ietgas-blog

[ietgas-blog]

Désenivrez-Vous

Nausea pervades you, really gets into you, and in the end there is seldom an escape to it. Your mind flushes hot in the tightening confines of its corridors. Your body churns in its disequilibrium. Be it in a ship, in an ill-chosen meal, in a fever-dream, or in the bitter aftermath of the bottle, it is the same torrid sense. And in a ship, in an ill-chosen meal, in a fever-dream, or in the bitter aftermath of the bottle, you feel the slow, awful ticking of the hours; you feel the crushing burden of time.

So why choose nausea, when you can be drunk? So be drunk! Be drunk on wine, or on poetry, or on virtue, as you wish; escape the martyrdom of the hours, if only for a little while. But one must be drunk continuously. Continuously, whether on wine, or on poetry, or on virtue, as you wish. But continuously.

Else when you get sober, when you look up to the firmament to ask the wind, the waves, the stars, the birds, and the clock, then they will answer not your mind but your stomach. Then you will feel the distended vastness of the wind, the waves, the stars, the birds, and the clock, which will only fill you with sickness.

And maybe you will see eternity in the wind, the waves, the stars, the birds, and the clock, and become martyred to time. You will be filled with deepest nausea. The only end, really. That's all there is, after the wine, or the poetry, or the virtue.

All that flies, or groans, or rolls, or sings, or speaks, will see your nausea incited. In the end there is always nausea, of the body or of the soul.

*   *   *

Il faut être toujours ivre. Tout est là: c’est l’unique question.

Pour ne pas sentir l’horrible fardeau du Temps qui brise vos épaules et vous penche vers la terre, il faut vous enivrer sans trêve.

Mais de quoi? De vin, de poésie, ou de vertu, à votre guise. Mais enivrez-vous.

Et si quelquefois, sur les marches d’un palais, sur l’herbe verte d’un fossé, dans la solitude morne de votre chambre, vous vous réveillez, l’ivresse déjà diminuée ou disparue,

demandez au vent, à la vague, à l’étoile, à l’oiseau, à l’horloge, à tout ce qui fuit, à tout ce qui gémit, à tout ce qui roule, à tout ce qui chante, à tout ce qui parle, demandez quelle heure il est;

et le vent, la vague, l’étoile, l’oiseau, l’horloge, vous répondront: “Il est l’heure de s’enivrer! Pour n’être pas les esclaves martyrisés du Temps, enivrez-vous; enivrez-vous sans cesse! De vin, de poésie ou de vertu, à votre guise.

[ietgas-blog]

Healthy we cannot call it, and healthy it does not wish to be considered. The Goncourts, in their prefaces, in their Journal, are always insisting on their own pet malady, la névrose. It is in their work, too, that Huysmans notes with delight, “le style tacheté et faisandé”—high-flavored and spotted with corruption—which he himself possesses in the highest degree. 'Having desire without light, curiosity without wisdom, seeking God by strange ways, by ways traced by the hands of men; offering rash incense upon the high places to an unknown God, who is the God of darkness.'

On the great Decadence. From Harper's Magazine, 1893.

[ietgas-blog]

The Poetry of Janus Henderson

Few in the world of high finance are as rich or as successful as Bill Gross. But did you know he is also a poet?

I apologize if the below excerpt isn't up to snuff with the high literature to which you are undoubtedly accustomed. Take it up with Janus Henderson Investors.

So, without further ado, Bill Gross, fund manager (fixed income):

"If I sang a song about Africa Of the spotted giraffe, the hyena's laugh Of the fiery sun rising to meet the day With a stillness belying the lion's evening meal; Would Africa sing a song about me?

If I remembered a time once in Africa, Bride at my shoulder, chasing a leopard's shadow With human eyes and Nikon shutters wide apart Invading the solitude of blackened ancestors; Would Africa remember a time once with me?

If I knew a story of Africa Capturing a disappearing continent for a moment in time Fleeting – far briefer than the earth's reign; At least until its dusty death, Would Africa know a story of me?"

