Skip to content

Grab the Pitchforks! Frankenstein’s Afoot

On recently viewing the film version of Frankenstein for the first time since childhood, I was amazed at how stridently the film criticized Victor Frankenstein for “playing God.” Such human defense of divine prerogatives does not appear in Hollywood’s works these days. Of course, that film bears little resemblance to the story that provided its name.

Mary Wallstonecraft Godwin Shelley wrote
her gothic-leaning novel after exchanging ghost stories with such literary lightweights as her husband Percy and Lord Byron.  What is one to make of this story?

My first reaction to the book is a strong desire to re-animate Victor Frankenstein in order to smack him. The novel is an agravating study in Victor’s ineptitude. After acquiring a profound level of knowledge of science to such a degree that he can create life anew, Victor forges his new man: the fiend, the daemon, the monster. Far from squealing in frenzied delight, “It’s alive, alive!” Victor instead goes to bed. The monster appears at his bedside, driving Victor, in despair, to an outside courtyard. The next morning, the monster is gone.

What follows is a year of Victor depressed to the point of serious physical illness. Victor recovers his senses for a season when he learns of the murder of his brother. In the wake of this event, Victor travels to England, stands accused of murder, becomes ill yet again, and generally accomplishes nothing despite understanding the root of all his problems. His mission should be clear: find the monster and subdue it. Instead, he dithers and distracts himself. Upon returning to Geneva, Victor marries his beloved Elizabeth, knowing full well that the monster intends to visit them on their wedding night. His response? He leaves Elizabeth unattended, allowing the monster to kill her. Only then does Victor resolve to pursue and dispose of his creation.

Shelley subtitled her work, “The Modern Prometheus,” yet that seems an odd allusion. The Greek Prometheus defied the Olympian gods by taking fire to his creation: man. Victor, while creating a new sort of man, gives him nothing. Victor simply recoils from his creation.

Perhaps Shelley thought it too irreverent to call her story “The Modern Yahweh,” but there the parallels–or rather contrasts–seem most clear. In Genesis, God gives Adam a name, something that Victor never bestows upon the monster. He provides Adam a place to live in Eden. He provides guidance, both positive and negative. God apparently attends to Adam’s need for language, which Victor utterly ignores. (That the monster can acquire such stunning verbal facility and the ability to read complex texts in the space of a year spent hiding out in a barn should cause any reader to refuse the suspension of disbelief.) Unlike God, Victor refuses the monster’s desire for a mate. Compared to his predecessor in creation, Victor Frankenstein must be ranked as a failure.

Modern interpreters of the Frankenstein story have sought to create from the monster a Romantic hero, a sort of justified Faust figure. Certainly, Shelley’s creature could complain, with the most petulant of teenagers, that he did not ask to be born. Happily, only a tiny proportion of the teens who utter those words act upon them through suicide. Similarly, the monster, despite his protestations of misery, continues to live and demonstrate agency, first pursuing and later fleeing Victor. Despite his justified complaints of an uncaring creator, the monster seems lost after Victor’s death.

‘Farewell! I leave you, and in you the last of humankind whom these eyes will ever behold. Farewell, Frankenstein! If thou wert yet alive and yet cherished a desire of revenge against me, it would be better satiated in my life than in my destruction.’

After these words, the monster declares his intention to travel to the north and end his own suffering. With his creator to torment or to evade, the monster possessed a purpose. With Victor’s death, he can do nothing besides put an end to his existence.

If the monster’s life has no meaning in the absence of his neglectful creator, how much more does our lives’ meaning depend upon the existence of a present and attentive Creator? This is, perhaps, not the question that Mary Shelley intended to raise, but it is the question that I find before me as I read her tale.

Posted in English Literature, Romanticism.

Tagged with , , , .

No comments

By Dr. Mark – January 25, 2012

Calamitous Catastrophe in The Castle of Otranto

Having just finished a re-read of Frankenstein from a volume titled
Three Gothic Novels, which had stood undisturbed on my bookshelf since the completion of my master’s degree, I determined to investigate the remaining contents of the book before returning it to its enforced isolation among the lofty and forgotten shelves that line my garret walls. (Yes, I have been reading too much gothic literature.) Since I’d heard a good deal of the
Castle of Otranto, I endeavored to wade through its brief span of pages before the paperback crumbled in my hands.

