AN APPEAL. Are any of you really good at solving Internet problems? Here’s my problem. I have ethernet at home. I do not use wireless. Beginning on the evening of Monday, 10 July 2017, my website became inaccessible from my home computer. All other websites open normally and without problem. If I take my computer elsewhere, I can access my website. When I bring my computer back home, I can’t. No sites are blocked in my “hosts” file. No add-on or firewall or anti-virus or cybersecurity is preventing access. I have reset my router, and even unplugged it for a full night. That makes no difference. I am still able to ping my site, but I am not able to open any of my web pages, which simply time out with the message that the site is unreachable and may be down. When the tech arrived from the ISP, suddenly I had full access to my website. Once he left, my access vanished again. Once in a while, for a few moments, sometimes even for a few hours, I have access again. Then it goes away completely. Surprisingly, I am still able to upload and download via FTP. My suspicion is that someone has remotely hijacked either my computer or, more likely, my router, though no scan has detected any malware. I am quite certain that this person is also listening in on my phone calls and quite possibly monitoring my abode, which would explain the restoration of my service just in time for the repairman to arrive, followed by the disconnection almost immediately after his departure. If you know how to solve this problem, please contact me. Thanks!

THE SAGA OF


Championed by a few, loathed by the many, Caligula is surely among the most mangled, mutilated, misunderstood movies in cinema history. There are several tie-in books already, but they don’t provide any believable background details about how and why the movie came to be made amidst conflict, how and why the movie was so changed afterwards that the writer and director both refused to take responsibility for the result, and how and why it destroyed an Italian production company, making a pauper of its once-respected producer, driving him to an early grave. So that would make for an interesting tale, yes?

My goal back in early 1979 was to learn enough about this movie to write a pamphlet about it, maybe 100 pages, certainly no more than 150 pages. I wanted simply to describe Gore Vidal’s screenplay and follow that with a brief description of the film as Tinto Brass had directed it. That’s all. I just wanted to know why Gore and Tinto had both disowned the final product. Simple as that. Alas, there was no information anywhere — no script was available, and no shooting records could be found. Then in the autumn of 2003 there was an announcement that the Gore Vidal Papers were to be housed at Houghton Library at Harvard University. An inquiry confirmed that many Caligula-related papers were included in the collection. They were treasures, and I spent a total of four weeks there — four weeks that opened me to many new ways of thinking about many things, not merely Caligula. Then in early 2007 I got a brief glimpse of some of the contents of the film vault. That changed the story almost entirely. At the same time I began to acquire the previously unknown storage locker rented by Caligula producer Franco Rossellini. (Yes, Franco Rossellini was the producer of Caligula. You didn’t know that, did you?) Over the course of almost two years, three friends helped me acquire the bulk of the contents of that storage locker. We tried to get every scrap, but that proved impossible. We got the most important items, though. Frustratingly, there were many gaps in those four crates of papers. Why was I surprised in July 2012 to discover that about 800 of Franco’s missing pages were held at Duke University? I paid a freelance researcher to photograph all the relevant materials there. In 2014 I discovered that a goodly number of items from Bob Guccione’s personal Caligula collection were being auctioned. Again, with the help of friends around the globe (“The Gore Vidal’s Caligula United Front,” we called ourselves), I managed to acquire a fair number of those items. Then papers stored in the attic of a house, papers that had been destined for the rubbish heap, were shipped to me instead: two crates of documents from Twickenham Studios relating to the protracted editing of Caligula. Just as the book was two short leaps from the finish line, I got full access to pretty much everything else, which, again, was just days away from being dumped into a landfill. That story is itself worthy of a book, and I am in part responsible for the rescue operation — you see, nobody at Penthouse knew these materials still existed, and had I not revealed the whereabouts of the collection, there would have been no effort to preserve it. The amount of rescued material, now at Penthouse headquarters, is overwhelming. Kelly Holland, the new Penthouse owner, kindly gave me the key and invited me to examine and copy anything I wished, on condition, of course, that I not publish any of it without her permission. I felt honored. I spent a goodly amount of time with the files, which are massive. Working 50 hours a week, it would take several years to get through them all. The amount of significant material is minimal. I’m searching for the proverbial needle in a haystack.

