The quality of mercy is not strained.
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath. It is twice blest:
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes.
‘Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes
The thronèd monarch better than his crown.
His scepter shows the force of temporal power,
The attribute to awe and majesty
Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings;
But mercy is above this sceptered sway.
It is enthronèd in the hearts of kings;
It is an attribute to God Himself;
And earthly power doth then show likest God’s
When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew,
Though justice be thy plea, consider this:
That in the course of justice none of us
Should see salvation. We do pray for mercy,
And that same prayer doth teach us all to render
The deeds of mercy. I have spoke thus much
To mitigate the justice of thy plea,
Which, if thou follow, this strict court of Venice
Must needs give sentence ‘gainst the merchant
there.—  Portia, In William Shakespeare, the Merchant of Venice, Act 4 sect 1

Shortly before the liberation of Dachau Concentration camp in April 1945, my uncle Major Norman Eliasson, of 10th Armored Division and his men captured two German SS soldiers.

They were young boys –no older than 11 or 12 years old. My uncle spoke German fluently.

He asked them: “Yunge, Wie lange bist du schon in der Armee?” (Boy, how long have you been in the Army?)

“Wie lange seid ihr beide in der Armee?” (how long have your both been in the army?)

They answered, “nur zwei Wochen” (ONLY TWO WEEKS)

Nur zwei Wochen? ONLY TWO WEEKS?

They boys answered, “Jawohl, Bitte erschießt uns nicht” (Yes, please don’t shoot us).

Norman asked them to remove their tunics. They had no SS tattoos. They had no military ID.

Then boys told their story tearfully.

SS officers had come to their elementary school two weeks previously and had forcibly recruited all the 11-12 year old boys in the school. Some of them had been killed in the fighting. They said,trembling, “PLEASE DON’T SHOOT US.”

My uncle said, “Don’t worry kids. We won’t shoot you.” (Ärgern Sie sich nicht, dass wir Sie nicht erschießen warden)

My uncle and his men talked a little bit. They decided to take them prisoner would be wrong.

“We’re Americans,” my uncle said. “If we want to have peace we are going to have to treat these people right.”

Then my uncle asked they boys were they lived. They pointed the way.

It was not far.

Then they escorted them home. They let the boys take off their uniforms. The mother of one of the boys was absolutely ecstatic. Norman and his men gave them some food and were on their way. The German woman waved as they marched off and Norman and his men waved back.

Some months later my uncle and his friends –they were in the Army of occupation- were in a bar in Munich when a good looking German woman in her mid 30’s came up to Norman and kissed him.

She said, very emotionally:

“When I saw you I had to speak to you. Thank you for saving my son and his friend. I will never forget you and the other Americans for your kindness and humanity. Niemals. Never.

( “Ich werde dich und die anderen Amerikaner niemals für deine Freundlichkeit und Menschlichkeit vergessen. “)

When my uncle died in 1999 –he is buried in Arlington Cemetery- He had quite a sendoff. A full band and caisson with horses (I have photographs of the funeral).

Besides the American anthem and his favorite hymns, they played the German national anthem.

It surprised some.

Because after all, Norman had fought the Germans in France and at Bastogne. He was at the liberation of Dachau. He saw the horrors of the Holocaust and the Nazi regime. But it didn’t surprise me. My uncle was a Germanophile despite everything.

And in his 30 plus years in the Department of Defense, he had many close friends in NATO and the Germany military. He was highly respected.

Norman was proud to have been an Allied soldier but he was proudest of all of being not a conqueror but a liberator, not an overlord but a friend.

Men like him made Germany an ally during the Cold War. Quite an accomplishment, really.

That really was the greatest generation.

It was an honor to have known such men. NE OBLIVISCARIS…do not forget.

