.
The rhetoric -- "imprisoned" and "concentration camps" -- though not without foundation -- is not entirely accurate. Historical understanding is not achieved merely by replacing government and other euphemisms with what I would call "critically correct" terminology. The main problem in the above citation, though, is the characterization of the "prisoners" as " American citizens. It is simply not true. In the April census, there were roughly , people in the United States of Japanese ancestry.
Of these, about 47, had been born in Japan, and practically all of the Japan-born were Japanese nationals. Of the roughly , people of Japanese ancestry who were living on the West Coast, about 70, were Americans and the rest were Japanese. Elsewhere in the United States -- unrelated to West Coast exclusions -- Japanese officials and other a number of other Japanese were taken into custody as enemy aliens.
In some cases, Americans including Americans of Japanese ancestry accompanied their enemy alien spouse or parents into detention. Most of these detainees were repatriated to Japan within a year or two of their detention through civilian exchange agreements between the United States and Japan. Various local Civilian Exclusion Orders provided that "all persons of Japanese ancestry, both alien and non-alien" be "evacuated" from the West Coast military zone.
In this implicity racial definition of "Japanese", the term "aliens" -- because there were no grounds to include "non-aliens" except as a racist metalegal afterthought. The "exclusions" and "evacuations" were based on Executive Order No. The order cited, as its authority, the same , , and acts cited in Executive Order No. The number of people who were excluded from the West Coast, by internment in one of the several "relocation centers" or camps established for "persons of Japanese ancestry", is commonly pegged at , Apart from the accuracy of this figure, about one-third of the internees were in fact "Japanese in the U.
The Japanese internees included mostly settled immigrants. Very few of this "first generation" chose to be "repatriated". Some of the "second generation" were dual nationals, and some of these dual nationals had been partly educated in Japan. I, too, am a collector who both piles and files. And this website is dedicated to the task of publicizing parts of my own and other collections of "Steamy East" fiction and related materials. My collection embraces all manner of perils -- yellow peril, white peril, red peril, Japan peril, Jewish peril, Christian peril.
And like many other such collections, mine is in peril of someday being tossed to the lowest bidding waste disposer simply because institutions that might, in the past, have welcomed it are now too pressed for space or funds, or already have their own ample collections. But I don't just collect. I read. And my impressions of some of the stories I have read are often different from what other reviewers have claimed. The book's image of the cover of the Diversey edition of the novel shown to the right in a scan of my copy bears the following caption page 9. Though Gloria Leadler "could have had a dozen men at her feet for the asking, it was a solitary Oriental that made her heart beat fast.
She poses as an innocent victim to manipulate rival gang members into killing each other. After a private investigator confronts Leadler about the truth, she breaks down in tears about the debased and dangerous consequences of falling in love with a man like Chang.
Neither the book nor the exhibit claim that their purpose is to give an exhaustive history of exhibited items. Nor do they claim to faithfully represent the items as artifacts of popular culture generally. The entire object of the "Yellow Peril" project is to press the items into the service of "bringing theory into practice".
Formulating theory, and putting it into practice, is apparently the work of scholars, artists, and others who are concerned about the lingering effects of racial and other stereotypes which -- like the "yellow peril" -- may have reached their peak but have not yet vanished. I have no complaints about the "ideology" behind the scholarly activism.
It is not hidden. It is plain. One is free to embrace it or ignore it. I choose to do neither. My grievances are with some of the captions and commentary. Most people, unable to directly examine the exhibited artifacts, are at the mercy of the "tell" part of the "show". They can see only the cover of a book, and they can read only what the "Yellow Peril" activists want them to know or think about it.
The novel was first published in as Twelve Chinks and a Woman. In the s it was published as The Doll's Bad News. Come to think of it, "Chink" is conspciusouly missing from both the on-line exhibit and the book.
The Riven Shield
But I can imagine project editors drawing a line between what they are willing to illuminate in print and on-line, and what they feel should stay in the shadows of their archives. The woman -- whose name is Glorie, not Gloria -- does break down. But her tears are in response to a realization of the consequences of her own character defects -- which the private detective has pointed out to her, ruthlessly and without mercy.
In his eyes, she deserves to continue to suffer the fate that awaits her. Her tears arguably reflect the full extent of her realization of what she has lost in losing Chang -- a man she loved, and who she knows loved her. From the very start of the story, it is clear that the detective is non-plussed that someone might like "Chinamen" since some people did. The detective does not appear to dislike Chinamen, even though he calls the one he finds dead in his office page 8 a "Chink" page If anything, he is sympathetic toward the man, who turns out to be Chang -- who, in the end, he views to have been a victim of the woman's debasement.
All in all, the "Yellow Peril" exhibit and book are par for the course, in that they constitute a better show than tell about the issues they presume to address. The exhibited items are genuine, but the stories told about them are sometimes misleading. The term "yellow peril" is practically dead outside the United States, where it is kept alive mostly by vestiges of the sort of social activism that spread during the civil rights movements between the s and s.
