THE MODERN AGE IN ARMS
Kelly
Jane Torrance and I are discussing Evelyn
Waugh’s Sword
of Honour. She is reading it for the
first time; I have read it several times. We begin with
the first volume of the trilogy, Men
at Arms.
Dear Kelly:
You tell me you do not read much literature of the 20th
century. I wonder if for you, born in 1976, Evelyn Waugh
is in Merchant-Ivory territory. When Waugh was born in
1903, Edward VII was King. When he died in 1966, Harold
Wilson was Prime Minister; two world wars and their
attendant revolutions had swept away the world Waugh had
known.
These revolutions have continued apace. When Waugh
died, I was 10 years old, and to me the world of 1966
sometimes appears as remote as Georgian England. Winston
Churchill, a figure who appears offstage in Sword of
Honour, had died a year earlier. Peter Hitchens
commences his remarkable book The
Abolition of Britain by contrasting the
funerals of Churchill and the Princess of Wales:
Had Winston Churchill’s
cortège rolled through the London of 1997, it would have
been met by puzzlement and even indifference by millions
who were almost completely ignorant of his life and his
era. If, by some magic process, the British people of 1965
had been shown the events surrounding the Princess’s
death, they would have been shocked and—in many
cases—actually disgusted. There is no clearer measure of
the change which has overtaken the culture of this country
in a matter of thirty-five years, the sort of change which
in past times might have come about over a matter of
centuries.
Imagine for a moment that a
young woman, tearfully placing flowers against the gates
of Kensington Palace in the autumn of 1997, had been
plucked out of her time and allowed to wander at will
through the London of thirty-two years before. Imagine how
much would amaze her and how little she would find that
was well known to her by sight, sound, taste or smell.
Joining the shuffling line of mourners waiting to file
past Churchill’s coffin in Westminster Hall, she would
have been astonished by how strongly men outnumbered women
and by the dowdy and conservative fashions they wore. She
would be surprised to see so many overcoats and hats and
headscarves, so many carefully polished and much-mended
leather shoes, so many tightly tied ties on the men, so
many schoolboys wearing shorts and caps. Overhearing their
conversation, she would notice the absence of swear-words;
the edgy, plummy accents of the middle-class and the
earthy tongue of the working-class Londoner, much richer,
slower and gamier than the thin Estuary English of her own
time…
Hitchens goes on to enumerate the myriad other
differences that would have astonished the time-traveller
of 1997. They would not have astonished Evelyn Waugh. The
Cult of Youth, Feminism, the Sexual Revolution, the
Therapeutic State and the Classless Society had triumphed
well before the 1960s. It is arguable that the changes he
lived through, social as well as technological, were more
profound than those Hitchens enumerates.
The upheavals of the 1960s and beyond were only the
outward manifestations of intellectual battles fought
decades earlier. They were the result of a change in the
habit of mind. Hitchens argues:
Few people under the age of
fifty now possess what could be described as a
Conservative imagination. Their attitude towards
sexuality, drugs, manners, dress, food, swearwords, music
and religion has little or nothing in common with the
traditional idea of Conservative behaviour.
Did Waugh possess the "Conservative
imagination"? Not I think in Hitchens’s sense. Here
is the famous passage from the beginning of Men at Arms
describing Guy Crouchback’s reaction to the Ribbentrop-Molotov
Pact of 1939, which allied Nazi Germany to
Soviet Russia and doomed Poland and France:
News that shook the
politicians and young poets of a dozen capital cities
brought deep peace to one English heart. Eight years of
shame and loneliness were ended…The German Nazis he knew
to be mad and bad. Their participation dishonoured the
cause of Spain, but the troubles of Bohemia, the year
before, left him quite indifferent. When Prague fell, he
knew that war was inevitable. He expected his country to
go to war in a panic, for the wrong reasons or for no
reason at all, with the wrong allies, in pitiful weakness.
But now, splendidly, everything had become clear. The
enemy at last was plain in view, huge and hateful, all
disguise cast off. It was the Modern Age in arms.
What Waugh meant by the "Modern Age" was
nothing less than the Reformation and the Enlightenment. A
Catholic convert, he was a staunch member of what was
called, pre-Vatican II, the Church
Militant. Waugh regarded the evils of the
Modern Age as the predictable consequences of its
rejection of God. He had a great affection for the Ancien
Regime, for the Church of England, the "Roast
Beef of Old England," the world of Tickeridge and the
Halberdiers, but ultimately rejected it as inadequate.