More precisely, I was searching for the proverbial needle in a haystack. From the day I was allowed into the archive, I feared that the tide would turn and that I would be locked out again. After about eight months of having the doors swing open wide whenever I had a few hours to spare, there was the inevitable lawyerly roadblock: Continued admittance would hinge upon my signing a series of non-negotiable contracts, which were quite deviously worded and self-contradictory, since adherence to one contract would necessitate a breach of the others, and any breach would result in a lawsuit. Though these contracts did not explicitly so state, the collective effect would be to silence me forever, even in private conversation, preventing me from ever saying a single less-than-flattering word about Penthouse or Caligula or Bob Guccione or Kathy Keeton or Jack Silverman or Gerald Kreditor or Ben Baker or Gianni Massaro or anyone and everyone ever connected in any way with Penthouse or any of its affiliated companies. Of course, my signing such contracts would render my book unpublishable. I would not agree to any of this, and so I had to relinquish all my notes and surrender my key. That’s the end of that. What I can say about the materials I saw (many tens of thousands of pages) is that nothing in them changes the story I had discovered from other archives. The materials in this Penthouse collection added spice, added texture, and threw some horrors into even more horrifying relief, but they did not change the story. Though it is a loss not to be able to reference these materials, it is not a major loss. Should I ever decide to publish my book, my narrative can stand as is, with full justification and honesty. I can also say this: An investigator examining only the papers in the Penthouse collection would derive nothing but incorrect conclusions. The most important documents, you see, are not and never were at Penthouse. I do not know for certain who made the decision, four decades ago, to suppress the evidence, but I can make a pretty darned good guess.

It was not the closing of the doors that turned me into an emotional wreck. There have been adventures of late. They were not always good adventures. Some were pretty darned devastating adventures, draining adventures, and most were tied to this book. So many novel (mostly bad) things happened from October 2016 through July 2017 that those nine+ months seem as long as fifteen years. 28 June 2017 through 10 July 2017 seems like two and a half years. So I decided: This book has caused me too many problems, has taken up too many years, has started too many arguments, has ended friendships, has prevented me from pursuing other activities, has gotten me stuck in offices with too many vampires, and has resulted in too many emotions. On top of that, it has cost me all my savings and then some. Nearly the entire book consists of details about conflicts — major conflicts. I dislike conflicts. I dislike even learning about them. They drain me. Nonetheless, these particular conflicts were important, and most of them were unknown, and remain unknown. The conflicts spilled over from the page and into real life, and so I found conflicts all around me. After ten or so years of people verbally beating up on me, some instantly treating me as Public Enemy Number One, I entirely lost interest in the book. Sorry. I’m tired. I am tired beyond description. Burnout. That’s the word I was looking for. Burnout. Despair, too. That’s another word that describes my feelings right now. Add to that despondency. I also realized that, though the book was never in any way designed to give Penthouse publicity, its publication would inevitably have that result, and I have no wish to give Penthouse publicity. This is a worthless endeavor. I hereby cut my losses. Upon making this decision, I felt better. Upon surrendering the key to the new archive, I slept better than I had in many months — not well, but better. Maybe, just maybe, after I do some useful things for a change, maybe I’ll rewrite a bunch of chapters and be done with this 200 Degrees of Failure book once and for all and good riddance. If I do eventually publish the book, I would never give any personal appearances or interviews, nor would I do any book signings. The adventure will be over.

