Hindsight, of course, is proverbially infallible. But I had to smile when, in February 1977 Road & Track put the mid engined Aerovette on the cover, stating unequivocally both there and in the copy of the relevant article, that the mid-engine Corvette, so long a design study would absolutely be coming out this time.
We now know, of course, that the mid-engine corvette was not the 1980 fourth generation car but the 2019 C8 (eighth generation for those who are keeping track at home), so R&T was right to predict it… and they only missed by 39 years.
As a science fiction writer, I really feel for anyone who tries to predict the future, but at least I’m doing fiction, and I invent or extrapolate my scenarios. These guys are supposed to be journalists who transmit information from auto industry sources to an avid, enthusiastic public.
And with the mid-engine Corvette, an excess of enthusiasm might actually have been a significant part of the issue. Not so much on the part of the readers but of the journalists themselves. The men who wrote for Road & Track in 1977 were car guys who really, really wanted the mid-engine Corvette to happen. Many of them died of old age before it did.
The rest of the magazine was also interesting seen through modern eyes for an unusual reason: it linked to a couple of recent-ish movies. Rush was represented by the fact that the final GP of James Hunt’s championship season is reported here. And then we have a Ford v. Ferrari link in the fact that Ken Miles’ R1 MG Special is the Salon feature (in Road & Track parlance, a Salon is an article about a significant historical automobile). Nostalgia for auto racing in its romantic age (already close to dying in 1977) means that these old magazines are fun because you can compare the reality with the Hollywood versions (in this sense, Rush is much more realistic than Ford v. Ferrari).
A good, if perhaps not great issue.
Gustavo Bondoni is a novelist and short story writer whose attempts at predicting the future are on display in many places, most notably in his novel Outside, which showcases not one but two very different futures for the human race. You can check it out here.
I’ve said it before, so I won’t belabor the point, but I wish Peter F. Hamilton edited about 25% out of his books. They are too long and the narrative structure, which jumps around from one focus of the action to another very often, doesn’t help. If he was a talentless hack just filling in pages, or if his stories were bad, that wouldn’t be so frustrating.
But he isn’t. His Commonwealth saga is a truly interesting story with well-developed characters that takes place within a wonderful setting. I’m a sucker for mid- to far-future stories with human colonization of the galaxy, and this one definitely qualifies.
The story itself is about an interstellar war in which there is one clear antagonist and a bunch of nonhuman races (both human-generated and fully alien) whose loyalties aren’t quite clear at the outset. Intertwined with the galaxy-spanning conflict, we also get a police investigation novel intertwined… and in the end, the cops become almost more important than the people driving the starships against the enemy alien.
In fact, my one criticism of the saga is that it becomes clear rather early in the book that the war will go humanity’s way, and the final enemy standing is more of a question of justice than of survival. When a book is a thousand pages long, knowing that the good guys are too powerful to lose anything but their morality by page 500 is a little too much.
But even with that criticism (which in any other book would have been the death knell), the novel is worth finishing. You want to know how the character arcs play out despite the plot losing a certain amount of attraction, and you want to spend more time in that coalition of planets linked together by wormholes through which trains tie the planets together (yes, an interplanetary civilization based on trains. How cool is that).
If you’re patient, this is well worth reading. If not, you may be better off reading The Lost Fleet, which has a lot of the elements that make the Commonwealth fun but with a laser focus on action and character.
Gustavo Bondoni is a novelist and short story writer who has explored the question of humanity making a last stand against the forces of an uncaring galaxy in Seige, a well-received novel that looks not only at the limits of humanity’s physical powers, but also at the definition of humanity itself. You can check it out here.
As we mentioned on Monday, guest columnist Richard H. Fay will be writing all three of this week’s posts, as he continues to give us his very well-researched take on the odd and the occult. You can read his blog here, and we also recommend checking out his Zazzle Store. Additionally, the artwork referring to the creatures discussed in this article can be found here.
A legendary monster that bore many names (Manticore, Manticora, Mantichora, Manticory, Manticoras, Martikhora, Mantiserra, Memecoleous, Mancomorion, and the Satyral), the fearsome Manticore featured in the lore, bestiaries, and creative works of various lands and cultures, from ancient Asia to medieval Europe, and beyond. However, the Manticore legend first took root in ancient Greece and Persia. A garbled account of man-eating Bengal tigers of India may have been the seed that sprouted all subsequent tales of this strange and ferocious hybrid creature. Despite its dubious origins, the legend of the Manticore persisted and developed over the centuries.
Ctesias, Greek physician to the Persian King Artaxerxes II Mnemon (reigned 404 to 358 BCE), penned what seems to be the first written account of the Manticore. Even though Ctesias never visited India, he wrote that a lion-sized man-faced monstrosity prowled the sub-continent. As preserved in later works by the Roman writer Aelian (c. 170 – c. 235 CE) and the Byzantine scholar Photius (c. 815-897 CE), Ctesias described what he called the Martikhora (derived from the Persian mardkhor, meaning “man-slayer” or “man-eater”) as possessing pale blue eyes, three rows of sharp teeth, savage claws, a cinnabar-coloured pelt, a scorpion’s tail, additional stings on the crown of its head and each side of its tail, and a voice that sounded like a trumpet. Ctesias also claimed that the creature could, to defend itself, shoot regenerating foot-long stingers both forward and backward a considerable distance. One animal alone could withstand those poisoned quills; the thick-skinned elephant had little to fear from the Manticore’s otherwise deadly sting. To hunt such a formidable beast, Indian natives rode upon elephants and attacked their prey with spears or arrows.