Walpole’s little novel is commonly credited as the fountainhead for the vogue of gothic literature that would appear in the half century after its 1765 appearance, a vogue parodied by Jane Austen in Northanger Abbey and brought to, perhaps, its highest level in Jane Eyre.

In this novel, we have the story of love gone ridiculously (and speedily) wrong. As the wicked Manfred contrives to solidify his family’s position by marrying his sickly son off to the vulnerable daughter of a rival, that plan is cut short when the boy is smashed by the supernatural appearance of a gigantic helmet. Not to be slowed by the tragedy within his walls, Manfred speedily changes course and determines to gain a divorce from his wife and marry his son’s intended, Isabella, himself. When her father, supposedly dead in the Crusades, makes an appearance, Manfred thickens the plot by offering his daughter’s hand to the newcomer in exchange for a clear title to Isabella. In the end, Manfred mistakenly kills his only remaining child and discovers that the genuine heir to Otranto, which his grandfather had deceitfully usurped, is at hand, ready to take control. All of this convolution would be solid fare for a medieval soap opera were it not for the supernatural elements. Besides the rain of gigantic helmets, we have a bleeding statue, and several sightings of gigantic, armored hands or feet. In the story’s climax, a gigantic figure of Lord Alfonso, the noble from whose family Manfred’s forebears had taken Otranto, appears after smashing some of the castle’s exterior walls.

Even before that dramatic conclusion, my mind saw images of Don Giovanni cowering as the Commendatore burst into the banquet hall. With the significance of the funerary sculpture and the wall-busting appearance of the wronged principal, it seems certain that Mozart (or his librettist Lorenzo da Ponte) drew inspiration from Walpole’s work.

At the same time, the novel evokes the story of the writing on the wall from Daniel. Manfred, it seems, has been weighed in the balance and found wanting like Belshazzar. In both cases, before the first portent, either the ethereal hand writing on the wall in Daniel 5 or the deadly and inexplicable killer helmet in Otranto, the die is cast.  Belshazzar has no opportunity to repent and escape his fate; Manfred has lost his son before he knows anything is afoot. Yet these two stories suggest the justice in each others’ pages. Even when faced with an obviously supernatural event in the death of his son, Manfred continues his machinations and, if anything, delves further into wrongdoing. Given the chance to cut his losses, Manfred doubles down and guarantees his utter ruin and misery. Belshazzar, beyond hope at the time of his feast, can be assumed to have similar lack of resolves. Had he been given an opportunity to limit his destruction, he probably would not have done so.

The Castle of Otranto moves along quickly, without much wasted motion. The characters are a bit “swoonish” and one-dimensional, as befits the genre, but I find them not nearly as irritating as Victor Frankenstein, on whom I will opine next.

Posted in English Literature, Neo-Classicism.

Tagged with , , .

No comments

By Dr. Mark – January 25, 2012

1Q84, what are you good for?

It took me a good long while to slog through the 925 pages of Murakami’s latest novel, 1Q84. Like most of the Japanese master’s works, however, I found myself at the end with a great number of unanswered questions. Who were the little people? What exactly is a dohta or a maza? What would be emerging from the air chrysalis that the little people were creating near the corpse of the “misshapen” Ushikawa’s corpse? Was there significance to the “year” 1Q84 having two moons in the sky other than to denote difference?

What sort of a genre label could one place on this (or any other Murakami) novel? Is it science fiction? Certainly the “alternate universe” is a typical sci-fi trope, yet this alternate universe doesn’t feel quite alternate enough to throw the story into science fiction. In fact, only some of the characters, apparently the two principals, Tengo and Aomame; the mysterious teenage writer, Fuka-Eri; and, at the end, the snooping Ushikawa, can see the extra moon in the sky. Therefore, it seems, an odd sort of alternate-universe story with only some of the people apparently in the different world at any given time.

Perhaps, then, the novel is a romance, with the long-separated Tengo and Aomame gradually making their way toward each other after a separation of some twenty years. Of course, their earlier romance had been restricted to a few moments of hand-holding in grade school. Mysteriously, neither child had forgotten the other through two decades. Both had pursued unhealthy sexual lives, Aomame finding middle-aged and balding men in bars for one-night stands and Tengo maintaining a long-term relationship with an older, married girlfriend. Only in the closing chapters of the book does the pair come back together, hardly the stuff of standard romance.

