“The Stillness of Death” from “Song of the Nightingale”

 

THE STILLNESS OF DEATH

–

Kneeling before her tea,

Lady Nyo did not move.

She barely breathed,

Knowing tomorrow depended

Upon her actions today.

–

Lord Nyo was drunk again.

When in his cups

The household scattered.

Beneath the kitchen

Was the crawl space

Where two servants hid their heads-

A third wore an iron pot.

–

Lord Nyo was known

For three things:

Archery-

Temper-

And drink.

–

Tonight he strung

His seven foot bow,

Donned his quiver

High on his back.

–

He looked at the pale face

Of his aging wife,

His eyes blurry, unfocused

And remembered the first time

He pillowed her.

–

She was fifteen.

Her body powdered petals,

Bones like butter,

Black hair like bo silk.

The blush of shy passion

Coursed through her veins

Like a tinted stream.

–

Still beautiful  was she,

Too fragile for his tastes now.

Better a plump courtesan,

Not all delicate and saddened beauty.

–

He drew back the bow

In quick succession-

Let five arrows pierce

The shoji.

Each grazed the shell ear

Of his wife.

–

Lady Nyo’s life hung on her stillness.

She willed herself dead.

Death after all these years

Would have been welcome.

---

This started out in 2011 to be a single poem but had weaved itself into a story of 13 episodes. In part I was greatly influenced by the tanka (poetry) of the great Man’yoshu, an 8th century document (collection) of over 5000 poems by lovers, emperors, court ladies, peasants (represented in their songs), priests and others.  It was a great literary achievement not done at this time anywhere else in the world.

It became a story of a middle aged couple, he much older, an arranged marriage.  He is a general in his daimyo’s (warlords) army and has forgotten the love of a normal family.  Her patience and devotion breaks open his crusty heart. Both are samurai, she from a titled samurai family.

“Song of the Nightingale” was published by Amazon.com in 2016.

 

–

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted , 2019

Painting by the author.

“River of Death”…..

Haibun, “River of Death”

 I’ve had enough horror this weekend and wanted to dial back on that.  So, I am posting this new haibun  I fashioned out of an episode of “Song of the Nightingale”, published by Createspace, 2015.  It’s a bit ghostly.

–

 

The river of death is swollen with bodies fallen into it;

in the end  the bridge of horses cannot help.

—Saigyo

(it was a medieval military tactic to stand horses together to make a bridge for soldiers to cross the river.)

 

“River of Death”

Voice of Lady Nyo:

When the news of my birthing a son reached my husband, he was far from home, to the east, over mountains in dangerous, alien territory. A general in the service of his lord, the gore of battle, and the issue of ‘dying with honor’ began at first light. The air soon filled with the sounds of battle- dying horses and men, drawing their last gasps of life, churned into the mud of immeasurable violence. Death, not new life was before his eyes at dawn. And death, not life, pillowed his head at night. He stunk with the blood of battle as his bow and swords cut a swath through men in service to another and when the battle horns went silent, with tattered banners like defeated clouds hanging limp over the field, acrid smoke stained everything and the piteous cries of the dying echoed in his ears. He wondered if his life would end here. But the gods he didn’t believe in were merciful. His thoughts turned from fierce, ugly warriors towards home and a baby. Still he could not leave. He was caught by status, the prestige of his clan. He could not desert the fate set out from birth. Ah! This was the fate of a man chained to Honor.

Still, in the darkest hours of the night, he said the soft, perfumed shape of me floated down from the fleeting clouds, and I came to him through the smoke of battlefield fires, and he turned on his pallet to embrace this haunting comfort.

–

Shaped like a crossbow

Moon floods the battle below

Too late for the dead.

—

Dark is the hour

when hope is vanquished

the nightingale sings

 

 

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2018

“Ten Thousand Leaves, Love Poems from the Man’yoshu”

I love Japanese poetry, especially the poetry of the Man’yoshu, a collection of remarkable and ‘democratic’ poetry, in other words, poetry that was included in this great document by priests, courtesans, samurai, peasant songs, fishermen, nobles and many other sections of Japanese society from the 7th and 8th centuries of Japan.  In fact, this great document is also an incredible collection of poetry by women:  this is the first time women’s voices were heard in such length. 