While others saw England as a block of granite, Waugh
recognized it as worm-ridden timber.
Not least spiritually. Here is another telling passage
from Men at Arms. The speaker is Brigadier
Ritchie-Hook, for whom "biffing" is all:
I remember once a sergeant of
mine got his leg blown off. There was nothing to be done
for the poor beggar. It had taken half his body with it.
He was a goner all right but quite sensible, and there was
a padre one side of him trying to make him pray and me the
other side, and all he’d think about was football.
Luckily I know the latest League results, and those I
didn’t know, I made up. I told him his home team was
doing fine, and he died smiling. If ever I see a padre
getting above himself, I pull his leg about that. Of
course it’s different with Catholics. Their priests hold
on to them to the last. It’s a horrible sight to see
them whispering at a dying man. They kill hundreds just
with fright.
The genesis of this speech was a real incident that
occurred during the First World War, described in
Waugh’s biography
of Monsignor Ronald Knox:
Maurice Child’s application
[to become an Anglican military chaplain] was refused on
the grounds, it was said, that in his interview with the
Chaplain-General he was asked what he would do for a dying
man and answered: "Hear his confession and give him
absolution." The correct answer was: "Give him a
cigarette and take any last message he may have for his
family."
The Chaplain-General’s response appalled Knox and
served to persuade him to abandon the Church of England
for the Roman Church. Ritchie-Hook and the
Chaplain-General were English in a way Knox and Waugh were
not. To them, the purpose of life was obvious: to serve
God and join him in Heaven. The Second World War is only
incidental to the purpose of Sword of Honour: to
demonstrate the effect of Providence on a single soul: Guy
Crouchback’s.
All this is to say, Kelly, I wonder how your sceptical,
Whig temperament reacts to Waugh’s adamantine Reaction.
Waugh’s world is gone, and little of the Church he knew
remains. Even among Catholics, Waugh’s worldview is
considered obsolete at best, sinful at worst. To you, Guy
Crouchback must seem as remote a figure as Roger of
Waybroke, the Crusader Knight. Can Men at Arms be
"relevant" to you, or is it a period piece in
every sense?
[Kelly's response is here.]
- Kevin
Michael Grace,
11.18 a.m., March 31, 2003 [Link]
-
NOCHE TRISTE
I was speaking with Kathy
Shaidle on Wednesday. "Things will get
better," she assured me. I was grateful for her
comfort, but I couldn’t help thinking, Is that an
empirical observation?
On Thursday morning, my Internet service failed. Telus
advised powering down my system and then powering up. I
set my computer to hibernate and turned it off. Upon
turning it on, I was greeted with a message suggesting I
had a floppy disk in my A: drive. There was no such disk
present there. Repeated reboots gave the same result. I
rebooted again, this time with XP in my CD-ROM drive. I
wasn’t even given the safe mode option.
I called Microsoft. After the technician determined
that I could not even run FIXDSK or CHKDSK, he said my
hard drive was likely corrupted. This was unfortunate
news, as this was not the best time to be forced to buy a
new hard drive. Still, I had another hard drive in the
machine, and it was not corrupt, as far as I knew. I
unplugged the tower and took it to the mall. I arranged
the purchase of a new drive and instructed the store to
copy my files from the bad, old drive to good, new one. I
was told my computer would be ready at best Friday, at
worst Saturday.
Friday afternoon saw me at the mall for another
purpose, so I stopped by the computer store. My machine
would not be ready until Saturday, the man said. Oh, and
by the way, your C: drive is irretrievably damaged. Everything
is gone? Everything.
Everything consisted of…the better part of a
decade of my life:
All my stories, interviews
and Report text files.
All my phone numbers, street
and email addresses: over 5,000 contacts going back to
1992.
All programs for which I no
longer had installation disks.
All my personal and
professional correspondence: tens of thousands of email
messages, Instant Messenger chats, photos and videos.
Before long, my eyes were swollen with weeping, and my
eyelids were dim. I cried for sadder music and for
stronger wine, but when the feast was finished and the
lamps expired, then fell the shadow. I was sick and
desolate of an old passion, yea, hungry for the lips of my
desire.