[From Mr. Gross's Jan. 2017 monthly investment outlook. Perhaps the world of fixed income investing really is an untapped well of poetic brilliancies. You can discover more of Mr. Gross's wondrous écritures on his bio page on the Janus Henderson website, and soon thereafter gorge yourself on his artistry. But don't say I didn't warn you.]

[ietgas-blog]

Obscure Music

The deepest I've ever gone is a defunct techno podcast that ran on Zerohedge for a little while after the crash. It was made by a Swiss private equity vice president who went by the nom-de-plume of Marla Singer (current employment unknown).

Only one track remains that I know of: it is called "Albuterol," and it is hosted on a soundcloud channel with no other tracks; the track description is just the channel owner asking fruitlessly and futilely if there is more. There are less than 300 listens, and I know for a fact that I myself am responsible for too many of these.

It fascinates me endlessly. If perchance (this is really a long shot) any of you know of anything else, please do tell.

[ietgas-blog]

Reminder that we are having our final meeting tonight - we will be pitching a gold ETF.

Excerpt from an email. Use your imagination and create a story for this quote; the possibilities are endless.

[ietgas-blog]

ORESTES: Give me my horn-tipped bow, Apollo's gift, wherewith that god declared that I should defend myself against these goddesses, if ever they sought to scare me with wild transports of madness. A mortal hand will wound one of these goddesses, unless she vanish from my sight. Do ye not heed me, or mark the feathered shaft of my far-shooting bow ready to wing its flight? What! do ye linger still? Spread your pinions, skim the sky, and blame those oracles of Phoebus. Ah! why am I raving, panting, gasping? Whither, oh! whither have leapt from off my couch? Once more the storm is past; I see a calm. Sister, why weepest thou, thy head wrapped in thy robe?

From Orestes, by Euripides

[ietgas-blog]

Jupiter, Part II.

Epigraph: "[Il] ne croit pas au 'président jupitérien.' Il considère que le Président est devenu un émetteur comme un autre dans la sphère politico-médiatique. Pour ma part, je ne crois pas au président 'normal.'" [Oct. 2016, challenges.fr]

I. The Nourishment of the Divine.

Jupiter, king of gods and Paris, was not always a creature of money. The goat that suckled him was a physician, or perhaps a professor of neurology; the cave he hid in was Jesuit.

But the infant Jove hungered for the outside. He saw fit to break free and overthrow his oppressor, who would devour him. Perhaps he did it for Juno whom he loved, for whom old Saturn's impulses were somewhat more lascivious, vorarephilic -- conjugal, even, with three children in Amiens. In a sense, she was his fellow prisoner.

Or perhaps he did it to usurp Saturn himself: if so, he would too soon see himself become as Saturn, a banker.

II. The Defeat of Saturn.

Did you think you could emerge unscathed, that your divine innocence would endure? In the dread hours of the desperate fight against Saturn, nothing perished, but too much was remade. Omnia mutantur, nihil interit.

Made sick by your drugs, three stones and siblings your enemy Saturn disgorged:

The first, philosophy, least worldly of arts. The second, civil service, that specter of a better ideal. The third, finance, and therein were you remade.

Which of these was the stone, and which, your kin?

Sick, heaving Saturn these stones or siblings disgorged, and then you slew him. His guts spilled out upon the earth; his testes into the oceans and into the divorce-courts, birthing Venus, and freeing Juno, whom you wed.

III. The Seizing of the Heavens.

"And in the dark of night I stole away to the burned temple on the Capitoline Hill of the cult of Iuppiter. I was but a boy; I knew I should not be there, and I was deathly afraid. But when I climbed the wall and saw the great broken statue of Jove himself, I was enraptured, and could not keep myself away.

"It was all empty, or so I thought. There would have been more people, priests and slaves and pilgrims, but that the fire in weeks past had burnt everything to ruins. And so I thought I was alone and I went further in, when I heard a voice ring out: 'Wherefore go ye here, in the House of Iuppiter Feretrius himself?'