In case you’re wondering, I confess: I am not a fan of Caligula. I think the world of Gore Vidal. I think the world of Tinto Brass. In numerous interviews, Malcolm McDowell expressed his conviction that, buried beneath the mess, there is a great movie struggling to get out, if only it were to be edited properly. Until recently, I agreed. I was wrong. Sorry. Even edited properly, it would still be a piece of junk. Once I saw that, well, I was deflated. I had been eagerly pursuing a whole big bag of nothing for all those years. I felt so stupid. There are wonderful things in the movie, yes, I admit. There are some stunningly beautiful images. The absurdist comedy sometimes works. The thick, unreal, dreamlike atmosphere sometimes works. The Pyramid of Power makes the whole rest of the movie worth enduring. As much as I love everything Gore wrote, I must correct myself: I love everything else Gore wrote. Yes, his final draft of the script was quite strong, and, superficially, it would have made a compelling single-viewing drama, but the history and psychology were rubbish. The shooting script, by the way, had little to do with Gore’s final draft. As much as I admire all of Tinto’s movies up through and including The Key from 1983, I exempt this one (together with Salon Kitty). There were two problems with Caligula. First, there were too many cooks. Only an acute case of too-many-cooks could have resulted in Tiberius’s torture-ward, pool, and terrace scenes. Those were jaw-droppingly stupid, embarrassingly stupid, ghastly stupid, staggeringly stupid, almost as bad as The Deer Hunter. Second, nobody — not Gore, not Tinto, not Danilo, not Franco, certainly not Bob — had a clue about the true story. The real story actually has some potential for insightful drama — a dunderheaded egomaniacal sadist raised by sociopaths, elevated to top position in a government that we would now classify as proto-fascist, finds that the group-think bureaucrats have no choice but to humor his every whim, and sets about running the government into the ground for his own amusement and eliminating his closest allies and strongest supporters just because he can. (Why does that remind me of somebody?) The real story has never been told on stage or screen, and it was certainly not told by Suetonius or Cassius Dio. For the real story, check out Philo’s Φλάκκος and Τῆς πρεσβείας πρὸς Γαίον, together with Seneca’s De ira, De constantia sapientis, and De brevitate vitæ.

Curiously, despite the ludicrous onscreen results, there is something addictive about Caligula. Even some of the worst scenes have a marvelous moodiness, sometimes bordering on dreamlike. What fascinated me, personally, was the puzzle. The writer and director were initially cordial and worked together splendidly. The friendliness evaporated in a single moment, and the two sued each other. When they were through, both disowned the result. Beginning on 4 October 1980, and for the next three and a half decades, I watched the movie probably well over fifty times, analyzing every last detail under the microscope, trying to discern what had been cut out, rearranged, rewritten in the dubbing; I was endlessly trying to imagine what the movie was supposed to have been like. That is why I was addicted. No longer. If the film were ever to be restored to Tinto’s intentions, I’d watch that restoration — only once, and only if I don’t have to pay for it. Enough.

In the meantime, now that this massive tome has been transmogrified into a doorstop, why not look at the attractive advertisement that announced the beginning of the filming? As with nearly every contemporary press item about Caligula, it was a lie:



Originally I had some pages on this site devoted to analyzing the film. They were beyond erroneous. I junked them. So stroll around through the links below. Have fun.


You’ve Been Wondering
for Four Decades:
The Mythical
210-Minute Version




The Multiple Versions



Opinions about the Movie



Audience Reactions



Press Cuttings



The Mysterious Death
of Anneka di Lorenzo




Tie-Ins, Promotional Items,
and Other Such Phenomena




The Other
Franco Rossellini
Movies




The Other
Penthouse
Movies




The Writer
Who Disowned
the Movie




You’ve Been Wondering
for Six Decades:
Gore Vidal’s Ben-Hur




The Director
Who Disowned
the Movie




Stuart Urban Remembers
Working on Caligula




The Posters and
Print Advertisements




You Know More
Than We Do




Alan King’s TV Special
on Caligula




The Cast and Crew



Every Screening and Booking We Have Learned About



Bob Guccione’s Flirtation
with Thermonuclear Fusion




Incredibly Difficult Translations That Gave Us Mountains of Migraines



Oodles and Oodles
of Caligulas




The Real Caligula Gaius



The Real Reason Why
You Could Never Learn
Greek and Latin
(Hint: No, They’re Not Hard, and No, You’re Not Stupid)