The worst is not, so long as we can say, "This is
the worst." This is the worst, but things can always
get worse still. Dispossession, perhaps, or boils from the
sole of my foot unto my crown. Comforter, where, where is
your comforting?
Saturday morning found me hollow in body and spirit.
That afternoon, I picked up my computer and took it home.
It sat in my office for several hours; I couldn’t face
the task of hooking it up and confirming the extent of my
loss. I went to sleep instead.
On Saturday evening, I began the long haul of
reinstallation and of attempting to remember settings
established and forgotten years earlier.
Today, I managed to reconstruct my Web files from those
posted on my ISP. And now I’m off to reread Sword
of Honour.
Quantitative judgements don’t apply. I’ll try
to remember that.
- Kevin
Michael Grace,
3.46 p.m., March 23, 2003 [Link]
-
HIS BARK, THEIR BITE
The bombs have begun falling on Baghdad, so Colonel
Andrew Coyne of the National Post should be one
happy little poodle.
Like many of the pundit class
He loves the sound of breaking glass
So why is he yapping like a dog who's lost his bone?
Because Canada is not a member of the "coalition of
the willing" and will miss out on all the fun of
breaking plenty of glass (and skulls) in Iraq.
But why should Canada support Bush’s invasion? Has
Iraq harmed Canada? Is it likely or even possible that
Iraq could harm Canada? Has Iraq harmed one of our allies?
Does Iraq threaten to overrun the Saudi oilfields, as was
declared falsely
in 1990? The Colonel makes no such claims. Here’s the
best he can do:
The Americans…are in a
battle, they believe, for their very survival, a desperate
race to snuff out macroterrorism at its source, in its
sponsor states, before it can strike again. They need to
know who their real friends are, who they can rely on, who
has something to offer.
A subtle polemicist indeed is our Col. Coyne. He does
not claim that the Americans are in a battle for
their very survival, only that they believe they
are. But do they? More to the point, do Bush and his
neocon cabal believe this? If so, they have done a
piss-poor job of persuading others, even with the aid of out-of-date
and faked
documents. To judge by his most recent statements, the
primary excuse for invasion is now Bush’s newfound and
touching concern
for the people of Iraq.*
But why does an alleged belief (cynical posture, more
like) of the United States compel Canada to support
invasion? According to Col. Coyne:
Already there is talk of
removing troops from Germany, and that's just the start.
It may be that, post-Iraq, the Americans will discard all
such fixed alliances, in favour of more ad hoc
"coalitions of the willing." Or if they do wish
to cast these alliances in some more permanent form, it
will be with states that are actually prepared to
contribute something in return--or at the very least, will
not desert them in a crisis. Hmmm. Now who does that leave
out?
So Mr. Chretien's decision
has the virtue of clarifying matters. In future, not only
will Canada be defenceless, or nearly so, but also
friendless, at least as far as military matters are
concerned.
First of all, Canada has not "deserted"
America in a crisis. Nor has it "stabb[ed its] best
friend in the back." Jean Chretien’s lack of
support for the "axis of evil" lie was made manifest
as soon as it escaped from David Frum’s fevered mind.
Second, the notion that America would ever leave Canada
"defenceless" is preposterous. America will
continue to defend Canada—not because it cares about Canada
but because America cannot tolerate a military
threat from the north.
Implicit in Col. Coyne’s warning is the assertion
that Canada has been "Finlandized"—or, worse,
is now a vassal state of the United States. Now it would
be outrageous to even suggest that Col. Coyne and his
fellow poodles at the National Post would welcome
the American conquest of Canada, that they are quislings
in waiting. But one wonders exactly what the Poodle Party
is so afraid of. Abrogation of NAFTA and the Free Trade
Agreement? Closure of the border? Bob Keyes, senior
vice-president of the Canadian Chamber of Commerce, told
me in November 2001:
We need each other badly. Do
we need them more than they need us? Yes. But we are the
biggest trading partner of 38 of the 50 states.
Would the United States risk widespread economic
dislocation, even a depression, to demonstrate its
displeasure with Canada’s refusal to support the Pax
Americana? Anything’s possible with George W. Bush
in charge. But wouldn’t it be prudent for Canada to wait
for the gun to be put to its head before surrendering its
sovereignty? And what makes Col. Coyne so sure that
sucking up to Uncle Sam would protect Canada anyway?
