The ancient Greek philosopher Aristotle was the first to categorize works of fiction as literary genres, dividing them into prose, poetry and drama.
However, these genres soon began to divide into sub-categories. For example, prose took the form of epics, novels, novellas and short stories. Meanwhile, poetry expressed itself through lyrics, poems, romances, sonnets, and folk tales.
Drama divided into tragedy, tragicomedy, and melodrama. It even manifested itself in vaudeville, to make some spectators cry and others laugh. Having absorbed mysticism and extravagance, drama became unpredictable in its manifestations.
Aristotle was frightened by what he had done.
However, centuries passed and the writers’ guild long ago forgave the philosopher for his doubts and fears. They peacefully divided into novelists, poets and playwrights.
I write prose in many categories, including adventure stories, novellas, and essays. My passion for history has inspired me to conduct research to uncover hidden and distorted facts. I realized that such prose needed its own category. So I created historical novella. The plot of such a novella is based on facts washed off lies and features real characters who expose the fabrications of politicians and their obliging historians. Once these novellas had taken on a life of their own, the spirits of seafarers, pirates, and other adventurers began to visit me in my sleep. Fed up with fantasists’ lies, they were glad that I would write the truth about them.
Honest journalism involves collecting, processing and publishing reliable information that politicians are always trying to drown in a swamp of oblivion. In my books, such pieces begin with the warning ‘Contains facts unknown to the majority. However, these facts influence events that are known to the vast majority’. I think many readers just don’t grasp the meaning of that warning. They should.
For example, the history of World War II was completely fabricated for the general public by politicians and their historians. In Europe, this war is still referred to as the ‘unknown war.’ Stalin’s supporters called it ‘great and homeland patriotic.’ However, the Bolsheviks were defending their regime, not the homeland. Proof? They forced hundreds of thousands of people into meat attacks coercing them with gun fire in the back. The patriots defend their homeland without such coercion. For millions of Russians expelled from their ancestral lands during the Civil War (1918–1921), this war was indeed a struggle for their homeland. They fought against Bolshevik’s regime to regain their lands. Russian writer Ivan Turgenev was exiled by the tsarist regime and after many years living happily in France he said: ‘Homeland is where you are understood,’
The architects of war have always tried to conceal their crimes. This is evident today when we turn on the television and listen to so-called ‘political analysts’ on both sides spouting nonsense about the war in Ukraine. Just as they lied about that war, they are lying about this one, because they are following orders from politicians. History provides a rare opportunity to expose these fraudsters. However, if you challenge them, you may be imprisoned. You may be killed in a sneaky way in the back, or poisoned. Fighting politicians is like fighting windmills. If you want to live longer, it’s better to simply disappear from the environment where you are not understood.
Living in such an environment, I experienced what it was like to be in captivity. Society imposed its rules and conventions on me, forcing me to adhere to an ideology that conflicted with my conscience. I was forced to be submissive and humble. Seeing the lies around me, I escaped into the ocean, leaving behind those who had betrayed me. Providence was leading me out of the labyrinth and teaching me not to look back or regret the past. I learnt that.
Once, I came across an explanation by Sigmund Freud, a psychologist with a deep understanding of human nature. He philosophically explained one of the most pressing vices: “People find reality unsatisfactory and therefore live in a world of fantasy, dreaming of the fulfilment of imaginary desires.’ Strong people realise their desires. Weak people live in an imaginary world, and their fantasies manifest themselves in the form of symptoms of various diseases, most often mental ones…“
Following Freud’s teachings, I escaped from lies and betrayals to the edge of the planet, where I found myself in an earthly paradise. It must be guarded by heavenly forces, as there are no idiots around who have been brainwashed by propaganda and turned into zombies. I also thought that idiots would not be attracted to places that do not promise social security and benefits. There is no freebie for them here.
In this earthly paradise, I am understood by birds, fish, dogs and cats. Some swim towards me, while others approach fearlessly. Having conquered my aggressive tendencies, I have sold my scuba gun and adopted a blue-eyed kitty. I catch fish and share it with seagulls, frigates and pelicans, who aren’t afraid to take it from my hands. When I return home, my kitty greets me purring loudly. In gratitude for our friendship, she battles with snakes and scorpions at nights to protect me while I sleep.
In the early morning, birds tell me it is time to get up. I run to the sea, which is less than a hundred yards away and jump into the water as the sun rises over the pink horizon. This artist has painted the sky in every colour, and I marvel at its phantasies. Whispering so as not to break the silence, I thank Providence for bringing me here. Fate gives everyone a chance — once.
***
This earthly paradise inspired me to start writing. I like drama, but I think this genre tends to attract women who write emotional novels. Often written by divorced or abandoned women, these novels offer young women insights into their experiences. This process is called ’emancipation’.
Poetry, on the other hand, is like a fluttering bird and is best suited to young people who view the world through rose-tinted glasses. When I was young, I used to express my feelings through rhymes, too. However, as I’ve grown older, I’ve become cynical. I have long seen the world as it is: black and white. I am no longer guided by emotions, but by intuition, common sense and experience. I don’t write poetry anymore.
But emotions can still play tricks on us, and I will share with you my story about how that happens.
One night, my new girlfriend and I had dinner at a German restaurant in Los Angeles. As we danced to the sound of an accordion, she started kissing me. Overcome with emotion, I confessed my feelings, by scribbling rhymes on a napkin and discreetly putting it in her purse:
I am a jealous man in guarding beauty
I love you as my prey, my beauty
I love to rape you tenderly my beauty
You are a sweet delicious bitch, my beauty
I beg you please forgive my rudeness
It’s just confession of my passion
One day I’ll be your tamed beast in madness
Your prey, your slave, my beauty
She was fragile and graceful. I liked her very much and thought of continuing our relationship. However, providence intervened, bringing our story to an end as suddenly as it had begun. I am glad that I protected my heart from further hurt back then. I later discovered that she had been playing with me, as she had with many others…
Years later, one day, I received a message from her. She had found my page and recognised me in a photo. She asked if there was room for her in my heaven. A woman always wants to be closer to God when the Devil has grown tired of her. I knew that if I took her in, there would be no paradise left for me. So I answered:
Remember, once we lost in a misty forest
The pine smog there dazed you and me
The demons were writhing in dancing poses
And one of them was hid inside of me
I tried to eliminate your worries
I wanted forest mist to take away your fears
I begged angels guide us to the safest road
I kissed your eyes to dry your tears
We were lucky to escape the demons
But you decided to escape from me
And I don’t blame you for to be a woman
If you still writing, means you have another plan on me
But plans are in the past, and let’s not play with fortune
I learned from those devils writhing in the dark
That needles of the pines are always sneaky
So maybe you should hunt for other luck
© Copyright: Walter Maria, 2024
Certificate of Publication No.224090501280
Thanks for sharing. I read many of your blog posts, cool, your blog is very good.