It seems likely that the man-eating Martikhora of Ctesias was based upon tales of the Bengal tiger (Panthera tigris tigris). The Romanised Greek Pausanias (c. 110 – c. 180 CE) believed this to be the case, and wrote about his thoughts on the matter in the ninth book of his ten-volume travelogue entitled Description of Greece. In his section on fabulous animals, he suggested that the red-hued pelt described by Ctesias could be explained by a tiger appearing to be a homogeneous red in colour when observed running in full sunlight. Pausanias also put forward the opinion that the more fanciful traits recorded by Ctesias, such as the lethal stingers and three rows of teeth, arose from natives exaggerating the deadly characteristics of a man-eating beast they dreaded. According to what Irish naturalist Valentine Ball wrote in his 1883 paper “Identification of the Pygmies, the Martikhora, the Griffin, and the Dikarion of Ktesias”, these two traits dismissed by Pausanias as false may have had a basis in fact. Ball argued that the Manticore’s three rows of teeth might have been derived from the tiger’s trilobate molars, while the tail-borne stingers might have been a distorted account of a horny dermal structure he asserted exists at the extremity of a tiger’s tail.
Regardless of the reality behind Ctesias’ account, other ancient writers helped propagate the legend of the Manticore. With the sceptical qualifier of “if we are to believe Ctesias”, Aristotle described the Martichora of India in his History of Animals of 350 BCE. He included most of the characteristics already mentioned and also said that the beast’s call sounded like a combination of pan-pipes and a trumpet. The Roman author and naturalist Pliny the Elder, in his Naturalis Historia of c. 77 CE, displayed little scepticism over the creature’s actual existence when he echoed Ctesias and Aristotle, although he placed the creature in Ethiopia. He added that the triple-rowed teeth fit into each other like a comb. He also claimed to have been informed that the man-faced monster could mimic human speech.
Inspired by the writings of ancient Greek and Roman naturalists, the compilers of medieval bestiaries included the Manticore among their compendia of beasts, both ordinary and fantastic.
The exact appearance of the creature varied from work-to-work, although all variations displayed a feline-body with a human face. One 12th century bestiary featured a Manticore wearing a Phyrgian cap. An English bestiary of the early 13th century portrayed its Manticore as possessing a particularly savage countenance and prominent stingers all along its tail. Another mid-late 13th century English bestiary depicted the Manticore with a visage that was merely a rough approximation of a human face. Yet another 13th century bestiary, this one from northern France, portrayed the beast as having a distinctively human head, but no stinging tail. This particular depiction also deviated from the standard reddish coat colour, in this instance (assuming the colour hadn’t faded or altered drastically over time) the illuminator had instead opted for a greyish hue.
Besides its frequent presence in bestiaries, the Manticore also made appearances in medieval sculpture and even, on rare occasions, medieval and Tudor heraldry. The Manticore carvings found in some medieval churches stood as symbols of the weeping prophet Jeremiah. The late medieval Lord Hastings adopted a tusked Manticore (or mantyger) as his heraldic badge. The Tudor-era Lord Fitzwalter had, for his badge, a purple-hued Manticore. At times, the head of the heraldic Manticore would be adorned with spiral horns.
Over time, the Manticore became associated with other fabulous creatures and served as inspiration for other legendary monsters. In the later Middle Ages and Renaissance, the heraldic Manticore helped shape the imagery of the female-faced chimaeric creature that stood as a symbol of the sin of fraud in “grotteschi” (grotesque decorative elements) and some Mannerist paintings. Edward Topsell, in his 1607 work The Historie of Foure-Footed Beastes, copied the description of a Manticore as given by Ctesias, but then equated the man-faced beast with the badger-headed cloven-hoofed Leucrocota and the hyena. In Spanish lore, the Manticore transformed into a kind of werewolf that kidnapped and preyed upon children. Tales of the Manticore told by sixteenth century missionaries to the New World may have formed the basis for the Cigouave, a human-faced feline-bodied beast, of Haitian Vodou tradition.
As the ages progressed, the Manticore of art and popular culture gained additional attributes. Along with the spiral horns added by heraldic artists, others tacked on scales, udders or dragon’s wings. A scaly Manticore sporting horns, udders, and wings featured in a 17th century bestiary. In modern times, a bat-winged Manticore has numbered among the monsters that adventuring characters may encounter in the fantasy realms of a certain well-known role-playing game. The Manticore in Gustave Flaubert’s 1874 work The Temptation of St. Anthony spoke of possessing screw-like claws and the ability to spew plague.