Like much of Murakami’s fiction, a strong but ambiguous vein of spirituality flows through 1Q84. A great deal of the story revolves around the religious cult Sakigake (Pathfinder), which channels messages from the Little People through their leader (called, cleverly, Leader). Elements of Sakigake suggest the Aum Shinrikio group behind the 1995 sarin attack. The actual group was founding in 1984 and their leader, Shoko Asahara, bears some physical similarity to Murakami’s description of Leader. Murakami published a book, Underground, based on his research into the Aum cult.  Sakigake remains a somewhat uncertain commodity by the novel’s close. Leader, initially portrayed as a child molester, is revealed as a powerful and benign person. His followers clearly skirt the law, but their overall threat to the rest of society is unclear.

Besides Sakigake, an aberrant form of Christianity figures significantly in 1Q84. Aomame’s family devotedly follows the “Society of Witnesses,” a thinly veiled version of the Jehovah’s Witness movement.  Despite having rebelled at quite a young age against her parents’ religion, Aomame continues to invoke one of their prayers and speak with some of their terminology. The following prayer is repeated several times through the novel:

O Lord in Heaven, may Thy name be praised in utmost purity for ever and ever, adn may Thy kingdom come to us. Please forgive our many sins, and bestow Thy blessings upon our humble pathways. Amen.

Not only that, but Aomame, when speaking with her friend Ayumi, dismisses worries about the future by suggesting that “the kingdom” is coming.

As a Christian reading this novel, I cannot help but see the echoes from my faith in Murakami’s pages. Certainly, this writer is no Shusako Endo, pouring a Christian message into a distinctly Japanese container, yet that mention of “the kingdom” does not disappear quickly from my mind. What Aomame and Tengo find, first as hand-holding children and later as adults, suggests the pearl of great price. Everything the pair have pursued up to this time in their lives has been meaningless. Upon their climactic meeting in the playground, Tengo reflects on the intervening years:

It was such a long time, Tengo thought too. At the same time, though, he noticed how the twenty years that had passed now held no substance. It had all passed by in an instant, and took but an instant to be filled in.

Compare this with Matthew 13:45-46. Everything that the couple had pursued seemed like rubbish to be discarded when their reunion came about. Their miraculously conceived child exemplified that aspect of the kingdom.

Again, this is not, I think, what Murakami had in mind, but authors often enclose more in their works than even they perceive.

 

Posted in Contemporary, Japanese Literature.

Tagged with , , .

No comments

By Dr. Mark – January 21, 2012

No Nobels for Writers with Orcs

Here’s a tip. If you want to win the Nobel Prize for Literature, don’t write a wildly successful and densely literary fantasy novel, in which you invent entire nations, mythologies, and histories. Papers recently released suggest that the Swedish committee in control of the prize didn’t think Tolkien to be on quite a high enough level.

But the jury deemed that Tolkien shall not pass, writing of his work that “the result has not in any way measured up to storytelling of the highest quality,” according to papers kept in the Nobel archive in Stockholm.

The Nobel that year went to Ivo Andric. Having not read Andric, I can’t offer any comment on his merits, but claiming that Tolkien’s work “has not in any way measured up to storytelling of the highest quality” is laughable.

Posted in Commentary.

Tagged with , , .

No comments

By Dr. Mark – January 13, 2012

Fuka-Eri’s Favorite Book: The Tale of the Heike

As mentioned in the previous post, I’m in the midst of reading Haruki Murakami’s 1Q84. When asked her favorite book, the young girl who writes a brilliant novella within the novel names
The Tales of the Heike, a twelfth-century Japanese classic. Like the Tale of Genji, the Heike Monogatori (the Japanese name) is sprawling, complicated, and a bit distant for the contemporary reader. Much like the sprawling and complicated Iliad of Homer, the Heike requires an immense investment of time from a reader with a great number of volumes on the nightstand waiting to be read once the thousand pages of Murakami’s latest is finished, especially since Western culture didn’t spring from its pages.

On the other hand, the Heike might not be as distant from our tradition as it seems on the surface. Read the opening sentences of the text.

The sound of the bell at Jetavana echoes the impermanence of all things. The hue of the flowers of the teak tree declares that they who flourish must be brought low. Yea, the proud ones are but for a moment, like an evening dream in springtime. The mighty are destroyed at the last, they are but as the dust before the wind.