Second, real law comes not from the mind of man but from the essence of creation itself. That is, man does not create law, he discovers it. It has always been there, though man has ignored, mocked, distorted, or forgotten it. And, as it is always there, it can never be destroyed, while it can always, critically, be remembered. A people might go two thousand years in ignorance (willful or not) of the true law, but the true law remains. If it fails in Troy, it can be remembered in Rome. If it fails there, it can be remembered in London. And, if it fails there, it can be remembered in Philadelphia. Truth, after all, is permanent and nothing man does can destroy it, no matter how vicious our intentions.
— Read on theimaginativeconservative.org/2019/06/cicero-republic-true-law-right-reason-nature-bradley-birzer.html

I am reading a book of essays by Joseph Epstein (The Idea of Culture) and Dennis Prager’s second volume on the Bible (Genesis). I think I can say with certainty that the most recent shooter was not reading these books nor were any of the recent shooters reading anything similar. I think we will find, if we investigate more deeply, what all these shooters have in common is a deep nihilism and existentialist despair. Married men with deep ties to their community and deep bonds of friendship, trust and love suffer also, at times, but have some pride of ownership for this generation and for future generations. There are times I have despaired, briefly. But I have 1) always felt the love and support of close family members 2) have always felt a duty to my family, my country, my faith tradition to my “little platoon” in my school which has taken the place of the Regiment (a sort of substitute and continuation of the clan’s tribal levies). When you feel part of a tradition, part of a something bigger than yourself you are far less likely to hurt fellow citizens for whom you will quite naturally have love and respect. When I read of these massacres and killings. I say to myself, “How dishonorable!” I think to myself I would never dishonor in this way my family, my country, my school, my former Regiment (in my case the US Marines). I would die for my family, my country and for a Great Cause but I would not kill innocents out of desperation and I think, a spirit of jealousy and revenge. I know people act out of hatred, jealousy and revenge. And these base killers, I surmise, act out of desperation at their miserable, alienated “dead-end” lives in order to inflict pain and suffering on others as a kind of vengeful act of murder and mayhem. These killers cannot have been happy, well-adjusted people. They cannot have loved as I have loved. They cannot be as loved and appreciated as I have been appreciated by others. They cannot have been virtuous citizens who took pride in Old Glory and the Great Republic and its splendid ancient heritage of freedom.

I have not achieved great things in life. I was not a great baseball player though my love of the game has given me great solace and pleasure. I was not a great singer or musician but I can sing songs in several languages and know dozens if not hundreds of songs and poems by heart. I was not the greatest coach of soccer, baseball or softball. I was mostly distinguished by my teaching sportsmanship and love of the game not winning and for always valuing academics over ephemeral sporting glory. One time my soccer team came close to tying for the championship but fell short 2-1 due to the superior skill and training of our rivals. But I am proudest that the entire team graduated from high school. My military career though honorable was brief and undistinguished but I am proud of the fact I volunteered and worked hard at getting in and finishing basic training. I failed my first physical and passed by using extra strong glasses. But I wanted to serve as my father and uncles had served and I wanted to serve honorably. Financially I have only been a marginal success but through hard work I have managed not to lose the middle class status my working class parents did so much to achieve. I never did great things or had great jobs. In fact, I had many dirty and miserable jobs but I am proud of the fact that I always worked and strove to support myself and support my family often taking extra jobs and rarely taking a real vacation. I love Spain but have not been back to visit for almost 30 years. But my wife and children have been able to go back to Spain to work, visit and study because of my sacrifices. And when they came home the house, the garden and the pets were all thriving and in order. Academically, I have been a dedicated teacher and have always done my best chiefly as a language teacher. I can say with all honesty I was a relatively successful rural schoolmaster helping students mostly on the lower scale of society.

Of me it could be said, charitably, that I did my bit for my country and for my school. Some give some and some give much more while some give all. No, I have not created works of art nor gained anything more than a small countywide reputation for diligence and caring. As a father and as a husband I have always tried to do my duty morally, financially and academically. As a man I have tried to keep His Commandments, to be a Good Neighbor to others and to teach reverence for life and for our great freedoms and traditions which my father, translating from Gaelic, called “our splendid ancient heritage.” A good conscience is the best reward.

And “when the evening comes at last, and there is peace on every hill” how peaceful is the sleep of the man of honor, the father, the soldier, the citizen, the teacher. For he saw not the sacred flame extinguished, he saw not the Colors lowered in dishonor or defeat in his time. Others look at the flag and see some colors. I feel a pride in belonging to this great though imperfect nation. I feel gratitude for those who came before me and who fought and sacrificed for our liberty and independence. I see, in my mind’s eye many things. I see the blood of patriots at Belleau Wood, Iwo Jima or Normandy. I see the 50 stars that symbolize our Federal Union and the blue that symbolizes hope for the future. I see white that stands for liberty and justice for all. I see the thirteen stripes that remind me of the Original Thirteen Colonies and our humble, fragile origins. And of course the Red, White and Blue remind me as it reminded George Washington, FDR and Churchill not merely of the Great Republic but of our mother country. A person who belongs, a person who has reverence for God and Country, a person who loves others would not massacre innocents in nihilistic, suicidal rage. A gun is only a tool and it is only as good or as bad as the man who wields it. The USA has always been a nation in which hunting and the bearing of arms was more commonplace than most countries. Yet up to the 1950’s and early 1960’s mass shooting were almost unknown. So we have to look at many factors not merely the relative easy access to firearms and ammunition. The most important factors are, in my view, the spiritual, social and psychological factors of a few depraved socially alienated and culturally deracinated individuals.