Interestingly enough, although it seems likely that distorted tales of man-eating tigers served as the basis for the man-faced scorpion-tailed stinger-flinging Manticore of ancient natural histories and medieval bestiaries, the legend lives on. In Indonesia, some villagers today tell tales of a man-eating Manticore that prowls the jungle and kills its human prey with a single bite or scratch. It just goes to show that the Manticore has endured, in human imagination if not necessarily in reality.
As we mentioned on Monday, guest columnist Richard H. Fay will be writing all three of this week’s posts, as he continues to give us his very well-researched take on the odd and the occult. You can read his blog here, and we also recommend checking out his Zazzle Store. Additionally, the artwork referring to the creatures discussed in this article can be found here.
Featured in the lore of many human cultures, merfolk were said to be people of the sea, although some resided in freshwater. In their most usual form, these beings appeared humanoid from the waist up and pisciform from the waist down. However, some chronicles and tales presented variations from this standard. At times hostile, at other times helpful, merfolk interacted with land-dwellers in various ways. Certain stories even spoke of marriages between merfolk and mortals, unions that could produce lines of human descendants. With potential links to ancient gods, goddesses, and monsters, merfolk have been a fixture of human legends for ages, but some accounts suggest that they are more than mere creatures of legend. Surprisingly enough, various historical records describe actual encounters with these aquatic entities, According to some reports, such encounters have even persisted to the present day.
The origins of merfolk lore might be as murky and difficult to plumb as the ocean depths themselves, but possible precursors to the merfolk of later chronicles and tales may be found in ancient myths and legends. Oannes, god of wisdom who granted the ancient Babylonians the gift of culture, appeared as a human-fish hybrid (Sykes & Kendall, 1993). The Philistine god Dagon and the Syrian goddess Atargatis were also depicted as prototypical merfolk (Matthews & Matthews, 2005). Mythographer Robert Graves traced a connection between mermaids and sea-born goddesses Aphrodite and Marian (Matthews & Matthews, 2005). The Greek scholars Nicholas Polites and Stilpon Kyriakides argued that the mermaid of modern Greek lore, the gorgona, shares features with the siren of Classical Greek myth (Simpson, 1987). Notwithstanding the fact that medieval authors did conflate the sailor-luring siren of ancient lore with the northern mermaid, Classical depictions portrayed the siren not as half-woman, half-fish, but as a monster that possessed a woman’s head and torso atop a bird’s body (Rose, 2000).
Although the true nature of alleged links between ancient gods and merfolk of later times may be doubtful, there is no doubt that such beings feature in folklore and legends around the world, from Ireland to New Ireland, New Guinea. The usually peaceful Irish merfolk known as merrows wore magical red caps that allowed them to shape-shift and travel back-and-forth between their undersea realm and dry land (Rose, 1996). The Manx mermaid ben varrey exhibited two conflicting natures, one a benevolent finder of treasure, the other a malevolent enchanter of men (Matthews & Matthews, 2005). The handsome Danish merman havmand treated those mortals he encountered with kindliness, while his female counterpart havfrue could be either helpful or harmful (Rose, 1996). Like the sirens of ancient myth, the alluring Swedish mermaids called sjörå entranced boatmen at sea and destroyed both mortals and their vessels (Marriott, 2006). The cannibalistic mermaids of Portuguese tales went one step further and devoured those lured into their watery abode (Marriott, 2006). The far more benevolent ningyo of Japanese lore brought peace and dispelled bad luck (Matthews & Matthews, 2005). Clad in cowrie-shell jewelry, the bonito maidens of the Solomon Islands acted as caretakers of both bonito fish and lost ivory fishing hooks (Rose, 1996). The singing ri of New Ireland tradition resided among the mangroves and along the strand (Rose, 2000). On the east coast of Canada, the halfway people of Micmac legends alerted courteous fishermen of impending storms (Rose, 2000).
Merfolk through the ages and across the globe have traditionally appeared as humanoids with fishy tails, exemplified by the beautiful-but-deadly comb-and-mirror-wielding sea maiden of the English folk song “The Mermaid” (Briggs, 1978), but there are variations to this tradition. The 1st century author Pliny described mermaids as being completely scaly head-to-tail (Rosen, 2008). The medieval Irish Annals of the Four Masters told of a truly monstrous mermaid said to have measured a whopping 160 feet long (Matthews & Matthews, 2005). Another oversized mercreature featured in a report made to Bishop Pontoppidan of Bergen in 1719 that described a human-faced seal-like beast 28 feet long (Rose, 2000). Male merrows appeared downright hideous in aspect, possessing green-coloured hair, teeth, and skin, pointed red noses, and piggy eyes (Rose, 2000). On occasion, the Danish havmand was said to have had blue skin (Matthews & Matthews, 2005). Instead of looking like a human woman from the waist up, the Japanese ningyo could appear as a huge fish with a woman’s head (Rose, 2000).
