The Geijer Affair: When Olof Palme Covered Up Brothel Visits and Pedophilia.

The Geijer Affair is the ultimate illustration of the Social Democratic "state within a state" mentality that rule Sweden during the post-war decades. It was a scandal that was not just about buying sex, but about national security, the risk of blackmail and an ice-cold cover-up directed by Olof Palme personally. In the mid-1970s, the police busted Madame Doris Hopp's brothel in Stockholm. Among the customers were the absolute top echelons of society, including ministers and military men. Several of the prostituted women came from Poland and had frequent contacts with the Polish embassy (and thus the Eastern Bloc's intelligence services). Lennart Geijer, Palme's own Minister of Justice, was singled out as a frequent customer. National Chief of Police Carl Persson realized that this was an enormous security risk; a Minister of Justice who could be blackmailed by the KGB, a nightmare for every country in those days. KGB then Mossad today. Funny how that works. In August 1976, just weeks before the parliamentary elections, Carl Persson handed over a secret memorandum to Olof Palme documenting Geijer's connections to the brothel. Instead of acting, Palme locked the document in his safe. He said nothing to the voters or the Riksdag. When the Social Democrats lost the election, he handed over the secret PM to the new PM and Agrarian party leader Thorbjörn Fälldin, who continued to keep it hidden. Why? he too was one of the child abusers. When journalist Peter Bratt at DN revealed the story in 1977, Palme launched a furious counterattack. He called the information "malicious rumors" and delivered the classic quote: "Snuff is snuff and nonsense is nonsense, albeit in police memos". 

Palme was a master at using his authority to crush critics. By focusing on individual errors in detail in DN's article, he managed to get Sweden's largest morning newspaper to back down. DN was forced to publicly apologize to Geijer and Peter Bratt was reassigned. Palme had straight up lied to the Swedish people and managed to make the media appear as the perpetrator instead of the investigating force. The most disgusting thing about the Geijer affair was not just the lies, but the human victims. Among Doris Hopp's prostitutes were girls as young as 14. To save Lennart Geijer's reputation and the Social Democrats' reputation, the power apparatus chose to ignore that the country's most powerful men had bought sex from children. The victims never received any redress, no compensation and no ministers had to testify. The Geijer affair proves that the "moral superpower" Sweden was built on a foundation of lies. Palme prioritized the outward appearance of the "movement" over the security of the kingdom and the lives of vulnerable children. That he is now being hailed as a father of the country is perhaps the biggest joke of all, he was rather the uncrowned king of sexual predatory cover-ups. What makes the Geijer affair so extremely dirty is not just the names themselves, but the fact that Olof Palme used the information as a blackmail tool and a body armor for the entire political establishment. 

When Police Chief Carl Persson handed over his secret memo to Palme in August 1976, there were six names that were singled out as direct security risks due to their visits to Doris Hopp’s brothel. The six names on Carl Persson’s secret memo: Lennart Geijer (S) Minister of Justice and the main character. Despite overwhelming evidence in the police wiretap, he was protected by Palme until the very end. Thorbjörn Fälldin (C): Leader of the Centre Party and then leader of the opposition. The fact that he was on the list was Palme's stroke of genius, it meant that the opposition did not dare to push too hard, since they themselves were in the thick of it. Fälldin later used his classic denial, "Since my name is on it, it proves that the list is fake." Krister Wickman (S) Governor of the Central Bank and former Minister of Foreign Affairs. One of the heaviest pieces in the Social Democratic power apparatus. Hjalmar Mehr (S) County Governor and former legendary mayor of Stockholm. The architect behind the demolition of old Stockholm was apparently also a frequent guest in Stockholms other red lighted districts. Cecilia Nettelbrandt (FP) Deputy Speaker of the Riksdag. This shows that the cover-up needed to be cross-party to last. Ragnar Lassinantti (S) County Governor of Norrbotten and one of the S movement's most respected profiles. In addition to the six in the famous memo, there was a much longer list in the police investigation materials (often called the “list of 27” or even more). 

It mentioned figures such as: Olof Johansson (C): Later party leader for the Center Party. Pointed out by the prostituted women as a “dream client”. Gunnar Sträng (S) Minister of Finance. His name appeared in the testimonies of the girls, but never reached the official scandal level because Palme effectively closed the door. Tage Erlander (S) The former loved leader of the country was also mentioned in the girls’ stories, which was one of the reasons why the cover-up became so desperate, they could not let the icon Erlander is dragged through the mud. 