Does that sound familiar? It doesn’t really sound much like Homer, although the overall narrative about the downfall of a once-proud and powerful family does sound a good bit like a story Sophocles might have put onto the stage. What I’m reminded of as I read these words is any number of passages from the Old Testament. The first one to come to my mind is Isaiah 40:6-8:

All flesh is grass,
and all its beautyis like the flower of the field.
The grass withers, the flower fades
when the breath of the LORD blows on it;
surely the people are grass.
The grass withers, the flower fades,
but the word of our God will stand forever. (ESV)

I think it unlikely that Jewish literary influences would have made their way across Asia to stand at the head of one of Japan’s great literary works as early as the twelfth century. Instead, I’d suggest that the downfall of the powerful, the impermanence of life, resonates by itself throughout human experience. The difference between the pride of Saul, for example, or the doom that comes upon Babylon after the finger of God writes upon the wall, mene mene tekel parsin, and the pride of the Taira clan from the Heike is the absence of the controlling God behind the action. In the Old Testament, we witness the destruction of Jerusalem but only in with the promise of a later Restoration in the background. We see the downfall of Babylon but also the God-ordained triumph of Persia.

All this is not to say that the Heike is not worthy of reading. Most Western readers, though, will find it something worthy of knowing about but not traversing all 800-someodd pages.

Posted in Japanese Literature.

Tagged with , , , .

No comments

By Dr. Mark – January 13, 2012

Barth vs. Murakami: This Time It’s Metafictional

Having just expressed my (lack of) admiration for John Barth’s “Lost in the Funhouse” last week, I have found myself having “Funhouse” flashbacks as I read Haruki Murakami’s
1Q84. Before I move on to the general superiority of Murakami’s novel (which I will confess I haven’t finished yet), allow me to revisit my objections to Barth’s work. It’s not that I think Barth a poor writer. Instead, I believe him to be a quite fine writer who felt compelled to parade technical innovations that just don’t work. Essentially, we have a writer needlessly foregrounding the metafictional aspect of his writing, reminding us that there’s a writer writing a written piece of writing behind the writing that’s been written for us to read.

In Murakami’s latest work–by all accounts his best to date–the metafictional aspect again comes to the fore, yet in the case of this novel, these things actually have a place in the work. They add to and, to some degree, create the work. 1Q84 is a take on 1984, the year in which the story takes place and the novel that lurks constantly in the background. One of the two stories that make up the novel revolves around the rewriting of a novella that may or may not be based on actual events. The other story involves a woman whose reality seems to be morphing before her eyes, as if Winston Smith were making revisions deep in the Ministry of Truth only to have those revisions burst into reality.

I mention this not to kick again at Barth but to demonstrate that I’m not averse to those who use the latest formal innovations so long as those innovations actually make their work more effective.

Posted in Commentary.

Tagged with , , .

No comments

By Dr. Mark – January 13, 2012

Lost in “Lost in the Funhouse” or John Barth is a Pretentious Writer

The title story from John Barth’s 1968 collection Lost in the Funhouse, begins with a reasonable question, the sort of question that promises an answer by story’s end: “For whom is the funhouse fun?” Barth goes on by beginning an answer. “Perhaps for lovers. For Ambrose it is a place of fear and confusion.” And there you have the setup of this story. The funhouse, for Ambrose, will not be fun, and, apparently, Ambrose is not a lover or has no lover or is a jilted lover or somesuch. The only thing that remains for us to discover in the rather long denouement that Barth imparts to us is the precise mode and manner of Ambrose’s lack of fun.

At around the time he was writing “Lost in the Funhouse,” Barth wrote “The Literature of Exhaustion,” which argued that language gets all tuckered out after a period of time. Okay, he doesn’t put it in that sense. Instead, he argues that if one were to write in the mode of, perhaps Joseph Conrad some 70 years after Conrad’s greatest work was written, the writer would be creating an anachronism. A realist novel, which he sites specifically in the nineteenth century before offering examples that severely muddy his position, is a dead form. The true artist, Barth would suggest, needs to be up to date in the techniques of writing.