Along with the varying physical descriptions of merfolk, different human cultures expressed different views regarding what merfolk symbolised. In medieval Europe, mermaids represented deceit and were believed to be in league with the Great Deceiver himself, the devil (Rose, 2000). Additionally, the medieval church considered mermaids to be symbols of vanity, lust, and the soul-endangering aspects of femininity and sex (Rosen, 2008). In Tudor times, the word “mermaid” became synonymous with the word “prostitute” (Franklin, 2002). Conversely, the Afro-Brazillian Batuque cult saw their aquatic jamaína and imanja as intermediaries between mortals and angels (Rose, 1996). The Japanese thought of their ningyo as a positive entity, a protector of the land (Matthews & Matthews, 2005).
As has been touched upon above, merfolk in various locales and circumstances sometimes dealt with land-dwelling mortals in a less-than-beneficial, or even outright malevolent, fashion. The otherwise friendly male merrow named Coomara captured the souls of drowned sailors in cages in the mistaken belief that he was performing a good deed sheltering the souls and keeping them warm and dry (Croker, 1882). Mermen of a more baleful nature were believed to conjure terrible storms and sink ships (Rose, 2000). At times, the female of the species also acted in a destructive manner; the subject of the folk song “The Mermaid” sent a ship of doomed souls to the bottom of the ocean (Briggs, 1978). The Norwegian havfine herded the waves and wrecked vessels foolish enough to be caught asea when storms rolled in (Matthews & Matthews, 2005). The Scottish lake-dwelling mermaid encountered by the youthful Laird of Lorntie proved to be a downright bloodthirsty creature that would have feasted on the young laird’s blood had his loyal servant not pulled him from the loch’s waters (Briggs, 1979).
Of course, not all merfolk treated humans poorly; some had favourable and even intimate dealings with humankind. According to Danish lore, a prophesying havfrue foresaw the birth of Christian IV of Denmark (Matthews & Matthews, 2005). In one Scottish story, a young man learned how to cure his ailing love with an infusion of mugwort when a mermaid surfaced and sang of using the herb to prevent the girl’s death by consumption (Briggs, 1978). A mermaid that rose from a Renfrewshire pool as a funeral procession crossed a stream advised the mourners how to use both mugwort and nettle to ward off fatal illness (Briggs, 1978). In the tale “The Old Man of Cury”, a stranded mermaid rescued by an old man granted her saviour the gift of healing (Briggs, 1978). The title mortal of “Lutey and the Mermaid” was rewarded with similar benefits when he aided a mermaid, but found himself lured into her watery abode nine years later (Briggs, 1978). Along with knowledge of healing herbs, rescued mermaids could also warn of impending storms (Rose, 1996). On occasion, female merrows wedded mortal men and gave rise to a line of human descendants who possessed webbed fingers and scaly legs (Briggs, 1979). A mermaid was said to number among the ancestors of the McVeagh clan of Scotland (Franklin, 2002).
Apart from marriages and other relations between merfolk and mortals, some stories told of humans transformed into sea people. According to a popular Greek legend, Alexander the Great’s sister Thessalonike turned into a mermaid when, grief-stricken by the death of her conquering sibling, she attempted suicide by throwing herself into the Aegean Sea (DocumentaryMakedonia, 2013). Lí Ban, the pagan subject of a 12th or 13th century Irish tale, underwent a magical metamorphosis from human woman to mermaid after the majority of her kin were drowned in a flood (Ó hÓgáin, 2006). According to a certain Irish legend, pagan crones became mermaids when Saint Patrick expelled them from the land (Franklin, 2002). In the Samish story of Ko-kwal-alwoot, a maiden became enamoured with a merman who insisted on taking her as his bride and who eventually transformed her into a sea-dweller like himself (Matthews & Matthews, 2005).
Beyond the myths, legends, and folktales about merfolk told over the centuries by many different storytellers around the globe, sailors and fishermen across the ages have reported real-life sightings of fishy-tailed humanoids. Christopher Columbus wrote that he spied three less-than-lovely mermaids off the coast of what is now the Dominican Republic in January 1493 (Salaperäinen, 2016). In 1560, the bodies of several mermaids netted off the coast of Ceylon underwent dissection at the hands of a learned physician who concluded that, externally and internally, the anatomy of the merbeings resembled that of humans (Matthews & Matthews, 2005). Henry Hudson recorded that two of his crewmen spotted a white-skinned black-haired mermaid in 1608 (Cohen, 1982). In 1723, a Danish Royal Commission tasked with proving that merfolk existed only in myths and legends ended up running across an actual merman near the Faroe Isles (Matthews & Matthews, 2005). In 1830, residents of the isle of Benbecula in the Hebrides found the body of a small dark-haired white-skinned mermaid with “abnormally developed breasts”, perhaps the same creature that had been seen and injured at Sgeir na Duchadh a few days earlier, washed ashore at Culle Bay (Munro, 2016). Three years later, natural history professor Dr. Robert Hamilton described the capture of a short-haired monkey-faced mermaid offshore of Yell in the Shetland Isles (Munro, 2016). During a few notable summers around 1890, hundreds of eyewitnesses claimed to have seen the so-called Deerness Mermaid, a black-headed white-bodied creature that appeared like a human when swimming in the waters of Newark Bay, Orkney (Towrie, n.d.).