Lady Nyo

–

—

“Ten Thousand Leaves, Love Poems from the Man’yoshu”

—

 

“Thick and fast stream my thoughts of you

Like the layers

Of endlessly falling snow

Upon the cedars.

Come to me at night, my man.”

—– from the Man’yoshu

—

It was the first golden age of Japanese civilization. In the eighth century appeared the great metropolis of Nara, (the imperial capital) its broad avenues lined with magnificent temples. Culture rushed in from Korea, China and over the Silk Road, from as far away as Persia, and even from Venice.

We think of Japan in isolation, as it was to become centuries later, but in the 7^th to the 10^th centuries (approximately) the cultural influences were vast and wide and foreign.

In the 8^th century, Japan found it’s first voice, a clear and powerful voice to become one of the most impressive, sophisticated and frank compilations of poetry the world has ever seen. (There are other earlier and then later collections of poetry, but the Man’yoshu is considered to be the best of the poetry collections. There are many reasons (cultural and court changes, etc) but this is a long study and can’t be done in this short presentation.

There are not 10,000 poems (leaves) but over 4,500. Most of these are love poems, (somon)where lovers speak with disarming frankness and clarity, speak to us across 1300 years as if they were us.  Actually, the poems express a decided lack of neurosis that we have come to view sex in the last few centuries. There is nothing of barriers when it comes to the human heart, longing, emotions and sexuality in these poems. Many of them are openly, expressly erotic.

The authors or contributors of these poems extended from Emperors, Empresses, courtesans, samurai, priests, beggars, fishermen, peasants: a cross section of remarkable variety. A truly democratic endeavor. This was never again to happen in Japan, not at least to this extent.

Otomo No Yakamochi (718-785) is considered to be the main complier of the Man’yoshu. These poems actually span a 130 year history, from around 630 AD to 759 AD.

There are three basic divisions of the poetry in the Man’yoshu.

Banka: elegy on the death of an Emperor or a loved one.

Somon: mutual exchanges of love or longing poetry.

Zoka: Poems of Nature, hunting, etc.

This short presentation will focus only on the Somon form.

Generally the Man’yoshu poetry is considered to be declarative rather than introspective, imagistic rather than abstract. There is an incredible freshness to it all.

There are basically two forms of poetry in the Man’yoshu: choka (long poem, 5-7-5-7-5-7, etc. ending in 7-7) and tanka. (5-7-5-7-7). The ‘long poem’, choka (which isn’t very long by our modern and Western standards) died out of fashion, and tanka became the predominant form of Japanese poetry for the next 1200 years.

Although one would think so, there isn’t a lot of Buddhist influence in the poems. If any religion, there is more Shinto influence especially in the Zoka form, but even that isn’t large. This may seem strange to us, with our notions of culture in Japan, but even centuries later, with the Priest-Poet Saigyo, there is little Buddhist thought within his poems. Religion just doesn’t play such a dominant role in most Japanese poetry, especially at this time.

—

“Going over the fields of murasaki grass

That shimmer crimson,

Going over the fields marked as imperial domain,

Will the guardian of the fields not see you

As you wave your sleeves at me?”

====Princess Nukata

—

This poem is considered by many to be one of the greatest poems in the Man’yoshu. It is presented near the beginning of the collection, giving it prominence. The answer by her former husband (she is now married to the Emperor) Prince Oama, (his brother) is a beautiful poem in its own right.

“If I despised you, who are as beautiful

As the murasaki grass,

Would I be longing for you like this,

Though you are another man’s wife?”

===Prince Oama

–

“Do not let men find out

By smiling at me so apparently,

Like the clouds that clearly cross

Over the verdant mountains.”

—–Lady Otomo Sakanoue

–

There are more poems by this poet than any other woman in the Man’yoshu. What is remarkable are the amount of women poets included in the Man’yoshu. This is only possible because the Confucian philosophy was not prominent yet in Japan. When it became influential, women lost much status: before they were allowed to own property, title, name, divorce, to keep custody of their children. After, they were relegated to indoors, stripped of much power and status.

–

“Whose words are these,

Spoken to the wife of another?

Whose words are these,

That bade me untie

The sash of my robe?”

—-Anonymous

–

Many of the poems in the Man’yoshu were folk songs, or parts of folk songs. And this repeated interest in ‘the wife of another’ was an object of male desire; the Man’yoshu is full of this theme.