Why did Palme protect them? It was never about law, it was about the self-preservation of power. Then as now. By having the names span across party lines, a culture of silence was created. Everyone had something to lose. Palme claimed that he was covering up to “protect the kingdom”, but in reality he was protecting the image of the Social Democrats as the guardians of morality. The most brutal thing is that the girls (some as young as 14) who were exploited were completely erased from the equation. Palme called the evidence “nonsense”, even though the police had tape recordings and testimonies. Did the victim get any justice? No. Not even a damages settlement was given due to the statute of limitations having set in. The Geijer affair was proof that in “gender equal Sweden” some were more equal than others. If you were a top politician, you could buy sex from children at a brothel with Soviet spy contacts, and the prime minister would personally ensure that the journalists who exposed you had to apologize. That is the Sweden you do not hear about.

A Journey Through Time, Art, and the Self: Stendhal’s Promenades dans Rome

Rome as the World’s Parchment: Stendhal and the Education of the Soul To read Stendhal’s Promenades dans Rome (1829) is to undertake a journey far beyond the topographic. It is to enroll in a singular, demanding, and profoundly rewarding university of the spirit, where the curriculum is etched in fresco, and the examinations are conducted by one’s own sensibility in the silent presence of monuments. Stendhal, the pseudonym of Marie-Henri Beyle, offers no mere guide to churches and ruins. Instead, he presents Rome as the ultimate philosophical text, a sprawling, layered manuscript upon which the entire narrative of Western civilization has been drafted, revised, and overwritten. His central, towering thesis is this: to know Rome is to engage in an essential study that transcends urban geography. It is to grapple directly with the cycles of civilization, their zeniths and their collapses; to witness the triumphs and failures of the human spirit in its most grandiose ambitions; and to experience the uncanny, haunting persistence of the past, which does not lie dead but vibrantly, often troublingly, shapes and inspires the present. The “promenade” is his chosen method for this study: a deliberate, peripatetic mode of thinking that moves through space as it moves through time, connecting the tactile reality of a broken capital to the vast abstractions of history and art. The columns once stood in a grand court of law or palace, or temple where they advertised the realization of the “empire without end” promised by the Jupiter of Virgil’s imaginings are deconstructed by Walks in Rome. A healthy reminder of the Ozymanidan fate that awaits all empires. Stendhal’s Rome is not one city but a vertiginous stack of them. 

He perceives history not as a linear sequence but as a simultaneous, almost cacophonous chorus. A single glance in the Roman Forum must, for the trained eye, parse the Republican rostra, the Imperial basilicas, the medieval churches built from their spolia, and the cow pastures of the eighteenth century. This geological model of history is fundamental to his project. He teaches his reader, often through imagined letters, to develop a double vision: to see the present-day ruin and to reconstruct, through an act of passionate imagination, the world that created it. The cycle of civilization is made manifest in this very stratification. The energy of the Republic, which Stendhal, a child of the Enlightenment and the Revolution, idolizes for its fierce liberty and civic virtue, lies at the base. Its fragments; the “sacred soil” of the Forum; are the moral and political bedrock. Upon this, the magnificent, oppressive weight of the Empire is piled, symbolized by the Colosseum or the Baths of Caracalla: architecture of sublime scale that speaks to a shift from citizen participation to engineered spectacle and despotic control. Then comes the Christian layer, the Roma subterraneanes of the catacombs giving way to the triumphant basilicas, which themselves cannibalize the pagan past, literally reusing its columns and marbles in a spiritual and architectural conquest. This culminates in the Renaissance; Stendhal’s “century of Leo X”, which he sees as a miraculous rebirth of the ancient spirit, a new spring of genius (Michelangelo, Raphael) before the winter of Counter-Reformation conformity sets in, producing the often-theatrical, sometimes glorious art of the Baroque. Each layer represents not just a change in style, but a seismic shift in human consciousness: from republican virtue to imperial grandeur, from pagan bodily idealism to Christian spiritual inferiority, from Renaissance humanist confidence to Baroque mystical ecstasy and absolutist propaganda. 