"In fright I spun to face my accuser, and I saw the old tender of the grounds, who alone amongst the faithful had stayed to consecrate the ruins. My eyes met his in the full moon's light, and I saw that he was blind. And I said to him thus: 'Slave, I beg thee pardon; I am only a boy who came to see the dread visage of Iuppiter, when at other times the great men of the city might bar my way.' And I bowed prostrate toward him and begged his mercy.

"He spake: 'Come, boy, I shall tell you a story. Do you know all the old stories of the Lord of the Heavens, Keeper of Oaths?' And I said: 'Not all, but many. For out of all the revered Gods, he is my favorite.' And he responded: 'I shall tell you a story that I know, that few others have heard. It is a telling of his victory over the titans and then the children of Terra.'

"And he began: 'It was in the regions far North of here that the fight was finished. Iuppiter had fought Saturn, and his brethren had fought the titans, and when the Saturn and the titans neared defeat they fled North from Olympus to lick their wounds and seek revenge. But Iuppiter and his kindred Gods pursued, and they were slain, or else cast into the depths beneath of which no man shall speak.'

"All this I knew, and I began to tell him thus, but with a sharp gesture he quieted me. When he continued I did not know the tale any more. He spake: 'And so Iuppiter had known his first victory, but mother Terra in her love and her wrath was displeased, and so she brought forth monstrous children to wage war on the Gods. Of these, one was fairest and foulest. I know not its name here, but in Greece we call it Echidna, and it was half a nymph, and half again a great, twisting serpent, which birthed constantly the most evil of monsters. In the far Northern regions called in that strange tongue Aisne and Pas-de-Calais Echidna made her lair and birthed her armies, and when she and her monstrous brood set out to make war against the Gods in Olympus, all hid and trembled save Iuppiter almighty. Iuppiter alone of the Gods had courage enough to face her. The mortals of that time supplicated Iuppiter Lord of Thunder that he might save them from hateful Echidna. But the third part of them turned and gave offerings to Echidna instead, that she might spare them, and so formed the front ranks of her dread armies.'

"I was sorely frightened, and told the old slave so. I said: 'But the Gods and Iuppiter, triumph, do they not? Else why do we give offerings to divine Iuppiter and not to Echidna?'

"And he answered, and I was relieved: 'Iuppiter, bringer of victory, en marche, knew triumph! In those strange Northern regions he ventured forth and he slew her brood and then he cast her down into dark places, which one can still find deep beneath the earth, if one is looking. And so Olympus was secured, and so to this day celestial Iuppiter reigns. And so we have our own Republic, most sacred of things, and so we to this day live, and give thanks to the Gods, amongst whom Iuppiter presides foremost, who in their strength and their wisdom look over us all.'

"The old slave spoke more, and longer, about events that transpired after that fateful day, but I had fast fallen asleep, and heard nothing further. The next day I returned to the burned ruins of the Capitoline temple, but the old slave was gone. For several years now I have searched for him, but never have I found sign."

IV. The Seduction of Europa.

Celestial Jupiter, lightbringer, stormbringer, keeper of oaths and king of gods and men, Jupiter of the stone, of the lightning, of the capitol, the indomitable victor, the lord of everything. Thus you were, and you did thus:

You saw her, that fair princess of the line of Io, and in your heart you found lust, or perhaps even love. Juno, forgotten, you ran to pursue. You were a bull, the great bull market of the post-crisis epoch, as white as desire, as grand and strong and immovable as anything. You were irresistible.

And Europa fell before you. She did not even tremble as she approached you. You carried her far from her Phoenician home, far from royal London. She clung to your back as you trampled Frankfurt and the Aegean beneath you, she kissed your snow-white hide as you bore her to the île where would be born the race of Crete.