“As I turn my gaze upward

And see the crescent moon,

I am reminded

Of the trailing eyebrows

Of the woman I saw but once.”

—-Otomo Yakamochi

This was written by Otomo at the age of 16!

–

“I have fallen into a yearning

With no requite,

For a girl who, when night comes

Sleeps pillowed in another’s arms.

—-Anonymous

–

“If men can touch

Even the untouchable sacred tree,

Why can I not touch you

Simply because you are another’s wife?”

—-Otomo Yasumaro

–

To finish with some anonymous poems:

“The flowers of the plum,

Were covered with fallen snow

Which I wrapped up

But when I tried to have you see

It was melting in my hands.”

–

“This body of mine

Has crossed the mountain barrier

And is here indeed!

But this heart of mine remains

Drawing closer to my wife.”

–

“The moon crossed the sky

And I saw him only once

In its pale light

Yet, the person whom I saw

Does appear to me in dreams.”

–

“I shall not take a brush

To this hair that lies

Disheveled in the morning,

For it retains the touch

Of my dear lord’s arms that pillowed me.”

—-Anonymous

—

I end with some poems of my own inspired by the verse below:

–

Thick and fast stream my thoughts of you
Like the layers
Of endlessly falling snow
Upon the cedars.
“Come to me at night, my man.”

….Man’yoshu, 8th century

–

Come to me

If even only in my dreams

Where my head rests upon my arm

And not yours–

Let this veiled moon

Above and these dark, broodingpines below

“Be witness to our love, my man.”

Come to me,

When the rocks have disappeared

Under sheets of snow,

The moon appears through tattered clouds.

I will be

Listening for the sound of

Your footfall in the dark.

 

Come to me, my man,

Part the blinds and come into my arms,

Snuggle against my warm breast

And let my belly

Warm your soul.

–

Above poems of mine were included in “Song of the Nightingale”, published by Amazon. 2015

–

–

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2011-2015

 

(“Nightingales”, Jane Kohut-Bartels, watercolor, 2015)

“Lord Nyo’s Return”, from “Song of the Nightingale”, Episode 12.

This is only a part of Episode 12 as it is long.

Perhaps a strong man
Should not offer love without
Having love returned
But this grieving ugly warrior
Still finds his love is growing

 

Lord Nyo stunk with the blood of battle
As his bow and swords cut a swath
Through men in service to another.
When the battle horns went silent,
With tattered banners like defeated clouds
Limp over the field,
Acrid smoke stained everything
And the piteous cries of the dying
Echoed in his ears.
He wondered if his life would end here.
–
But the gods that he didn’t believe in
Were merciful, he lived
And his thoughts turned from fierce, ugly warriors
Towards home and a baby.
–
It took a month
For Lord Nyo to lead his remaining men,
Battle-weary and maimed
Some in body, all in spirit
Some not destined for further life,
But to die in the arms of women and temple priests,
In the shade of Gassan mountain.
No shame in this,
They had fought like devils
And only their daimyos
Could claim ‘victory’.

Lord Nyo pushed himself,
His aging war horse,
His men,
Only stopping to bathe
Once in a cold mountain stream,
To wash the dust of battle
From his eyes,
The soot of many fires from his face.
He still looked like a ghoul,
would frighten any baby.

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2016

“Song of the Nightingale” can be obtained at Amazon.com

“River of Death”, from “Song of the Nightingale”

 

“Song of the Nightingale” is a tale in 12 episodes about a marriage in 17th century Japan. Lord Nyo and Lady Nyo, he a samurai and she from the powerful clan Fujiwara, have been married since she was fifteen. Now she is thirty and Lord Nyo sixty. Magic, a tricky Tengu and a baby plucked from the surface of the moon figure in the story.

The poetry of Saigyo is noted: where it isn’t his,  it’s mine.
Episode 11 is a scene from a battlefield, as Lord Nyo is a general in the provincial army of Lord Mori, an aging and despot daimyo in north west Japan, near Moon (Gassan) Mountain.

Lady Nyo…but not the one in the story.