To walk with Stendhal is to have your feet on the cobbles of 1828, your mind in the Senate of 63 BC, and your soul stirred by a fresco from 1511. This constant, demanding juxtaposition makes Rome the supreme site for contemplating the rise and fall of cultural paradigms. The present-day city, under what he viewed as the stagnant, reactionary Papal government, becomes merely the latest, and perhaps not the most admirable, page in this ongoing manuscript. The cycle continues; ennui and repression may follow energy and genius, but the stones remember. Within these grand cycles, Stendhal is a peerless psychologist of the individual spirit. For him, Rome is the world’s greatest theatre, its stages set not for fictional dramas, but for the most profound real expressions of human ambition, creativity, and folly. The city becomes a gallery of character, where every monument is a testament to a particular mode of being. The triumphs of the spirit are immortalized in art, which for Stendhal is the highest form of saved energy. He seeks out those works where a powerful, authentic individuality has broken through convention. His pilgrimage to the Vatican to see Michelangelo’s Last Judgment and the Sistine Ceiling is not an aesthetic exercise; it is a confrontation with a titanic, tortured soul. In Michelangelo’s figures, he sees the sublime struggle of genius against matter, of prophetic vision against mortal limitation. This is the human spirit triumphing in its capacity for sublime expression, even if that expression is of anguish. Similarly, in the charged, shadowy naturalism of Caravaggio’s Calling of Saint Matthew in San Luigi dei Francesi, he finds the triumph of psychological truth and dramatic immediacy over idealized piety. 

But for every triumph, there is a failure or a corruption of spirit, and Rome is equally a museum of these. The colossal ruins of the Imperial fora speak to him not only of engineering prowess but of a failure of political liberty, a descent into oriental despotism where the spirit of the citizen was replaced by the apathy of the subject. He is famously ambivalent about Baroque art, particularly Bernini. While he can be moved by the sheer passion of a Saint Teresa in Ecstasy, he often critiques the Baroque for what he perceives as its theatrical affectation, its appeal to cheap sensation over genuine feeling. This, for Stendhal, represents a failure of sincerity; the spirit succumbing to the demands of propaganda for a repressive, absolutist Church. The architecture of Jesuit churches speaks to him of intellectual enclosure, not spiritual liberation. This analysis extends to the very fabric of social and political life. 

The idleness (dolce far niente) of the modern Roman aristocracy is a failure of energy, a symptom of a political system that stifles ambition. The restrictive, censorial government of Pope Leo XII is a failure of the Enlightenment spirit of reason and progress. Thus, on every corner, Stendhal reads a lesson in human potential and its frustration. Rome teaches that civilization is not an inevitable march upward, but a precarious balance between moments of radiant collective energy (the Republic, the Renaissance) and long periods of stagnation or decline, where the individual spirit is either crushed or diverted into triviality. The most powerful and original dimension of Stendhal’s Rome is its haunting quality. The past is not safely sealed behind glass; it is a living, breathing, often disquieting presence that actively shapes contemporary consciousness. This is where his work moves from historical analysis to a proto-psychological phenomenology of place. Stendhal is a master of conjuring what we might call historical empathy. He doesn’t just describe the Arch of Septimius Severus; he urges you to stand where the ancient Roman stood, to feel the same sun, to gaze down the same Sacred Way, and thus to bridge the chasm of centuries through shared sensation. He provides the anecdotes; the gossip of Suetonius, the speeches of Cicero, the intrigues of the Renaissance popes, not as dry facts, but as emotional keys to unlock the stones. The goal is a moment of vertiginous connection: “Here, on this very spot, Caesar fell…” 

This technique makes the past immanent, a ghostly companion on the promenade. This haunting reaches its peak in the famous passages that prefigure the so-called “Stendhal Syndrome.” In Santa Maria del Popolo, before the Chigi Chapel and the Caravaggios, or in the Vatican Stanze, he describes experiencing physical and emotional overwhelm: a racing heart, dizziness, a fear of falling. This is not hyperbole, but a clinical account of the sensitive soul being over-stimulated by the concentrated pressure of history and beauty. The present self is momentarily dissolved by the sheer accumulated weight of past genius and event. The past ceases to be an object of study and becomes an active, invasive force. Rome, in these moments, is not just interpreted; it acts upon the visitor. This dynamic operates on a collective level as well. Stendhal is acutely aware that the Papacy’s entire political and aesthetic ideology is a conscious manipulation of the past. St. Peter’s Basilica, built over the apostle’s tomb with the spoils of the ancient city, is the ultimate architectural claim to a succession of power. The Baroque re-staging of the city under Sixtus V was a theocratic re-mapping, using obelisks and long, straight streets to Christianize the pagan urban plan. The present, for good or ill, is built literally and figuratively upon the past. 