https://townhall.com/columnists/dennisprager/2019/06/04/why-so-many-mass-shootings-ask-the-right-questions-and-you-might-find-out-n2547380?fbclid=IwAR2n6hD0Ru_KDeUzwaw1_REYBLb96fQtnYy6VMje0dlCnm8VQs8OmgzEOM4

As Cicero critically notes, during all of its history, Rome came about by trial and error, custom and habit, not by design. “Our commonwealth, in contrast, was not shaped by one man’s talent but by that of many; and not in one person’s lifetime, but over many generations.” Livy, later, argued the same point, but in Polybian fashion. Cicero notes that through On the Republic he hopes to “show you our commonwealth as it is born, grows up, and comes of age.” By implication, of course, Cicero anticipates the decay, corruption, middle-age, and eventual death of the republic. Unlike in the American experience, the Roman republicans could not appeal to its “founders” or its “founding” or its specific constitution. Instead, all things came into being over time and through incredibly difficult and painstaking work. America’s Republic might be a mighty fortress, but Rome’s was poetic. Only in the divine, Cicero claims, could one find an origin of Rome. The rest was, simply put, experience and tenacity.
— Read on theimaginativeconservative.org/2019/05/natural-foreign-republics-rome-america-bradley-birzer.html

Tonsor adopted the fusionist project but ultimately transformed it into a civilizational mission that went far beyond American politics. He believed that the Roman and Anglo-Catholics who comprised the traditionalist wing of the post-World War II conservative movement in the U.S. represented the last hurrah of Catholic humanism in the West to that point. In previous ages, Catholic humanists had risen up to help the Church prevail against the Roman Empire, Germanic invasions, Protestant Reformation, and Modern Age. Beginning in the 1960s, as late modernity began transitioning to postmodernity, Catholic humanists were called on, once again, to fight a culture war – this time in a battle of the books that drew in positivists, Marxists, nihilists, statists, and postmodernists. When Tonsor and other Catholic humanists confronted modern and postmodern movements, they did not just reject them outright. Rather, the task was to sift and weigh and test contemporary thought for what was wheat and what was chaff. Whatever was true, good, and beautiful in modern-postmodern thought could be – should be – baptized and redeemed. 
— Read on theimaginativeconservative.org/2019/05/fusionist-mind-stephen-tonsor-gleaves-whitney.html

I always knew I’d do book reviews here someday.  What I didn’t anticipate is that the very first one would be a book authored by Nikki Sixx, whose claim to fame is as the bassist of the now-retired heavy metal band Mötley Crüe.  Spirit of Cecilia is not the place you would expect to find a review of a book authored by a heavy metal musician, particularly one from a band with a reputation as notorious as the one which is his claim to fame.  Yet, for reasons I will discuss below, this powerful book is more relevant today than upon its original publication in 2007, and maybe even relative to the 10th Anniversary Edition (the one I read) released in 2017.

As the title suggests, the bulk of The Heroin Diaries is just that – entries in a diary.  In particular, these are diary entries recorded by Sixx between Christmas 1986 and Christmas 1987, while he was in the midst of a vicious heroin addiction.  It was an addiction that nearly cost him his life – and in fact did, for two minutes on December 23, 1987, before a determined paramedic revived him with two adrenaline shots to the heart.  Interspersed the book’s diary entries are contemporaneous thoughts and accounts from people around Sixx, including bandmates, managers, and his mother (with whom his relationship was strained, to put it mildly), among others.

The opening entry finds Sixx alone in his mansion on Christmas Day 1986, shooting up, or as he describes it, “watching [his] holiday spirit coagulating in a spoon.”  It’s not hyperbole to call it a depressing beginning.  The events of the year that follows include the recording of an album, a tour, numerous misadventures, and an absolutely insane amount of drug consumption. This drug consumption went well beyond just the heroin which had him in its grip.  It was the rock star lifestyle on steroids.