Believe it or not, in certain regions of the world sightings of and belief in merbeings have persisted right up to the present day. In 1947, an elderly Hebridean fisherman reported sighting a mermaid combing her hair near the shore of the Isle of Muck (Matthews & Matthews, 2005). In June 1967, passengers aboard a ferry travelling past Mayne Island, British Columbia, observed (and one snapped a photograph of) a blonde-haired dimple-faced mermaid with the tail of a fish or porpoise sitting upon a shoreside rock (Obee, 2016). In January 2008, several South Africans who had been relaxing near the bank of the Buffelsjags River at Suurbraak claimed they encountered a river-dwelling mermaid with white skin, black hair, and hypnotic red eyes known locally as the Kaaiman (Pekeur, 2008). In 2009, dozens of eyewitnesses caught sight of a mermaid porpoising and performing aerial acrobatics off the beach of Kiryat Yam, Israel (“Is a Mermaid”, 2009). As recently as 2012, workers at a dam in northern Zimbabwe insisted that mermaids were to blame for mysterious malfunctions and refused to continue their work until the harassing entities were appeased with a traditional beer ritual (Conway-Smith, 2012).
Merfolk number among the most widespread of legendary beings. Diverse cultures around the world have told stories of aquatic humanoid beings with piscine tails. Tales handed down from generation to generation attest to mankind’s relations with merfolk, for good or ill, throughout the ages. Perhaps such lore is merely the product of human imagination, but what are we to make of reports of actual sightings? Historic and more recent claims of seeing mermaids or mermen could be chalked up to mirages, misidentifications, hoaxes, or even mass hysteria. For instance, Columbus might have spied a trio of manatees. Witnesses who saw a mermaid on Mayne Island may have actually seen a human girl posing with a fake mermaid’s tail. Men who refused to continue work on a dam in Zimbabwe due to interference from mermaids might have fallen victim to mass hysteria. Whatever the truth of the matter, belief in merfolk has endured over time and continues to endure, in some locales, to this day. Regardless of the reality, merfolk continue to have a place in the hearts, minds, and imaginations of their land-dwelling mortal counterparts.
Briggs, K. (1978). The vanishing people: fairy lore and legend. New York, NY: Pantheon Books.
Briggs, K. (1979). Abbey lubbers, banshees, and boggarts: an illustrated encyclopedia of fairies. New York, NY: Pantheon Book.
Cohen. D. (1982). The encyclopedia of monsters. New York, NY: Dodd, Mead & Company.
Conway-Smith, E. (2012, February 12). Zimbabwe mermaids appeased by traditional beer ritual. PRI. Retrieved from https://www.pri.org.
Croker, T. C. (1882/2008). Irish fairy legends. Mineola, NY: Dover Publications.
Ó hÓgáin, D. (2006). The lore of Ireland: An encyclopaedia of myth, legend and romance. Woodbridge, England: The Boydell Press.
Pekeur, A. (2008, January 16). Mysterious ‘mermaid’ rises from the river. IOL. Retrieved from https://www.iol.co.za.
Rose, C. (1996). Spirits, fairies, leprechauns, and goblins: an encyclopedia. New York, NY: W. W. Norton & Company. Rose, C. (2000). Giants, monsters, and dragons: an encyclopedia of folklore, legend, and myth. New York, NY: W. W. Norton & Company.
Rosen, B. (2008). The mythical creatures bible. London, England: Octopus Publishing Group. Salaperäinen, O. (2016). A field guide to fantastical beasts. New York, NY: Metro Books.
Simpson, J. (1987). European mythology (library of the world’s myths and legends). New York, NY: Peter Bedrick Books.
Sykes, E., & Kendall, A. (1952/1993). Who’s who in non-classical mythology (Rev. Ed.). New York, NY: Oxford University Press.
We’re delighted to announce the return of guest columnist Richard H. Fay. He will be writing all three of this week’s posts, as he continues to give us his very well-researched take on the odd and the occult. You can read his blog here, and we also recommend checking out his Zazzle Store, and artwork referred to this piece can be found here.
Most folks, when you say the word “dragon”, envision a four-legged, winged, fire-breathing, reptilian monster. In actuality, although many dragons of both modern popular culture and traditional lore fit snugly into this description, draconic creatures of European myths, legends, and folklore exhibited an amazing variety of forms. Some bore wings, while others went wingless. Some crawled on four or even six legs, while others made due with only two or none at all. Some sported scaly hides, while at least one surprisingly hirsute beast wore a shaggy, stinger-laden coat. Some breathed fire, while others exhaled poisonous fumes or spewed water. The majority possessed just one head, but a few had several.
The English word “dragon” ultimately derives from the Latin draco and the Greek drakōn. The Greek drakon and the Roman draco displayed decidedly serpentine traits such as legless bodies, flickering tongues, and ever-gazing eyes. At times, the eternally watchful monster serpents of ancient Greek myths guarded sacred locales or fabulous treasures. Derived from these Greek models, Roman dragons retained the serpentine appearance of their forebears. Roman artists depicted their draco as an enormous bat-winged serpent. Such depictions would occasionally show the draco breathing fire. A mid twelfth-century bestiary gave the draco the additional attributes of a crest upon its head and the ability to emit a dazzling luminescence. In the astronomical realm, Ptolemy (AD 100?-170?) immortalized the serpentine-style Greco-Roman dragon when he named a sinuous northern constellation Draco.