The modern Roman, whether a prince in his palazzo built atop a Roman theatre or a peasant drawing water from an ancient aqueduct, lives inside this haunted house, their daily life circumscribed by the decisions of emperors and popes long dead. Ultimately, Promenades dans Rome is a manual for a new kind of consciousness. Stendhal is educating his reader; a hypothetical, curious, preferably liberal-minded European, in how to be modern. The modern sensibility, as he conceives it, is historical, comparative, and self-aware. It can appreciate the noble savage energy of the ancient Roman and the refined psychology of a Raphael Madonna. It can admire the engineering of the Claudian aqueduct while deploring the slavery that built it. It can be stirred to the core by a Gregorian chant in a darkened church while intellectually rejecting the theology it represents. This cultivated irony and capacity for layered response is the necessary armor and tool for navigating a world where the past is so pressingly present. To walk through Rome with Stendhal is to learn to hold multiple, often contradictory, truths in mind simultaneously: beauty and tyranny, sublime faith and cynical power, decaying grandeur and vibrant squalor. The promenade becomes an exercise in synthesizing these dissonances into a coherent, personal understanding. The reward for this difficult education is a form of happiness, not a simple joy, but a rich, melancholic, deeply felt satisfaction that comes from feeling intensely alive and connected to the grand stream of human time. 

In conclusion, Stendhal’s Rome is more than a city; it is a mirror held up to civilization itself. Its ruins reflect our own potential for greatness and our susceptibility to hubris and decay. Its art reflects the eternal struggle of the spirit to express the inexpressible. Its very streets, a chaotic jumble of epochs, reflect the way we all live; not in a pure present, but in a messy, accumulated, inherited world shaped by ghosts. To know this Rome is to undergo a profound education in what it means to be human across time. It is to understand that civilization is not a given, but a fragile construct, forever cycling between creative energy and decadent ennui. It is to recognize that every triumph of a Michelangelo is hard-won against forces of conformity, and every colossal failure like the fall of the Empire was preceded by a thousand small betrayals of spirit. And most powerfully, it is to feel in one’s own nerves that the past is not a foreign country, but the very ground we walk on and the air we breathe. The ghosts are not in the ruins; they are in us, formed by the stories, the art, and the political shapes that have flowed from this eternal hearth. Promenades dans Rome thus stands as one of the first and greatest works to articulate the modern historical consciousness. It argues that true knowledge comes not from erudition alone, but from the willing vulnerability of the sensitive soul in the face of time’s monument. Stendhal teaches us that in the Roman labyrinth, we are ultimately walking through the labyrinth of our own collective soul, learning its capacities, its failures, and its enduring, haunted quest for beauty and meaning. The book is an invitation to let Rome happen to you, and in doing so, to understand the ceaseless, tragic, and glorious cycle of which we are all a part.

Black Lamb and Grey Falcon by Rebecca West

 

Published in 1941, on the precipice of a cataclysm that would engulf her subject, Rebecca West’s Black Lamb and Grey Falcon: A Journey Through Yugoslavia is far more than a travelogue. It is a colossal, 1,200-page meditation on history, civilisation, violence, and the eternal struggle between the creative and destructive impulses of humanity. Born from two extended trips to Yugoslavia in 1937, the book uses West’s journey, accompanied as she were, by her husband, her guide Constantine; a Serbian poet and diplomat, and his wife Gerda, all along as a narrative scaffold to support an immense historical and philosophical inquiries. At its heart lies a central, urgent thesis: to understand the turbulent, fractious, and seemingly incomprehensible present of the Balkan region, one must undertake a deep, unflinching excavation of its past. For Rebecca West, the Balkans were not a fringe “powder keg” but the very vessel where the forces shaping European history; empire, faith, nationalism, sacrifice, and tyranny, have been most violently and revealingly forged. The present, in all its complexity and foreboding, is seen as the direct and logical, if tragic, product of accumulated centuries, a whole Landscape as a Pergament of written history. Join me in a look into her interpretations.

West’s method is immersive and syncretic. She understands that in the Balkans, the past is not archived away but is physically and psychically present in the landscape. The key to the present is literally written on the land. A hill is not merely a hill; it is the site of a medieval battle that decided the fate of Christendom. A river ferry crossing echoes with the footsteps of Roman legions and Ottoman Janissaries. A peasant’s song recounts events from the 14th century with the immediacy of yesterday’s news.