Perhaps it has escaped Col. Coyne’s attention that
George W. Bush is not a free trader. It certainly has not
escaped our attention in British Columbia, where Bush’s softwood
lumber tariff has pretty much finished off
what remained of our forestry industry.
Tony Blair’s reward from Bush for risking his career
in America’s interest was first a whacking tariff on
European Union steel and then a kick
in the goolies from Donald Rumsfeld. If
that’s how America treats its friends… Not that any of
this matters to Col. Coyne and the Poodle Party. Their
motto: Their country, right or wrong.
* Notwithstanding the decade-old embargo
and its attendant hundreds of thousands of victims.
Notwithstanding the likelihood that Saddam Hussein was a
CIA asset as far back as 1961 and the certainty that the
Agency was instrumental in the coup that overthrew Abdel
Karim Kassem in 1963. (It certainly approved, if nothing
else, the Ba’ath coup of 1968.) Notwithstanding that for
all the Bush’s administration crocodile tears over
Saddam’s alleged use of "weapons of mass
destruction,"
"In
1975…the United States Government knowingly helped Iraq
obtain the technology to build its first chemical warfare
plant" (Saïd K. Aburish, Saddam
Hussein: The Politics of Revenge).
Or that in 1984 Donald
Rumsfeld engineered the resumption of
diplomatic relations between the U.S. and Iraq,
notwithstanding widespread reports (certainly believed by
UN Ambassador Jeanne Kirkpatrick) that Iraq had employed
mustard gas against Iran.
Or that the Reagan Administration backed
Iraq’s "aggression" against Iran with military
intelligence and millions in loans and credits.
Once again, it is dangerous to be
America’s enemy but more dangerous still to have been a
friend.
- Kevin
Michael Grace,
1.25 a.m., March 20, 2003 [Link]
-
OBLOMOV RISES
The surprise (and surprising) collaborator I mentioned
earlier is none other than the reclusive and mysterious Kelly
Jane Torrance. Silent since Valentine's
Day, Miss Torrance will soon join me in a discussion of
Evelyn Waugh's Sword
of Honour trilogy. This will be, I
hope, the first of many such joint ventures.
- Kevin
Michael Grace,
1.29 p.m., March 18, 2003 [Link]
-
‘LOYAL’ OPPOSITION
In the week that marks the first anniversary of Stephen
Harper’s election as leader of the Canadian Alliance, it
is time to admit that those of us that criticized him for
his "disappearing act" were mistaken. Surely it
would be best if this impudent twerp were kept in a secure
location, his mouth fastened securely with duct tape.
CTV News reports:
Harper said the government's
decision to send troops to Afghanistan while failing to
support the U.S. position on Iraq is sending mixed signals
to Canada's allies.
"I think what we're
going to see is a very different world in terms of
security," Harper told reporters. "Canada has
distanced itself from our historical allies and is really
nowhere on the map.
"It is very likely that
the U.S., Great Britain and their allies will be at war
with Iraq. We'll [Alliance Party] be cheering for our
allies, and if the Liberals are going to be cheering for
Saddam Hussein then they should have the guts to say
so."
I invite readers to meditate upon this statement, to
luxuriate in its crass fatuity. Here we have Canada’s
Leader of the Opposition, on the eve of the American
invasion of Iraq, implying—but lacking "the guts to
say so"—that the Prime Minister and his government
are cheering for America’s defeat.
Never mind that there isn’t the slightest evidence
for this libel, does Harper have the slightest idea how
damaging it would be to Canada’s interests if anyone
bothered to take him seriously? Is this vicious smart
aleck attempting to incite American reprisals
against Canada?
Perhaps Harper believes that Canada is no longer a
sovereign nation, that Canadians "must"—as
historian Jack Granatstein argues—do
whatever the Americans tell us. If this is the case, then
he should have the guts to say so.
If Tony Blair is Dubya’s poodle, then Stephen Harper
is a poodle wannabe. Fetch, boy. Sit. Roll over. Shake a
paw. Good doggie.
- Kevin
Michael Grace,
3.43 a.m., March 18, 2003 [Link]
-
THE LOST ECLECTICAS
III
Herewith the last lost Eclectica, January 20,
2003: the last Eclectica period. I have some fun
with Michael
Bliss, but, actually, I rather admire the
man. It takes considerable courage for a University of
Toronto professor to express such opinions, and his love
of Canada—the real Canada, not
Trudeau’s bastard creation—is never in doubt.