Moving from the sun-drenched Mediterranean to the mist-shrouded north, draconic creatures of serpentine form featured in Germanic folklore and beliefs. The Old English wyrm, Old High German wurm, and Old Norse ormr, all translate as “snake”. Norse mythology spoke of the Midgardsormr Jörmungandr, the great serpent that, with tail-in-mouth, encircled the middle world of men. The Teutonic epic poem Das Nibelungenlied contained the story of Fafnir, a greedy dwarf metamorphosed into a hideous wingless dragon. Scandinavian sagas and Germanic epic poems also told tales of heroic warriors facing monstrous winged serpents called lindwurms. With hides armored in radiant green-gold or green-silver scales, these draconic beasts of northern Europe guarded golden hoard or beautiful maid. It seems accounts of encounters with lindwurms were not restricted to Germany and Scandinavia, however, since Marco Polo claimed to have sighted such serpents during his journey across the Central Asian steppe.
Medieval bestiaries and psalters frequently contained images of loathly worms, wingless oftentimes two-footed serpentine monstrosities that spread blight and devastation. One such beast of northern England, the Lambton Worm, was said to have had the ability to wrap its loathsome body around its victims in the manner of a constrictor. As described when first found by the truant John Lambton, who was fishing when he should have been attending mass, this worm possessed the rather unique characteristic of nine holes on each side of its mouth. This sounds akin to the seven holes used for respiration found in the eel-like lamprey. A relative of the Lambton Worm, the Wode Worm of Linton, ravaged the northern English countryside until slain by a hero who thrust a blazing block of peat down the worm’s throat and burned it from the inside out.
Another draconic creature depicted in the illustrations of medieval bestiaries, as well as emblazoned upon heraldic arms, was the rapacious wyvern. Looking much more like what most people nowadays think a dragon should look like, the wyvern had a dragon’s head, a bat’s wings, two feet equipped with a raptor’s talons, and a serpent’s body and tail. Oftentimes the tail was tipped in a venomous barb. This particularly nasty dragon breathed poison and spread destruction wherever it went. It also became, according to the language of heraldic symbolism, a representation of might, envy, pestilence, and war.
Austrian tales told of unlucky alpine travelers meeting the fearsome tatzelwurm, a draconic resident of high mountain crags. Cat-faced but otherwise reptilian in appearance, the tatzelwurm was described as having four legs, or just two, or none at all. Descriptions also differed regarding the tatzelwurm’s pelt, which might have been smooth, or lumpy, or scaly, or even hairy. One attribute that seems to remain consistent throughout the accounts is the tatzelwurm’s terrible aggressiveness; it was said that the beast attacked humans without provocation. Swiss traditions featured a similar cat-faced mountain-dwelling wurm known as the stollenwurm, while lore from the French Alps contained a comparable creature known as the arassas It is remotely possible that tales of encounters with the tatzelwurm and its kin arose out of real-life sightings of an alpine cryptid reptile.
In the minds of many people today, the most familiar form of European dragon must surely be the four-footed winged kind as exemplified by Y Ddraig Goch, the red dragon displayed on the Welsh national flag. However, a certain legendary she-dragon of the Rhône river valley, the Tarasque, was said to have prowled about on six legs! This six-legged wingless river monster also possessed a lion’s head, a bear’s paws, a serpent’s tail equipped with a lethally-sharp barb, and a tough leathery carapace adorned with formidable spikes. According to medieval legend, the ravenous Tarasque was the terrifying product of an unholy union between Leviathan (the enormous primordial sea monster described in the Old Testament) and a bonnacon (a mythological horned bovine said to have been endowed with the ability to expel prodigious amounts of scorchingly-hot excrement).
Surprisingly enough, beyond a varying number of legs, draconic creatures of European myths and legends also had a varying number of heads, from one to one hundred or more. In Greek myths, the multiple-headed lava-spewing Typhon acted as a monstrous foe to the Olympian gods. The hundred-headed fiery-eyed Dragon of Ladon served as guardian of the golden apples of the Hesperides. The many-headed dog-bodied hydra poisoned the air and despoiled the land around the Lerna marshes in Argolis. In later times, the Greco-Roman hydra became analogous to the biblical apocalyptic beasts and came to be depicted as a wyvern with several heads. Romanian folk and fairy tales featured Balaur, a finned-and-footed dragon that had as many as twelve serpent’s heads.
Although steely scales formed the typical integument of most dragons of European lore, one rather hirsute beast of medieval French legend bore a shaggy coat. Said to have been a monstrous survivor of the Great Flood, the hair-covered serpent-headed Peluda (also known as La Velue, “the hairy one”) terrorized villagers, destroyed crops, and devoured maidens. To protect itself from attackers, it had the ability to launch lethal stingers from its hairy green pelt. Incredibly invulnerable, the Peluda could only be killed by cutting its serpentine tail in two.