The diary entries range from lucid and clear-headed at one extreme to the mad ramblings of a mind spiraling out of control at the other.  The more lucid entries show Sixx as someone keenly aware of being captive to something from which he desperately wants to be free.  There is a point in the year in which he was able to get away from heroin in particular and drugs in general for ten days or so, but eventually the addiction sucks him back into its vortex.  With regard to the more rambling entries, we find Sixx often times consumed by paranoia, hiding in his closet or flushing his stash (and effectively, hundreds of dollars) down the toilet for fear of being watched through his windows by the police, only to realize later that nothing of the sort actually occurred.  This is followed in some instances by calling his dealer to obtain more drugs, becoming paranoid again after getting high, flushing the drugs again … you know the drill.  Lather, rinse, repeat.

As a quick aside, one of the criticisms I have seen from a few reviewers of this book is that it somehow glorifies or glamorizes addiction.  That opinion is, for the lack of a better term, bat-shinola crazy.  Many of the various diary entries and associated anecdotes in the book range from repulsive, disgusting, to horrifying, to heartbreaking, and other emotions that are far removed from anything resembling glamour.  Nobody with a modicum of sanity would find glamour in drug addiction after reading this book. 

Among the cast of characters surrounding Sixx in his race into hell are numerous enablers that will enrage the reader.  Chief among them are the record company types and assorted managers and others who were only too happy to indulge Sixx in his addiction as long as the band (for which he was the main creative force) was making them money.  Then there are the dealers who made their living by preying on Sixx’s weakness.  I’ll except his bandmates from this dishonorable mention, since all of them were dealing with their own demons at the time.  This applies most keenly to the band’s guitarist (Mick Mars) who has long suffered from a particularly debilitating form of arthritis known as ankylosing spondylitis.

On the flip side, a hero of note in the book is a man named Allen Kovac, Sixx’s personal manager.  Subsequent to the events of the diaries themselves, Sixx had one brief relapse with heroin in which Kovac issued an ultimatum – you can work with me or you can have your heroin.  But not both.  In one of the kindest things anyone has ever done for Sixx, Kovac’s tough love served as the catalyst for his final break from this nasty drug, and was instrumental in leading to full sobriety. 

While the diary portion is extremely tough reading, Sixx’s chronicling of his life subsequent to the events of 1987 serves as a happy and uplifting ending.  As he states in the book, the beauty is in the recovery.  In the 10th Anniversary edition, the “posthumous” adventures, as he calls them, come in two parts, the first leading up to the book’s original 2007 publication, and the second covering the remaining time up to 2017. 

Reading through the author’s description of his post-addiction life, it is at times hard to reconcile that it’s written by the same person who scribbled the diary entries describing the insanity of Christmas 1986 to Christmas 1987.  While some of difference can be attributed to wisdom and maturity gained over the years, it is also apparent that the clarity of a completely sober mind is a significant (if not the dominant) factor.  At the end of the story we find Sixx enjoying marriage and fatherhood far more than he ever enjoyed any rock star excess, and we find a man indulging in creative passions including his love of photography instead of sinking into a debilitating drug addiction.  The contrast between the Nikki Sixx of today and the one from 1987 could not be more striking.

Ultimately, The Heroin Diaries is a story of redemption.

One might wonder why Sixx would chose to bare his soul as he did in The Heroin Diaries; why he would want to show himself at his absolute worst.  Some of this undoubtedly is spurred by the opioid crisis currently ravaging parts of the country.  Understandably, as a recovering addict, he wants to help others through prevention and recovery.  On the prevention side, a reading of the entries in his diary would be more than enough to dissuade almost anybody from trying heroin, cocaine, or other hard drugs.  On the recovery side, the reader will know that if Sixx can climb out of the hole he was in then there is hope for anyone that truly wants to break the chains of addiction.  The opioid crisis will be solved one person at a time, by preventing people from starting down the road Sixx traveled and by demonstrating to present addicts and those around them that their situation, no matter how bad it seems, is not hopeless.  With lives being ruined and families being torn apart by the scourge of opioid addiction, this message is needed now more than ever.

Thank you for sharing, Nikki.