As we have seen, my second stint in production was not
long-lived. Nor was the respite granted me by recycled
published material. Time for some real blogging and to
revise my CV and FAQ. Not looking forward to the latter,
I'm afraid.
NOTHING TO BE DONE
Except for its more measured style, Michael Bliss’
December 9 National Post column
bears an eerie resemblance to the sentiments normally
expressed in the column you’re reading now. Canada is
going to Hell in a handcart; every day and in every way,
things are just getting worse and worse; all is vanity and
vexation of spirit. Actually, the last is from the Book of
Ecclesiastes, but you catch the drift.
Prof. Bliss warns,
If you want to see a real
change of government in Canada in your lifetime, you're
going to have to screw up your courage, swallow your
reservations and vote for the Alliance in the next
election. If you're not ready to do that, then you might
as well stop gobbling and grumbling as the Liberals carve
up you, your family and your country. You are getting and
will get the government you deserve.
But doesn’t democracy mean the people getting the
government they deserve?
Western Canadians have been not voting Liberal for a
long time. Quebec will never vote Alliance. Nothing short
of an intellectual revolution would induce Atlantic
Canadians to vote Alliance. So when Prof. Bliss says
"you," he means Ontario. And then only certain
Ontarians. This is the fatal flaw in his argument: the
assumption that a Canadian "national interest"
exists. The East votes Liberal because it gets far more
out of Confederation than it puts in. And Prof. Bliss has
forgotten the Liberals’s other clients: ethnic
minorities and single mothers. Why should they forfeit
their advantages, especially as the Liberals have
persuaded most of us that parasitism is the Canadian way?
A bitter Prof. Bliss concludes,
Our fallback position as
Canadians is always to make jokes, to laugh about our
country rather than weep for it. Eventually, though, you
pay a huge price if you can't think of anything better
than to keep on sending in the clowns.
He should keep in mind that some of us came to
understand Liberal hegemony rather earlier than he did and
that laughter is the only thing keeping us sane.
THE SINS OF THE FATHER
Not to worry. Maclean’s has found a Moses to
lead us from our wilderness of spirit: Justin Trudeau, 31.
As Jonathon Gatehouse explains in a December 23 cover
story, Justin has big ideas. He defines "Canadian
values" thus:
It's having medicare, having
education, being peacekeepers, not having nukes in Canada.
Karl Marx said that history repeats itself, the first
time as tragedy, the second as farce. One sees Canada’s
farce, but what happened to our tragedy? Come on, Prof.
Bliss, you’ve got to laugh.
SILVER LINING
Marx’s student Lenin advised revolutionaries to
"accentuate the contradictions." In other words,
things must get worse before they get better. Mark Steyn
would seem to agree about the things getting worse part.
He writes
in the December 30 Post,
We will have Liberal
government until the end of the decade, and, by that time,
the damage to the country, as Mr. Bliss suggested, will be
irreparable. Albertans in particular would be advised to
consider this matter sooner rather than later.
Steyn’s conclusion appears, at first glance, as
gloomy as Prof. Bliss’s.
A vote for Paul Martin, the
man who ensured that Canadian families missed out on a
decade of North American economic growth, is something a
little more than a vote for the usual Liberal complacency,
the usual moral preening on the sidelines, the usual free
lunch in defence. This time round, it will be a vote for
national catastrophe. In the year ahead, Chretien's
countdown to oblivion is our countdown, too.
So the state will wither away, just as Marx
said. Who says Eclectica is all vanity and vexation
of spirit?
FIRST PERSON
This is my final Eclectica column, as I have
returned to production duties at The Report. I
should like to thank Lorne Gunter, who invented the column
in 1994 and suggested I take it over when he left, Paul
Bunner, who graciously allowed me to append my byline to
it and did not complain as I transformed what had been a
digest into a personal expression and Link Byfield, who
protected it for eight years, even as subscriber wrath
threatened to become rebellion.
To paraphrase my great hero, Auberon Waugh, if Eclectica
was seen as a reflection of the national gloom, I hope it
also had the effect of cheering us up.
Those suffering from an irresistible compulsion to read
my opinions can always visit my "blog," the
address of which is printed below.