This argument leaves me with a couple of questions. First of all, why is it the language that grows exhausted? Why not the subject matter. “Lost in the Funhouse” deals with themes of love, sexuality, and coming-of-age that can be traced at least as far back as Shakespeare. More to the point, Barth here has essentially rewritten Joyce’s “Araby,” accomplishing a great deal less in a great deal more space. Perhaps the true “literature of exhaustion” is that which poseurs like Barth use to exhaust their readers. Might the obsessive need for formal innovation actually be exactly the opposite that Barth suggests it is? Instead of needing technical innovation to remain relevant, the tinkering technician reveals a lack of substantive ideas regarding the topic.

Again, I would like to compare this story with “Araby.” In Joyce’s story, not a word, not an image is wasted. There are moments of ambiguity, but these ultimately help to create the character of the boy and lead to his recognition of his own folly. “Lost in the Funhouse” takes the reader to a fair of sorts, Ocean City and the funhouse, provides an unrealistic love interest, Magda rather than Mangan’s sister, and culminates a realization of youthful vanity. In the course of rewriting “Araby,” however, Barth feels compelled to graft on rather wooden metafictional elements.

A single straight underline is the manuscript mark for italic type, which in turn is the printed equivalent to oral emphasis of words and phrases as well as the customary type for the title of complete works, not to mention. Italics are also employed, in fiction stories especially for “outside,” intrusive, or artificial voices, such as radio announcements, the texts of telegrams and newspaper articles, et cetera.

How is this helpful? Barth might explain that these typographic intrusions, and the later discussions of characterization and, most strangely, Freytag’s Pyramid, help to underscore the artificiality of Ambrose’s experiences with Magda and at the funhouse. Perhaps he means to remind us that Ambrose’s life is a fiction that the boy is creating at the same time that he is a character in a fiction that Barth is creating. Frankly, I would prefer him to circle some element and label it as “important symbol.”

I am not such a philistine to say that literary technique is unimportant, but Barth, at least in this story, seems to have allowed the technique to overwhelm the poverty of ideas that he brings to his writing desk. He reminds me of a very clever fellow who feels compelled to remind us constantly of his cleverness.

One need only read such realist (and Christian) authors as Marilynne Robinson and Wendell Berry to recognize that the the vessel of the realist novel is quite alive when a write possesses something profound to pour into it. And lest I seem to privilege the Christian writers, I would Saul Bellow, Bernard Malamud, and Joyce Carol Oates as authors who needn’t burden their prose with affectations of “technique” in order to present something new and vital.

Posted in American Literature, Contemporary.

Tagged with , , , , .

No comments

By Dr. Mark – January 5, 2012

Slaves to Logic Need Not Apply: Saramago’s The Stone Raft

Having made my way through Cain, it seemed fair to read another of Jose Saramago’s works before dismissing him as being inexplicably celebrated.
The Stone Raft may be the Portugeuse author’s most accessible work, from what I can gather.

Some of the same stylistic oddities–refusal to use quotation marks or change paragraphs when changing speakers–make this novel harder to read than it needs to be. Happily, in this work, he did not eschew capital letters. I have a theory that, had the author lived long enough, he might have eventually jettisoned spaces, margins, all punctuation, and, perhaps, preposition in a death spiral of obscurantism. I’m letting that annoyance go for now, however.

In The Stone Raft, we follow five diverse and peculiar characters around the Iberian peninsula after it breaks off from the mainland of Europe. We have a Spaniard who feels earth tremors that no one else feels and a Portuguese who throws a stone, far heavier than he should be able to throw, much farther than he should be able to throw it. A second Portuguese man is inexplicably followed by a huge flock of birds, while a Portuguese woman carries around an elm branch that she used to draw a line in the dirt around the time that the peninsula broke away. Was this woman anywhere near the Pyrenees? No, but somehow her action and the experiences of the three men and of a large, wandering dog, and of the woman that the dog leads the group to all tie in.

Don’t come to this novel if you’re looking for something to be tied up in a neat little bundle. Even the geology of the thing makes no sense. Does continental drift take place at 750 meters per hour? Do lines drawn with elm branches in Portugal cause geological shifts? Saramago, it seems, is suggesting that the world and natural, logical laws that we all cherish just don’t hold as much water as we’d like to think they do. That’s all very postmodern, but I have an issue more significant than punctuation to take up with this author.

