So writes the great French author Jules Verne in his book Master of the World published in 1904. Actually, this is a translation, as Verne wrote in his native tongue which happened to be French.
Recently, I had a visit with the "Great Eyrie." Verne's model for the Master of the World's secret hideout was Table Rock, which rises 4,000 feet at the eastern rim of the Blue Ridge mountains in western North Carolina. I live only a hop, skip and a jump from the "Great Eyrie" which has stood for eons waiting for me to behold it's majestic sunrise. I had crossed the Blue Ridge from Tennessee, and found myself sitting in a corner booth at a roadside mom and pops, dawdling over a cup of steaming coffee and waiting for my french toast. The place was half empty, but the regulars had gathered in a mass at a long table a few feet from my own. Most of these regulars were older, retired men who seemed to enjoy the camaraderie of their own kind. Politics was the topic of the day, and I could not help but eavesdrop on the conversation. Some of the men merely sat there listening to their friends spout off their limited knowledge of national and world events. One of the biggest talkers was a rustic looking, lanky fellow with a pot belly and a giant, red bulbous nose that looked remarkably similar to one of those fake ones that you might find at a dollar store.
"That ole Obama ain't no Christian, I tell yuh, he one of those Muslims"
Another giant of a man wearing bib overalls and a red ball cap like uncle Jesse on the Dukes of Hazzard agreed with bulbous nose, and added "If he's American why don't that rascal show his birth certificate?"
The waitress soon appeared with my plate of french toast, and refreshed my nearly empty coffee cup. My mind drifted from the old timers racist rantings to the "Great Eyrie" Perhaps this planet needed some "Master of the World," some Klaatu type character that would come down in a spaceship and land outside the White House. Perhaps, in some manner known only to them they would purge this world from all hate, evil and greed. Then again, more than likely, they would land here, make a cursory assessment, and determine that this world was beyond all hope of saving.
"Sorry Earthlings but you guys just ain't worth the effort."
Sometimes I daydream of being my own "Master of the World." How could I, a mere mortal of average intelligence, claiming very little talent in anything, except perhaps an uncanny ability to call up dates and years from my memory, save the world from itself? When I was a kid I envisioned myself as a Lone Ranger type of hero. I would travel around the country seeking justice, punching out villains and saving helpless women from the clutches of evildoers. I would become a hero with insuperable abilities. Often times I would act out these fantasies by either play acting, or with a pencil and paper, sometimes even creating cartoon characters. The heroes of these early writings were usually nothing more than different personas of myself. They were sketches of a fictional self that only existed in a mind that wandered precariously on the fringe ridges of reality. When, indeed, I one day came to the full realization that life was not a storybook I lapsed into a period of disillusionment. Perhaps even today I still feel the residual effects. There is a fine line between reality and fantasy. I am no Lone Ranger. I know that now. I am more apt to be punched out than do any punching out. Oh well, such is the stuff of life.
"A cry leaped from his mouth, and was heard amid the shrieks of the tempest and the howlings of the thunder. "I, Robur! Robur!-The Master of the World!" Jules Verne
I was awakened from my musings by a cackling voice.
"I don't know about that dang Romney," said bulbous nose, " he's a dang yankee, but I guess he's our only hope of savin our country from them socialists. Ole Sean Hannity thinks so, that's good enuf fer me!"
I had to smile, sitting here listening to these simplistic, moronic conclusions based on other peoples rhetoric. At least I still possessed my own mind. Or, at least I think I do. I am the Master of my own world, though that world exists only in the cavity of my thoughts.
Jules Verne's Master of the World
No comments:
Post a Comment