Her journey begins in Dalmatia (Croatia), under the shadow of the Venetian Lion. Here, the Roman heritage is palpable, but it is a history of layered conquests. She observes how the present-day tensions between Croats and Serbs are prefigured in the ancient schism between Rome and Byzantium. The Catholic cathedrals of Zagreb and the Orthodox churches of Serbia are not just different houses of worship; they are the architectural manifestations of a millennium-old civilisational divide that runs through the heart of the South Slavs. The Austro-Hungarian architecture of Zagreb speaks of a more recent, Central European imperial past, which imposed its own order and cultivated a Croatian identity distinct from, and often antagonistic towards, the Serbian one. To understand the political friction of the 1930s, West insists we must feel the weight of the Militärgrenze and the competing claims of the Habsburg and Ottoman empires on these peoples.

The Serbian Epic: Sacrifice and the Cult of Kossovo

The core of West’s historical analysis, and the book’s emotional centre, is Serbia and the story of the Battle of Kosovo (1389). Here, her argument about the past’s dominion over the present becomes most potent. The battle, a catastrophic defeat for the medieval Serbian Empire at the hands of the Ottomans, is not a dead historical fact for Serbs; it is the nation’s foundational myth, a living archetype that shapes collective psychology and political action.

West attends the Vidovdan (St. Vitus’ Day) celebrations at the Kosovo field, where she witnesses the past being ritually re-enacted in the present. She dissects the legend of Prince Lazar, who, on the eve of battle, is offered a choice by a grey falcon from God: an earthly kingdom or a heavenly one. Choosing the heavenly kingdom—symbolizing spiritual eternity over temporal victory. Lazar and his army are slaughtered, and Serbia falls into five centuries of Ottoman occupation. This myth of sacrificial martyrdom, West argues, became the “black lamb” of her title—the innocent, willingly offered for slaughter in a transcendent cause. It provided the moral and spiritual sustenance for national survival during the long, dark night of the Turcokratia. It created a culture that venerated resistance, celebrated martyrdom, and viewed the state as a sacred entity worth any personal sacrifice.

For West, understanding this Kosovos paradigm is absolutely key to understanding the Serbian present of 1937. It explains the fierce, almost mystical Serbian commitment to the Yugoslav idea, seen as the final vindication of Kosovo's sacrifice—the regained heavenly kingdom made earthly. It explains the deep-seated suspicion of outsiders, borne of centuries of betrayal; like that of the legendary Vuk Branković, accused of treachery at Kosovos. It explains the readiness for extreme violence, for the past had taught that survival itself was a violent struggle. The Balkan Wars of 1912-13 and the horrific suffering of Serbia in World War I are, in West’s reading, modern chapters of the Kosovo epic. The present-day Serbian bureaucrat or soldier acts, consciously or not, within a framework defined by Lazar’s choice.

Complexity and Corruption

West’s analysis then turns to the enduring legacy of the Ottoman Empire, which she explores most deeply in Bosnia and Macedonia. This is not a simple narrative of Christian victim-hood under Muslim rule. With remarkable nuance for her time, West portrays the Ottoman system as a complex, often brutally efficient, but ultimately corrosive force. The millet system granted religious communities autonomy but hardened ethnic and religious identities, cementing the divisions between Orthodox Serbs, Catholic Croats, and Bosnian Muslims (Bosniaks) that would plague the Yugoslav state. The practice of devsirme (the blood tax, taking Christian boys for the Janissary corps) is presented as a traumatic rupture in the social fabric.

Most importantly, West identifies the Ottoman legacy as one of political corruption and the divorce of power from productivity. She describes a system where administration was based on favour, bribery, and caprice rather than law; where the conqueror lived off the labor of the conquered flock; where the link between work and reward was severed. This, she contends, bred a political culture in the present-day Balkans where intrigue, clientelism, and a suspicion of central authority flourished. The ornate beauty of Sarajevo’s mosques and bazaars cannot mask, for her, the historical reality of a system that stunted civic development and institutional trust. The poverty and “oriental” style of administration she sometimes criticizes in the Serbian south are traced to this lengthy Ottoman dominion. Thus, the challenges of building a modern, functional, unified state in Yugoslavia are shown to be rooted in these deeply ingrained historical patterns of governance.