In an epigraph to Cain, Saramago cites a scripture, ascribing it to the “Book of Nonsense.” This man,  a true believer in Marxism and a confirmed atheist, has no use for religious–particularly Christian–faith. That is his prerogative, but the inconsistency of his values troubles me. Marxism is an ideology ostensibly built upon logic and evidence, yet if today’s logic proves to be inapplicable tomorrow–for example, if long established laws of geology cease to apply–then logic is of no value. At the same time, we have an author who claims for himself the right to reread the biblical accounts as he sees fit when they do not seem to fit his sense of decorum and logic.

The God of the Bible refuses to submit himself to logical structures of man. That secular men would find this refusal annoying shouldn’t surprise us. That those same secular men then dispense with the logical structures of man whenever it suits their whims only to be lauded as literary geniuses, however, strikes me as absurd.

Saramago creates an interesting world, one that abandons certain natural and human logic. That much is stock in trade for the Magical Realist, but when the resulting literary world does not provide any surrogate for this discarded logic, when it cannot connect its fancifully placed dots in something approaching a sensible manner, I would argue that it deserves no more respect than the implausible romances and spy thrillers that the literary set so freely dismiss.

Posted in Contemporary, Portuguese Literature.

Tagged with , , , .

No comments

By Dr. Mark – December 29, 2011

“The Horror!”: Conrad, Jesus, and Solitude

I’m nearly two years late on this it seems, but yesterday I came across a lecture delivered by William Deresiewicz to the plebe class at West Point. In that address, Dereseiwicz draws heavily on Conrad’s Heart of Darkness to make a case for solitude as a necessity for true leadership. He argues against the hoop-jumping that makes up most Ivy Leaguers’ and other high achievers’ paths to influence and accomplishment. Instead of dozen or more extracurricular activities both in and out of school, he suggests that good decision making, a fairly important talent for soon-to-be military officers, will come more from a singular focus and time to commune with oneself. The lecture points out that the time to prepare for those difficult decisions does not come in the moment of crisis but in the education years.

How can you know that unless you’ve taken counsel with yourself in solitude? I started by noting that solitude and leadership would seem to be contradictory things. But it seems to me that solitude is the very essence of leadership. The position of the leader is ultimately an intensely solitary, even intensely lonely one. However many people you may consult, you are the one who has to make the hard decisions. And at such moments, all you really have is yourself.

If you know Conrad’s novel or the film adaptation Apocalypse Now, you probably wonder about the wisdom of this argument. After all, the most isolated character in the book is the apparently mad Kurtz, Marlon Brando in the movie. While I wouldn’t aspire to the career accomplishments of Kurtz–”The horror, the horror”–his life is probably no more ghastly, and certainly more self aware, than the respectable lives that lurk in the darkness of London as Marlow begins his story.

It’s no wonder, I think that Jesus lives a life that features solitude and solitary work. That the patient fishermen, mending their nets on the Sea of Galilee, respond more freely to Christ than do the constantly compromised, constantly interrupted Pharisees should not come as a surprise. The assumption that Jesus learned at least some of his father’s trade as a carpenter again leads us back to the sort of solitude and focus that Dereseiwicz champions.

While his use of Conrad’s book might be less than spot-on, the argument that Dereseiwicz forwards is worth the read.

Posted in Commentary, English Literature, Modernism.

Tagged with , , , , .

No comments

By Dr. Mark – December 29, 2011

Marilynne Robinson on Literature Drawn from the Bible

What is the most significant source behind Western art, especially its literature? As 2011 closes the 400th anniversary of the “King James” Authorized Version of the Bible, various writers have seen fit to mark the event with an essay. Marilynne Robinson’s essay in the New York Times,brings a novelist’s sensibility to this question.

A number of the great works of Western literature address themselves very directly to questions that arise within Christianity. They answer to the same impulse to put flesh on Scripture and doctrine, to test them by means of dramatic imagination, that is visible in the old paintings of the Annunciation or the road to Damascus. How is the violence and corruption of a beloved city to be understood as part of an eternal cosmic order? What would be the consequences for the story of the expulsion from Eden, if the fall were understood as divine providence? What if Job’s challenge to God’s justice had not been overawed and silenced by the wild glory of creation?

Just as Robinson sees things in family relationships that others miss, she sees the Bible’s appearance in great novels where the rest of us might not.

Posted in Commentary.

Tagged with , .

No comments

By Dr. Mark – December 26, 2011