Another dragon of medieval French legend, in this case, one that spewed water, gave its name to ornamental gutter spouts carved in the likenesses of grotesque monsters. The Gargouille of the Seine marshes would churn the waters and create waterspouts to overturn fishing boats and feast on drowned fishermen. It would also drag off and consume livestock. According to the legend, Gargouille’s depredations were ended by Saint Romain, Bishop of Rouen, who cowed the dragon with his crucifix and bishop’s stole and then led it into town to be slain by the townsfolk. As for those grotesquely carved gutter spouts, they came to be called gargoyles.
Draconic creatures of European myths, legends, and folklore, certainly came in a wide variety of forms with a diverse array of traits. Most did share one key attribute, however; whether it be a serpentine head (or heads), body, or tail, they all seemed to have something of the serpent about them. Of course, it could be said that they all shared another characteristic. Whether they had six legs or none, whether they were winged or wingless, whether they had one head or one hundred heads, whether they were scaled or furry, they were all truly awesome beasts.
Big Book of Dragons, Monsters, And Other Mythical Creatures by Ernst and Johanna Lehner. The Book of Dragons & Other Mythical Beasts by Joseph Nigg. Giants, Monsters & Dragons: An Encyclopedia of Folklore, Legend, and Myth by Carol Rose.The Mythical Creatures Bible by Brenda Rosen. A Wizard’s Bestiary by Oberon Zell-Ravenheart and Ash “LeopardDancer” DeKirk.
I always say that Casablanca is the best film I’ve ever seen, and that still stands, but Roman Holiday, in its own genre, is just perfect. It has the perfect actors (Audrey Hepburn is always perfect, of course, but Gregory Peck is good for this one, too), the perfect script, the perfect setting and even–though your heart bursts for it to end differently–the perfect ending.
In a world saturated with romantic comedies constructed on the shoulders of this giant classic, it’s tempting to minimize it, but when you remember it’s from 1953, you can’t really pull it off. This is the one that gave us the formula, moving the genre out of screwball (I LOVE screwball comedy, and Bringing Up Baby is a beautiful thing) and into the modern idiom. Of course, if this one was filmed today, the producers would chicken out and change the ending, because audiences (and humanity at large) no longer expect to be treated like adults.
But get a hold of a copy of this one and watch it. Apart from the lack of cellphones which would have obsoleted the camera stuff, you’ll feel like it was filmed a couple of years ago, and wonder why, with this shining example, romcoms aren’t all brilliant nowadays.
The problem with a movie like this is that it’s tough to find anything to criticize or discuss in depth. The thing I didn’t like was that they clearly say “Introducing Aubrey Hepburn”, when I’d spotted her in The Lavender Hill Mob. That’s it. That’s the extent of my complaints about this one.
Now, as you know, I’m not a professional film critic. I’m just a writer who watches movies from a randomly chosen list for fun. But I can usually spot stuff I dislike. Not this time.
I’m sure professional film critics or people who think we should judge old films by today’s social morality will be able to find fault, but I just enjoyed the hell out of it.
Go watch it. Or watch it again.
Gustavo Bondoni is a novelist and short story writer whose own forays into romance are more likely to drop over the edge into steamy crime romance than romcom. His novel Timeless is a good example. You can check it out here.
So, how far behind am I? I just finished reading the June 10 and 17, 2019 issue of The New Yorker. A lot of the articles, particularly the ones referred to goings on about town are probably out of date a year and a half, plus a pandemic, later. The reviews, though still valid, probably aren’t as fresh as they could be, either.
But a fiction issue, as this one purports to being, should be okay, so I read it with enthusiasm. All right, let’s qualify that: I don’t normally love the fiction in TNY. I find it a little too dull and boring.
The three stories in this issue were not bad. Not memorable in any way (Sanctuary in the Artist’s Studio is probably the best of the three), but not bad.
More interesting is the fact that they sprinkled the usual content with something called border crossings, where immigrants in different parts of the world describe their experiences. This is non-fiction, and it’s kind of weird to see The New Yorker voicing it. Weird because I expect TNY to show an idealized intellectual-progressive view of things, which obviously doesn’t exist when you bring the real world into it. Even more shocking to me was an honest article about what life in supposed socialist paradise (and failed state) Venezuela is like. It’s the kind of thing one would expect TNY to sweep under the rug, as it will definitely make a good portion of its readership uncomfortable.
So my respect for the magazine–despite still feeling the fiction is just okay–went up a few notches this time. It’s nice to see realism even among the intellectual elite who tend to try to block it out and live in an idealized world where theory rules and when reality doesn’t support that way of thinking, it’s reality that’s wrong.
If you need to understand The New Yorker by reading one issue, this is the best one to pick up of the ones I’ve seen.
Gustavo Bondoni is a novelist and short story writer whose work spans several genres. His literary fiction is collected in Love and Death, a novel in short story form that tells the tale of several families, intertwined through generations. You can check it out here.
Last Monday, I wrote about the way National Geographic had dealt with the wonder of the moon landing when it happened, and felt the same wonder that readers must have felt back then, the same sense that nothing was impossible, and that the future was truly on the way.