–

THE RIVER OF DEATH, episode 11

There’s no gap or break in the ranks of those marching under the hill:
an endless line of dying men, coming on and on and on….
—Saigyo

–
When the news of Lady Nyo
Birthing a son
Reached Lord Nyo
He was far from home,
To the east,
Over mountains
In dangerous, alien territory.
–
A general in the service
Of his lord,
The gore of battle,
The issue of ‘dying with honor’
Began at first light,
The air soon filled with sounds of battle-
Dying horses, dying men
Drawing their last gasps of life,
Churned into the mud of immeasurable violence.

–

The river of death is swollen with bodies fallen into it;
in the end the bridge of horses cannot help.
—Saigyo

–
Death, not new life
Was before his eyes at dawn,
And death, not life
Pillowed his head at night.
–

A battle rages around me,
But inside this old warrior
A battle rages inside my heart.
It is heavy with sorrow,
So tired beyond my old bones.

 

What good have we done
In watering the soil
With blood and offal
of sons?
–Lady Nyo
–

He stunk with the blood of battle
As his bow and swords cut a swath
Through men in service to another
And when the battle horns went silent,
With tattered banners like defeated clouds
Hanging limp over the field,
Acrid smoke stained everything
And the piteous cries of the dying
Echoed in his ears.
He wondered if his life would end here.

But the gods that he didn’t believe in
Were merciful.
His thoughts turned from fierce, ugly warriors
Towards home and a baby.

Still, he could not leave.
He was caught by status,
The prestige of his clan.
He could not desert the
Fate set out from birth.

Ah! This was fate of a man in servitude
To his Lord Daimyo.
This was the fate
Of a man chained to Honor.

Still, in the darkest hours of the night
The soft and perfumed shape of his wife
Floated down to him from the fleeting clouds,
Came to him through the smoke of battlefield fires,
And he turned on his pallet
To embrace this haunting comfort.
–

Off in the distance
There I see my loved one’s home
On the horizon.
How I long to be there soon
Get along black steed of mine!

—from the Man’yoshu
–

Jane Kohut-Bartels
Copyrighted, 2015-18

“Song of the Nightingale” was published on Amazon.com in 2015

 

“Moon Child”, from “Song of the Nightingale”

A few years ago I wrote and published “Song of the Nightingale”, on Amazon.  It was written in 13 episodes about a 16th century Japanese couple, married for decades and without children.  This series of poetry became part of “The Kimono”, to be published sometime this summer.

“Tsuki” is a word for moon.  Jizo is a Japanese Shinto god.

–

Lady Nyo was barren, a ‘stone’ woman.
Once there was hope of heirs,
Babies to raise, coddle.
But fate provided nothing
Not even a stillborn to mourn,
Buried under the snow
With the fog of incense rising
To a leaden sky.

Many times Lady Nyo
Passed the temple of the humble Lord Jizo,
Riding in her palm-leaf carriage
Drawn by white oxen adorned with ribbons, bells.
Many times she peeked through curtains
At his simple, stone statue,
Bedecked with babies’ bids, knitted hats,
The offering of a grateful mother, or
A mournful one.

Ah! To be as much a woman
As her lowest servant with a swelling belly!
How she wanted to leave her own offering
Of her child’s garment at his feet!

 

Lady Nyo decided to make a pilgrimage.
She would walk barefoot through the fragrant murasaki grass,
She would wear a humble hemp gown,
She would seek advice from temple priests.

Lady Nyo and her old nurse set out one morning,
And though her old nurse grumbled and groaned,
Lady Nyo was the vision of piety walking
Through the delicate morning mists –
These frail ghosts of nothingness.

The priest had a long, red nose,
Wore a robe none too clean,
And he scratched at lice
Under the folds of his gown.
He had feathers growing in his ears
And feet like a large bird.

A Tengu!
A trifler of men and women!
But they were staring at his nose,
And missed his feet.

“When the Moon grows full,
Row out in the bay,
Directly under the Moon
And climb up a long ladder.
You will be pulled by the Moon’s tides
To its surface,
And there you will find what you want.”

When the Moon blossomed into a large
Bright lantern in the sky,
They rowed out in the bay,
Two trusted ladies to steady the ladder
And one to spare.
Lady Nyo kicked off her geta,
Tucked her gown into the obi
(exposing her lady-parts),
And ignoring the remarks of her old nurse,
Climbed directly under the Moon.