The Austrian and Venetian Forces

To the Ottoman influence, West contrasts the Central European imprint of the Habsburg Empire in Croatia and Slovenia, and the Venetian in Dalmatia. Here, she finds order, Roman law, civic architecture, and a connection to the Western Renaissance. Yet, this is no simple praise. The Austrian order was often sterile, bureaucratic, and imposed from above. It cultivated a Croatian elite that looked to Vienna or Budapest, fostering a sense of cultural superiority over their Orthodox, “Eastern” Serbian cousins, but also a political immaturity—a habit of relying on a foreign crown. The present-day Croat nationalism she encounters, with its prickly insistence on autonomy and its flirtation with fascist ideas (embodied in the figure of ‘Gerda’), is shown as a product of this history: a people shaped by Western Christendom and empire, now struggling to find their place in a South Slav state dominated by the Serbian historical narrative.

This comparative analysis is crucial. It demonstrates that there is no single “Balkan” past, but a mosaic of competing, overlapping historical experiences. A Croat from Zagreb and a Serb from the Kossovo field are living in different historical presents, shaped by entirely different centuries. Their inability to understand each other in the 1930s is, for West, a direct result of their ancestors having lived under different empires, different legal systems, and different religious authorities for over 500 years. The Yugoslav state, a bold and idealistic attempt to unite them, is thus trying to overcome the gravitational pull of these divergent historical orbits.

The Recurring Pattern: The Black Lamb and the Grey Falcon

West elevates her historical investigation into a universal philosophical concern through her two central symbols. The Black Lamb is the perpetual victim, the sacrifice offered up to propitiate fate, god, or history. She sees it in the ritual slaughter of a lamb at a Macedonian peasant festival, and most profoundly, in the Serbian choice at Kosovo. The Grey Falcon is the ambiguous messenger, offering a choice that is often no choice at all; between two forms of destruction, between a quick death and a slow one, between earthly and heavenly kingdoms.

The tragedy of the Balkans, and by extension of humanity in the face of rising totalitarianism is the persistent, seductive allure of the sacrificial ideology. Our leaders of today fear that the Western democracies, in their appeasement of Trump are repeating the error of choosing the “heavenly kingdom” of peace in our time, which will inevitably lead to a greater slaughter—they are offering up their own black lambs. The Balkans, with their endless cycles of invasion, resistance, martyrdom, and betrayal, are a stark lesson in the costs and the terrible allure of this pattern. To understand the present drift toward war in Greenland, one must recognize this historical rhythm of sacrifice and violence, perfected in the Balkan theater.

The Past as Key and Warning

By the book’s end, as war clouds gather over Europe, West’s project achieves its full, tragic resonance. Her detailed, passionate, and often overwhelming excavation of Balkan history was not an antiquarian exercise. It was an attempt to diagnose a sickness at the heart of Europe by studying the patient where the symptoms were most acute. The ethnic tensions, the political fractures, the readiness for violence, the profound sense of historical grievance that characterizes the Yugoslav present were all decipherable only with the key of the past.

Black Lamb and Grey Falcon argues in my view that the present is not a random collection of events but a vector, carrying the momentum of all that preceded it. The assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand in Sarajevo in 1914 was not a freak accident; it was the eruption of a centuries-old fault line between empires and nationalisms. The struggle to maintain King Alexander’s Yugoslavia in the 1930s was a battle against the centrifugal forces of history itself. West’s prescience is chilling; she all but predicts the apocalyptic violence that would engulf the region during World War II and, half a century later, in the wars of the 1990s. Those conflicts; with their rhetoric of ancient hatreds, their martyrdom complexes, their manipulation of historical myth (especially Kosovo), and their brutal clarity of ethnic division—would prove her central thesis with terrible finality.

In conclusion, Rebecca West’s masterpiece insists that to dismiss the Balkans as a realm of irrational, atavistic chaos is a profound failure of understanding. Its present is intensely, overwhelmingly rational, but its logic is the logic of history; a history of empires clashing, of faiths dividing, of myths sustaining, and of sacrifices demanded. The past is not dead in the Balkans; it is not even past. It is the living script from which the present is perpetually, and often tragically, performed. To ignore that script is to render the present incomprehensible and to forfeit the ability to learn from its relentless, sobering lessons. In seeking to understand Yugoslavia, West ultimately held up a dark mirror to all of Europe, warning that the forces playing out so vividly in that Balkan landscape, the choice between resistance and appeasement, between life and the seduction of the sacrificial lamb; were the very forces that would decide the fate of the civilized world.