But then 50 years passed.
Much of society, in the meantime, have become jaded to the fact that the moon was reached, and look at it in purely economic terms, or view space exploration as a waste of resources hat could be used for whatever pet social project people favor. It seems incredible to me, a mean and miserly way to consider humanity’s greatest achievement, something only minds with small horizons should be capable of, but I’ve seen it often enough that I’m no longer surprised when people say things like that.
In light of this, one might think that Ad Astra‘s edition dedicated to the 50th anniversary of the landings (which I was also given at the ISDC) might contain a certain amount of bitterness, a sense of betrayal by the rest of humanity.
But I forgot who I was dealing with. People who love space exploration are, above all, believers in the invincibility of the human spirit. Not for them reproach or recrimination; this magazine is a wonderful celebration of the past, sometimes a reminder of the fact that we still have work to do, and an affectionate look at the true heroes involved.
If you never read another issue of ad Astra, this one is worth your time. It teaches you how to look back in admiration. Which is the only way to think of the past.
Gustavo Bondoni is a novelist and short story writer whose novel Outside is a look at a future in which humanity has not only conquered the stars but become bitterly divided between those who live a physical existence and those who live only in uploaded versions of themselves. It will make you question what it actually means to be human. You can check it out here.
I don’t particularly love cars from the 1970s, but there were some true icons. While Lamborghini was stuck with the utterly awful Countach which only an ’80s stockbroker could love, Ferrari designed it’s two prettiest cars ever.
If someone were to gift me one Ferrari with the caveat that I couldn’t sell it, I’d go for a 512 BBi. But if no 512s were available, the 308 GTB (it has to be a coupe) would be my next choice. These are far from the fastest Ferraris today, and they are far from the most expensive… but they are so pretty. Hell, even the Dino pales before these in my eyes.
So, seeing it on the cover of the December 1976 issue of Road & Track was very cool, as was the comment by Bob Bondurant–a man who knows a lot about Ferraris–that it was the best sports car he’d ever driven. I may need to buy one of these before the price skyrockets, as it eventually does on all cars that wear the prancing horse. They seem to be about $80K today for a reasonable if not perfect one, and they’ll only go up, so that’s my investor tip for the day.
Anyway, this mag was a good one. The 308 article is fun, as is the coverage of the Pebble Beach concours and the Monterey Historics, and the article on the Maserati Birdcage is as cool as expected (coverage of the Birdcage is not as frequent as that around other classic racers). Finally, a paragraph apart for the Penske that won a Grand Prix. As far as I can remember, it’s the last American car to win an F1 race.
So a great issue and overall and a good step towards the 1980s. After the drama of the early emissions and safety madness, engineers were finally managing to make the cars less bad. They still had a long way to make them as good as the cars from before the legislation… but engineers are smarter than lawmakers, so they will eventually win the tug-of-war.
Anyway, a worthwhile issue.
Gustavo Bondoni’s is a novelist and short story writer whose latest book is called Test Site Horror. It’s an action-packed thriller in which genetically modified dinosaurs and indescribable monsters vie for superiority… while a group of people try to stay alive in the middle of it all. You can check it out here.
I like reading books about libraries. The best of these is probably this one because it balances, but there are many, many wonderful pictures with a complete history of the content and the buildings that made up libraries all over the world, both ancient and modern. Interestingly, it is also entitled The Library (although the main difference with today’s subject is the fact that the earlier book also had a subtitle: A World History).
I also enjoy reading chattier, more personal, history of bibliophile things and in this sense, Nicholas Basbanes Patience and Fortitude is a good bet, and a nice thick book that will keep you entertained for some time. If your own library is in any way quirky or fun, you’ll like this one.
Today’s work is a much lighter read than either of these two, but that isn’t entirely a bad thing.
The Library – A Catalogue of Wonders by Stuart Kells is one of those cases in which a book is perfectly described by its subtitle. The “Catalogue of Wonders” part immediately brings to mind those cabinets of curiosities that wealthy private individuals used to have. These so-called cabinets (they were sometimes rooms) could contain anything the person found of interest, from stuffed birds to shrunken heads.
This book is kind of like that. It’s not a chronological history of the evolution of the library (although it does give a well-researched glimpse into that), but a collection of eclectically arranged chapters that tell of major things that befell or happened in libraries. So one chapter might give an evolution of medieval libraries while another might talk about imaginary libraries in literature (of course, Eco’s is in there, but so are the ones from LotR, and Kells shows himself to be a bit of a Tolkien scholar).
It’s actually a perfect book for those who either have already read the two mentioned previously or for those who don’t want to invest the time you’d need to do the others justice. At slightly under 300 pages, the Kells is the perfect length for the casual reader while having enough new anecdotes and stories to be a delight for those who’ve read the other volumes.
Heartily recommended to book lovers everywhere!
Gustavo Bondoni is a novelist and short story writer whose book Love and Death is a single story made up of many stand-alone shorts. The characters deeply affect each others’ lives, often without ever knowing the others exist. You can check it out here.