No doubt the "yellow peril" that began to blemish the faces of various countries in the late 19th century -- most conspicuously in the United States -- had become, by the early decades of the 20th century, an outbreak of ugly pimples. But the pimples -- political, legal, and social -- began to pop during the s and s, and by the s they were beginning to dry out. To be sure there are still some "yellow peril" scars, and even a few open lesions, in some sectors of American mass media and popular culture. Now and then, somewhere, a die-hard racialist stereotype will fester from a discoloration to a bump.
The odds, though, are that a proactive interest group will spot the zit and zap it before it errupts. Some teenzines advise that zits have to be treated with great care so as not to cause unwanted scarring. Were the British writer James Hadley Chase alive today -- and were he still inclined to write a novel of the kind he wrote seventy years ago -- I would like to think that he would be free do so so. Chase's novel is not, in any event, a truely "yellow peril" story. The expression begins to lose its meaning, even as a metaphor, when scholars and critics apply it to a work that is not about racial invasion or racial dominance -- no matter what other faults it may be said to have within the conventions of its time, place, and genre.
The penultimate chapter is obviously where this Man of God is coming from. Revell, whose mission it was to spread Christianity. Gilbert concludes that Japan's mission was otherwise page Japan is waging, primarily, not a war of conquest but a religious war. Her aim is to destroy Christianity -- first in China, and then throughout the entire world. To accomplish this objective she must unify the yellow peoples of Asia, not only by means of her military program, but under the inspiration of her religious superstition.
It still specializes in Bibles and evangelical Christian tracts, and claims to be "the leading Christian communications company in the world". Today, though, its publications are mostly concerned with teen sex and whether the United States can be a Christian nation. Australians, particularly when travelling abroad, try desperatelyi to cultivate the idea that they are a tolerant, racially unprejudiced people.
They have worked so hard at buildling up this image that most of them now believe it to be true, but in reality the average Australian is as xenophobic and racially prejudiced as the next man. That this is not immediately apparent to the brief visitor to these shores is only because colour problems do not exist in Australia on the massive scale they assume in some other parts of the world. Wherever colour does intrude on the consciousness of the average Australian, the reaction is immediate -- and ugly. Racism in all forms will be eradicated only if it is dragged from its cesspit into the open and its exponents forced over and over again to justify in the cold light of day their prejudices and fears.
The cold blasts of sunlight, and the logic of commonsense may eventually drive the evil from the planet earth, but that day is a long time in the future. This book is one of the most interesting publications to appear in , immediately after the suppression of the Boxer Rebellion, which some Euroamericans saw as evidence of what Kaiser Wilhelm II, following the Sino-Japanese War of , had called "gelbe Gefahr" or "Yellow Peril".
The book is particularly interesting because, though "The Yellow Peril" appears on the title page of the edition under review -- and though one chapter describes the "Two Months of Peril" faced by the foreign legations that were besieged by Boxers in -- its author did not, in fact, endorse a "yellow peril" thesis but, quite the opposite, he publicized the view of a prominent Chinese statesmen who advocated that China needed to defend itself against what amounted to a European peril and a Japanese peril.
Yet another edition is supposed to have a navy blue cover. Los Angeles , Earle Company Ltd. John , and Haskell Norwich. Miller introduces China historically and describes Chinese society as he observed it at the end of the 19th century. But the last 9 of his 28 chapters deal entirely with the Boxer disturbances that unfolded after the Sino-Japanese War of , broke out in open violence in , came to a head with the intervention of foreign military forces while Miller was in China, and was settled by the Boxer Protocol of , a year after Miller's book was published.
What Miller called the Boxer "uprising" or "outbreak" is now most often dubbed a "rebellion". An incredible amount of ink has been spilled in Chinese, Japanese, English, and other languages over the events surrounding August , when foreign troops invaded, occupied, and looted Beijing -- an incident which nationalists and communists alike look back on as the most humiliating in China's recent history.
The Boxers disliked the unequal treaties the Qing court had been forced to sign with foreign powers over the years, including most recently Japan after the Sino-Japanese War of The killing of two missionaries in Shandong province in gave Germany the excuse to occupy the port of Qingdao in eastern Shandong Shantung in November.
The next month Russia occupied Lushunkou Port Arthur on the Liaodong Liao-tung peninsula in Liaoning province in northeast China and forced China to lease it the peninsula. Britain then snatched the seaport of Weihai Weihai Garrison to the east of Qingdao Tsingtao , and in France occupied the fishing port of Zhanjiang Fort Bayard in Guangdong province in southeast China. The Boxers -- as the "Yihetuan" or "Righteous and Harmonious Fists" were dubbed in English -- were inspired by beliefs in their religious invincibility, and by nativist resentment of foreign influence in China, to purge the country of foreigners, above all missionaries.