And you, Jove, king of the gods and lord of all men, were so excited and enraptured in your stolen love that you fell to tweets:

"Paris accueillera l’Autorité bancaire européenne ! C’est la reconnaissance de l’attractivité et de l’engagement européen de la France. Heureux et fier pour notre pays." [20 Nov. 2017]

And you so ravished Europe that her own kingdom, a generation after, would maintain a certain fetish for bulls. At least according to Pasiphaë, who used any excuse she could take.

But in your lust, were you blinded? Did Europe so fill your vision that you did not see the thunderclouds ahead, you did not see the form of your great bull fading, you did not see that fateful drop? It had happened before with Io, after all, in the first crisis. Greece had wept, then, until the tears of its malaise had dried into the bitter salt of default and austerity. O Jupiter, sovereign of gods, indomitable lord of the heavens, know ye this: not all thunderclouds are of your making.

Or perhaps remember Callisto, that other lovely nymph whom you seduced and whom you ravished, but whom Juno turned into a bear.

All does not end well with your lovers.

V. The Fate of Jove.

The seeds of our fall are sown irrevocably in our rise. Jove too was not immortal; just as he overthrew proud Saturn, so too could he himself be overthrown.

Pursued by disbelief, he fled from Greece to Rome, wherein he took his present name. But in Rome, though he held as many epithets as he held thunderbolts, no lightning could avail him from the coming of another. In hoc signo vinces, and what was once won by the sword has now by it been lost.

The long centuries have passed, and now Jupiter is no more, save in monuments, books, and memories.

[ietgas-blog]

Jupiter, Part I.

I. You, lovely heroine of the nation, virtue has been your only guide and arm. To Paris it leads you.

In your hands you clutch a tome of a better ideal, which you hold also in your heart; today, you will save a hundred thousand. Thus always to tyrants, and you, rare beauteous virtue, shall bear the eternal honor.

In all these days you have been chaste as a knife.

* * *

II. The black serpent of a man crept from his impure cavern. His skin fell in flakes about him, his murderous teeth chattered as he recounted the victims of the Revolution in insidious inky scrawl.

Like a serpent this revolutionary crept from his bath and he wreathed himself in phlegm and bath-towels to come meet you, and you trembled. Who would not tremble before such a false friend of the people?

How sharper than a serpent's tooth, his pen. It hissed as you fed it the false names of conspirators. And he who clutched it hungered too for these names, so much so that he did not see it when you drew out your dagger, he did not see how your hands thrilled with the compulsion of virtue, he did not see you plunge the dagger into his tyrant's breast.

"Aidez-moi, ma chère amie!"

And the deed was done, and the purest motives of the Republic were preserved. Or so you told yourself, and hoped.

* * *

III. "O, hero of the Revolution, savior of the people! Rise, rise, to inspire thy nation and her citizens, even after death; the love thou hast borne us and the hate thou hast borne our enemies; thy exhortations writ not in ink but in blood; may thou save us still! Thou hast been the truest martyr of the Republic. We shall not soon forget thy spirit, which has given us so much hope, for the warlike days to come. And thy killer, she is dead."

* * *

IV. There was then the Thermidorian reaction, and the great and awful comet that was Napoleon, then some restorations and more republics and even a second empire, with war and revolution strewn throughout. Now France is in her fifth republic.

See, Marat, the fruits of thy labors!

(See, Corday, the flowing blossom of thy knife.)

* * *

V. There has passed the election of this recent year, and the less refulgent star of Macron has risen, and now falls. His present plummeting approval rating suggests he will never ascend to coronating plebiscite.

And Macron laments: "La France n'est pas un pays réformable." Thursday, 24 August, in Bucharest.

(And the President of the Republic continues: "Beaucoup ont essayé et n'y ont pas réussi, car les Français détestent les réformes. Dès qu'on peut éviter les réformes, on le fait.")

But must reform be impossible, must there be only the revolutionary correspondence of Marat, then the reactionary dagger of Corday?

It is the old problem: blood, blood, wash clean thyself.