So powerful
Was the pull of the Moon
That fish and crabs,
Seahorses and seaweed,
Octopi, too
Rose straight up from the waters
Into the night’s air!
Lady Nyo’s hair and sleeves
Were also pulled by the Moon
And her kimono almost came over her head!

With a summersault
She flipped onto the surface
And found her bare feet
Sinking into the yellow-tofu of the Moon.

She heard a gurgling
And gurgling meant babies,
So she searched on spongy ground
Followed by a few seahorses who were curious
And a few fish who weren’t.

Past prominent craters
One could see from Earth,
Lady Nyo found a baby tucked in the Moon’s soil.

Ah! A fat little boy blowing bubbles,
Sucking on toes,
Bright black eyes like pebbles
Black hair as thick as brocade!

Lady Nyo bent down,
And lifting him
She heard a sucking noise.
He was attached to the Moon
By a longish tail
That thrashed around like a little snake
As she pulled him free.

She placed him at her milk-less breast
But soon he grimaced and started to howl,
So she tucked him in her robe,
Aimed for the ladder,
Somersaulted back into the night,
Where she and her ladies rowed for shore.

The baby, now named Tsuki,
Was put to a wet nurse
His tail mostly disappearing,
Shriveling up like a proper umbilical cord–
Though there remained a little vestigial tail
That wagged with anticipation when placed at the breast,
Or when the full Moon appeared
In the black bowl of night.

The Tengu had flown the coop,
Never to be seen again.
But Lady Nyo no longer envied ladies
With swelling bellies,
For her own arms were full and heavy
With this yellow Moon-child.

Through fragrant fields
Of murasaki grass,
Lady Nyo and Tsuki
Would walk alone,
Where they would lay
Offerings of knitted bibs,
Strings of money, toys
And a feather
At the feet of Lord Jizo,
When the Moon was fullest
In a promising sky.

Jane Kohut-Bartels
Copyrighted, 2011-2018

“Lord Nyo’s Lament”, from “Song of the Nightingale”

Lord Nyo’s Lament

Oh my wife!
My feet take me over mountains
In the service to our lord
But my heart stays tucked in the bosom
Of your robe.
–
Lady Nyo, circa 2015

 

The song of the arrow
As it arced into the sea
Was as tuneless
As a badly strung samisen.

Gun- metal clouds
Stretched across a dull horizon
The sun still asleep
As he should be
His quiver empty
His heart, too.

When had the callousness of life and death
Become as comfortable as breath to him?
He had become too much the warrior
And too little the man.

His distance from his wife,
From most of life
Was as if some unseen object
Kept them ten paces apart.
Perhaps it was the cloud-barrier
Of earthly lusts which obscured
The Sun of Buddha?

 

Perhaps he should pray.
What God would listen?
Then it came to him
That joker of a Buddha, Fudo
With his rope to pull him from Hell
And his sword to cut through foolishness-
Fudo would listen.
Fudo knew the quaking hearts
The illusions embraced
To stomach the battlefield
The fog of drink,
To face life
In the service of Death.
Fudo would save him from
The yellow waters of Hell.

He remembered those years
When she could bring him to his knees
With the promise of dark mystery
Between silken thighs,
And the glimpse of her white wrist-
A river of passion
Just beneath the surface.
How he had steeled his heart
Believing himself unmanned
For the love she induced!

Three cranes flew low to the shore,
Legs streaming like black ribbons behind.
Three cranes, three prayers, three chances
To find his way back
Bound up in Fudo’s ropes,
Prodded in the ass by Fudo’s sword.

He would write a poem
On a bone-white fan
To leave on her cushion.
She would know his love
She would know his sorrow.

The sea took his arrows
Beyond the breakers,
The glint of sleek feathers
Catching thin rays of light.
An unexpected peace came over him
As they journeyed far from his hands.

Jane Kohut-Bartels
Copyrighted, 2016-2018

 

“The Stillness of Death”

 

From “Song of the Nightingale”.  this is the first episode of “Song”.  A few readers were curious about this series, so…..

Lady Nyo

 

 

“My heart, like my clothing
Is saturated with your fragrance.
Your vows of fidelity
Were made to our pillow and not to me.”
—-12th century

–

Kneeling before her tea
Lady Nyo did not move.
She barely breathed-
Tomorrow depended
Upon her action today.