- Kevin
Michael Grace,
11.15 a.m., March 16, 2003 [Link]
-
THE LOST ECLECTICAS
II
The January 6 edition of my former column continues the
seasonal theme. I hope soon to announce a more ambitious
regular feature about books, a web column with a surprise
(and surprising) collaborator.
BOOKS FOR CHRISTMAS
The old problem with biographies was that one read the
life stories of so many bad men. The new problem is that
biographers have seen fit to more or less invent bad
things about their subjects in order to make them more
"interesting." Neither of these problems
afflicts David Maraniss’s When
Pride Still Mattered: A Life of Vince Lombardi.
This is no mere sports biography; it is a great book about
a great American.
Lombardi made the Green Bay Packers America’s team
and football America’s game. Certainly, he was a wizard
with the Xs and Os, but more important, he demonstrated
how much greatness could be coaxed from men after they had
been persuaded of their own potential. He began with
himself, of course; a small man, even by 1930s standards,
he became, almost by sheer force of will, one of Fordham
University’s legendary "Seven Blocks of
Granite."
Lombardi was not particularly loveable, and Maraniss
doesn’t spare us the toll the pursuit of victory took on
his family. This is not a book for children of any age; it
is imbued with the tragic sense of life. Lombardi was a
profoundly religious man, a thoroughly integrated
Catholic.
He did not invoke God or
Jesus in his locker-room pep talks. In a sense, there was
no need for that—the currents of sports and spirituality
within him converged at a deeper point than mere rhetoric.
The fundamental principles that he used in
coaching—repetition, discipline, clarity, faith,
subsuming individual ego to a larger good—were merely
extensions of the religious ethic he learned from the
Jesuits. In that sense, he made no distinction between the
practice of religion and the sport of football.
Lombardi died only 32 years ago, but the America he
represented, on the field as on Main Street, has largely
vanished.
UNDER THE EYE OF ETERNITY
There is a tendency among critics to slight the novels
of Muriel Spark, perhaps because they are free from
histrionics, perhaps because they give so much pleasure.
In reading her, however, one is reminded of Mencken’s comment
on Beethoven, "The glory that was Greece...the
grandeur that was Rome...a laugh." (Not that there
are many laughs in Beethoven.) Her novels are concerned
with no less than God and His creation, and none more
enjoyably so than Loitering
With Intent. Its heroine, Fleur Talbot,
admits,
I was aware of a demon
inside me that rejoiced in seeing people as they were, and
not only that, but more than ever as they were, and more,
and more.
Loitering With Intent is, like all Spark’s
novels, primarily concerned as well with the Devil and his
creation—every one of her novels has blackmail as its
subject. But it is also about joy, the joy of "being
a woman and an artist in the middle of the 20th
century," the joy of glimpsing the divine. This is a
book that makes one glad to be alive.
A COLD EYE
Lombardi was born the son of an Italian immigrant at a
time when the WASPs still ran America; Spark was born
a Jew in Calvinist Scotland. It has become customary to
bemoan the outsiders's fate, but they are often gifted
with unusual perception. This attribute was doubly given
to the late Shiva Naipaul, who, like his more famous
brother, V.S. Naipaul, was a Hindu born
in black Trinidad then translated into an Englishman. He
was the most savage social critic of his day, with a
particular loathing of identity politics and the other
fatuities that so confound us. He introduces Journey
to Nowhere: A New World Tragedy, his
account of the Jonestown Massacre, with this withering
assessment:
The impression emerged of a
culture overrun by taxonomists of all kinds, who, at a
moment’s notice, could supply tidy printouts that would
explain any event. The categories and labels were to
hand…Within a month or two, the incident would be
exhaustively indexed and quickly forgotten.
Naipaul went to the source of the disaster, San
Francisco, and found the flip side of Vince Lombardi’s
America: a land where identity is in constant flux, a
people who would be as angels and have become as beasts.
HOME, SWEET HOME
Fatuity is also the theme of George and Weedon
Grossmith’s The
Diary of a Nobody—but to rather
happier effect. Charles Pooter, a clerk of no great
account in fin de siècle London, decides to keep a
diary. He can never quite discern why everyone seems to be
laughing at him. This is the funniest book ever written.
- Kevin
Michael Grace,
2.10 a.m., March 16, 2003 [Link]