The group originally directed its discontent against the Qing court, of Manchu origin. But it was then coopted by the Empress Dowager Cixi, who also wanted to rid China of its foreign occupiers. The missions of Belgium, France, Japan, the Netherlands, Russia, Spain, the United Kingdom, and the United States were close enough together in Beijing that they were able to link their defenses and provide a refuge for foreigners in the city.
But the German legation, in another part of the city, was over run, and the German envoy was taken captive and killed. A number of navel and other military actions took place in June and July, but things came to head, and the Boxers were finally defeated, in August. The alliance was able to pool about 50 warships, 5, marines, and 50, soldiers. Japan contributed 18 warships and over 20, troops, nearly twice as many as either Russia or Great Britain. Some anti-Boxer Chinese soldiers also joined the action. Tianjin was captured on 14 July, and it was from there that the alliance mounted its 4 August attack on Beijing.
This is the subject "On the Peking" Chapter 22 in Miller's book. As Miller describes the action, the Japanese troops are well organized, out in front, not afraid to take the initiative, and admired for their bravery in battle. One is that Japan attempted to gain control of the Imperial Palace and protect it against destruction before contingents of other nations could attack and presumably destroy it. Miller cites an unnamed "writer from the scene of conflict" page They were trying to protect the Purple city and establish communication with some one there who might be made to represent the Chinese government, so as to open the way for beginning negotiations for the settlement.
Now they were sending a battalion of infantry to each of the main gates of the Imperial city to guard them and, if possible, prevent any violation of the palace. However, the regiments of the other nations began mounting attacks against one gate or another. Eventually it became a free for all, and the looting began anew page , bold emphasis added.
The looking is going on more easily and evenly than it did in Tientsin. Here there are not so many Chinese lying around watching for their chance. They are fewer and vastly more timid. In their own quarter the Americans are supposed to stop looting entirely and the report is that there are orders to shoot. The British are going at the thing quietly and systematically, sending out their pack trains with a party in charge of each under command of an officer.
All the loot goes into the big pile in the legation compound and will be put up at auction. Then, when it is all sold, Tommy will get his share of the prize money. It is a very comfortable and easy way and not liable to heart burnings like ours. They gather up what they like, and as far as they can they take it from the quarter of the city in which they happen to be.
Here more kinds of look came out than in Tientsin. The furs were much better. So with some of the silk, but there are bits of green stuff they call jade, and one hears of old plates and priceless vases and that sort of thing. And for sycee [coins], if the soldiers had a way to dispose of it, probably every one of them would be paid to his satisfaction for coming to Peking. Only the Japanese stand aloof, see it all, but take no part in it, and say it is all wrong.
He gives an account of how the chancellor of the Japanese legation, "while riding a jinricksha outside the Yung Tung gate of the southern city, was assaulted and killed and his body was never recovered. An imperial [Chinese] edict denounced the murderers, but its authors failed to perceive that this act was part of the harvest reaped from the dragon's teeth sown so freely by the Empress Dowager and her advisers" page In "Stories of Personal Experience" Chapter 25 , and especially in "Chronicles of Horror" Chapter 26 , Miller relates reports of butchery committed by Boxers, in order to convince the reader that foreigners and Chinese in the besieged legations had good reason to fear that they would be massacred should they be overrun.
He does not himself provide numbers of casualties, but other sources suggest that, by the time the fighting ended on 14 August , the Boxers had killed roughly 20, people, including about missionaries and hundreds of Chinese Christians, and thousands of insurgents, supporters, and bystanders. Miller's "Chronicles of Horror" runs 23 pages. The last 8 or 9 are devoted to stories of allied army atrocities, and begins like this page Not all of the atrocities, however, were committed by the Chinese. The spirit of revenge seized upon the soldiers of the allied armies, and the Russians, French and Germans particularly displayed a cruelty even less excusable than that of the Chines, if the obligations of enlightenment be considered.
Citing accounts by people who were there, Miller reports atrocities committed by Russian police and Cossacks against Chinese civilians in settlements along China's northeast border with Russia, and atrocities committed by French soldiers in the course of looting the city of Tongzhou Tungchau a few miles east of Beijing. Regarding the latter, Miller cites the account of an American physician who had practiced in Beijing for many years and remarked that he "was one of the besieged in Peking and for sixty days expected nothing but death and torture at the hands of the Chinese" page He therefore dispatched Major Meur and an interpreter to Tungchau to inquire into the occurrences.
Before leaving Peking the belief as that Russians and Japanese were the principal offenders, but the investigation proved the Japanese to be entirely innocent, the Russians scarcely implicated at all, but the French to be the worst offenders. An appalling story is told in two letters sent from Peking by members of the expeditionary corps" page