Lord Nyo was drunk again.
When in his cups
The household scattered.
Beneath the kitchen
Was the crawl space
Where three servants
Where hiding.
A fourth wore an iron pot.

Lord Nyo was known
For three things:
Archery-
Temper-
And drink.

Tonight he strung
His seven foot bow,
Donned his quiver
High on his back.
He looked at the pale face
Of his aging wife,
His eyes blurry, unfocused.
He remembered the first time
pillowing her.

She was fifteen.
Her body powdered petals,
Bones like butter,
Black hair like trailing bo silk.
The blush of shy passion
Had coursed through veins
Like a tinted stream.

Still beautiful
Now too fragile for his taste.
Better a plump whore,
Than this delicate, saddened beauty.

He drew back the bow
In quick succession
Let five arrows pierce
The shoji.
Each grazed the shell ear
Of his wife.

Life hung on her stillness.
She willed herself dead.

–
Death after all these years
Would have been welcome.

–

Jane Kohut-Bartels
Copyrighted , 2015

 

“Lady Nyo’s Torment”

 

Front Garden

Haibun Monday is tomorrow night over on dverse.  Come read some wonderful haibun  there. It is one of the very oldest and most popular forms in Japanese literature.  Priests, poets, travelers used the haibun form to document their observations, and sometimes these above were spies.

Lady Nyo

• I stay here waiting for him in the autumn wind, my sash untied,
  Wondering, is he coming now? Is he coming now?
• And the moon is low in the sky, the only company
  I have tonight.
• Now near dawn, paling Milky Way appears–
• .
• And Oh, my husband! There are not stars enough in the heavens
  To equal my sorrowful tears.

---

—

Once I believed
No love could still linger
Within the heart
Yet, something springs from the air
And forces itself on me.

 

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2018

These poems and tanka above come from “Song of the Nightingale”, Amazon, 2015

 

—

“The Temptation of Lady Nyo”, from “Song of the Nightingale”

To outside appearances, it would seem  Lady Nyo has a lover.  But appearances are deceiving.  She is tormented by poems left for her by an unknown admirer.  With an introduction to her situation.

Not that Lady Nyo….

–

Does he know?

Does he know?

Does he know about the letters?

 

The court of Lord Mori

Was a small one

Where the men,

Lord Nyo included

Sat and discussed business:

The pleasurable business of hunting,

Archery, drinking

And on occasion,

Just for form’s sake,

Wrote bad poetry.

 

The women of course

Were positioned behind carved screens,

Where the eagle-eyed Lady Mori,

An old and rice-powdered dragon

Conducted her own court of

Writing more bad poetry, finger games

And layering sleeves and hems for the

Best effects…unseen by anyone else–

Except the other women.

 

There was a break in this

Unending monotony one day;

Lady Nyo received poems

From some unknown admirer

Stuffed in different places where

She would find them:

Her screen at court,

On her silk, embroidered cushion,

And even penned on her fan.

She never knew who was so bold,

Never saw even a glimmer of the culprit.

He could have been a ghost.

She recorded her answers in her journal

So she could have evidence of her innocence

Yet she buried his poems in the garden under

A bed of peonies.

She could not bear to burn them.

 

1.

Yesterday I found a fan with a poem

Stuck in the screen.

Today I found another one placed

On my cushion at court.

Do you have a death wish?

Do you desire the death of me?

You know my husband is known for his temper.

Would I end my life so dishonored?

 

2.

I see you are as persistent

As the rain in Spring.

Have you no fear?

What is your interest?

Surely I am just another painted face.

 

3.

I read your poem.

I could do nothing else.

This time it was inked upon

MY fan.

 

4.

“The wind blows from the north

Chilling my heart.

Only the thought of a touch of your sleeve

Warms me.”

Very nice, but my sleeves are not interested.

 

5.

“I throw acorns

To the darting carp.

With each nut I say a

Prayer for your health.”

Lovely sentiment, and I am

Always grateful for prayers.

But do you think of my reputation

And what you risk?

 

6.

I see no poetry this morning

Though I searched for your usual offering.

I knew your interest was as capricious

As a flight of moths.

 

Jane Kohut-Bartels

Copyrighted, 2011, 2017 (The complete book can be bought at Amazon.com)