A new Book

Hi berni,  

Your book arrived.  I read it.  It’s devastating.  

You have asked me to review it.  I’m not sure I am able to.  It may be too powerful. Like Dante descending into the spheres of hell.  

You have gone beyond language — yet this is all I have.  Words.  (I’m alert to words.  I’m finishing a ms. on language.  The first language of humankind.)

Devastating.  I called it devastating.  To me it would be like writing a review of an Auschwitz journal.  Maybe worse, ‘cause this horror doesn’t abate.  It grows.  Spreads. Tentacular.  Seething.  Hailed as salvific by all the best academic minds, best political minds, cream of intelligentsia, saviors of the planet.  

Complicating this is the fact I’ve been living with this death story since 2004. My wife wrote the definitive clinical analysis of it.  For her efforts she has been trashed and buried. (As has Dr. Sarah Laurie.)  Nina knew people were experiencing all this in 2009 when she published her book.   She knew why it was happening.  I mean, she explained the likely (more than likely; virtually certain) pathophysiology.

Devastating.  There are no words left. You have borne witness to the end of language & consciousness.  In wind energy.  Language which has been dying since the fatal lurch into the Neolithic:  with wind energy mankind has entered the post-language age.  This is worse than Orwell imagined.  Or Huxley in Brave New World.  Or Carroll in Alice.  This isn’t topsy-turvy, this isn’t Jabberwocky.  This is emptiness.  A void.  This is: nothing.  

Devoid of language, man — the species — is a cipher.  Munch’s “Scream.”  In wind energy and the religion it serves, consciousness and language — the two joined, forged in the womb — have no meaning.  No grounding.  No place.  

Like Angie & Conrad, Dan, Gaby, Vera, Jack, Daphne & Ted, Fay, Mattie, and the rest in your book — sometimes I can’t breathe.  I am homeless.  The reference points, gone.  

A bat is born 

Naked and blind and pale.

His mother makes a pocket of her tail 

And catches him. He clings to her long fur

By his thumbs and toes and teeth.

And then the mother dances through the night 

Doubling and looping, soaring, somersaulting

Her baby hangs on underneath.

All night, in happiness, she hunts and flies.

Her high sharp cries 

Like shining needlepoints of sound 

Go out into the night and, echoing back, 

Tell her what they have touched.

She hears how far it is, how big it is, 

Which way it’s going:

She lives by hearing.

— from “Bats,” by Randall Jarrell

I have not seen or heard a bat.  In years.  I grew up with bats.  Wind turbines explode their lungs.  In doing so, they slaughter me.  Words mean nothing when I no longer hear “those shining needlepoints of sound,

Going out into the night and, echoing back, 

Telling her what they have touched.

She hears how far it is, how big it is, 

Which way it’s going:

She lives by hearing.

So did I.  I’m sorry.


Calvin Luther Martin, PhD (ret. Rutgers Univ. professor)

Publisher, K-Selected Books  

19 Clay, Malone NY 12953




amazon author page


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