Interesting External Links



Contact







As far as I am now concerned, the movie is not the story. The story is the decade and a half of behind-the-scenes intrigues and legal battles. Those are much more worthy of study. You have never heard about most of those behind-the-scenes dramas. They were never published. Not even the people who lived through the legal actions understood what they were doing or what was being done to them or why. No judge could make head nor tail of the arguments and exhibits. In its totality, the Caligula saga is a horrifying example of how the law works, both in the US and in Europe. The story is truly demoralizing. It will weaken your hope for humanity. No. That’s too optimistic. It will probably end your hope for humanity. Writing that story took me from the beginning of January 2009 to the end of December 2014, and I was discovering the story as I was piecing it together. I didn’t study the evidence first and then summarize it later. I wrote it as I was discovering it, which is why I had to go back and revise and correct probably every last paragraph multiple times as I encountered each new piece of evidence. The evidence told me the narrative, and I simply obeyed it. I did not impose my narrative upon the evidence. Composing these chapters was a painful process, because the story is so awful, and because the good guys lost. When I re-read these chapters I cringe. We need to take these lessons to heart. We cannot fix a problem until we understand it. My wish was to reveal this story in all its corruption, suspense, pain, terror, and agony. That story was Part Five of my book, Chapters 28 through 40. I knew, from the time I penned the first sentence of Chapter 28, that this would be the section of the book that readers would skip. You won’t like these chapters, not at all. They’d bore the enamel off of your teeth. So be it. These chapters are dull, tedious, detailed, filled with contractual language and ledger sheets and legal terminology and so forth. They’re my favorite chapters — mine and nobody else’s.

As I wrote (or cowrote) the earlier chapters (1 through 27), I was laboring under the preposterous delusion that the story was about the script, about the direction, about the design, about the actors’ neuroses, about the imposition of foreign concepts onto Gore Vidal’s vision, about the entirely insane editing processes by people who had had nothing to do with the filming and who were thus entirely unable to understand the footage dumped into their laps. You thought that was the story, too, didn’t you? That was not the story. The heart of the book became the story of the Rossellini-versus-Guccione conflicts, a gruesome and harrowing tale. When I finished the six-year process of deciphering the story, I was winded — and wounded. I have not recovered. The story taught me to have zero confidence in any legal system. It helped formulate and articulate my conclusion that the purpose of the law is to protect the rich from the poor, to protect the powerful from the powerless, to protect corporate criminals from whistle-blowers, to protect con artists from their marks, to protect predators from their victims, to protect corporate profiteers from safety regulators, to protect plagiarists from the plagiarized, to protect frauds from the defrauded. The legal system is a money machine, preying upon the desperation of idiots like me who are dumb enough to pay for professional help. If you’re not at the top of the social-economic heap, you would be pretty safe to wager that your attorney works for your adversary and is feeding your adversary all your info. The legal system arranges to incarcerate the defenseless, who are then forced to serve as slaves to corporations in prison sweatshops. Lawyers play dirty, judges play dirty, and the law rewards only those who play dirtiest of all. To anybody who knows the history of the US (not the schoolbook version, but the real history), this will not come as a surprise. What did come as a surprise — to me — is that France, Italy, Germany, Spain, and England are no better. (Years ago, when I was involved in a legal conflict, my lawyer insisted that cases can be won only by perjury, that evidence matters not a whit, and that if I were foolish enough to submit evidence to court or foolish enough to tell the truth, I would lose. I was lucky that there was a quick out-of-court settlement prior to the need for any perjury. What a relief! You see, I would have refused to lie in court, regardless of my legal counsel’s urging. I would have been blackballed everywhere, my lawyer would have petitioned the court to be dismissed from the case, and I would have spent fifteen years in prison for a crime that never happened. More recently, after completing Chapters 28 through 41, I was summoned to serve on a jury — and I saw precisely what I expected. The lawyers for the two parties dismissed anyone who had any expertise, howsoever slight, in the subject matter. The judge then forbade us to pass judgment on the totality of the evidence. The judge permitted us to consider only a single irrelevant detail, a detail of no consequence whatsoever to the case. We had no choice but unanimously to pronounce the wrong verdict. That explains so much about the news stories we read every day. The game is rigged — completely. And pundits have the audacity to pretend to wonder why people start riots.)

A great highlight of my life was when one of Franco Rossellini’s relatives read chapters 28 through 41 and approved them fully, without amendment. Catharsis! I must have done something right! She said I should just go ahead and publish them as is. So, okay, here goes, all of Part Five and the opening of Part Six: 28, 29, 30, 31, 32, 33, 34, 35, 36, 37, 38, 39, 40, and 41. If you can read these without suffering overpowering pains of empathy, you’re made of stronger stuff than I. Well, either that or you’re a psychopath.

That’s it. No more. Until a recent series of devastating events, I wanted this book to be complete and to be published by a university press, as a real book with paper pages sewn between cloth covers, sold by retailers at a reasonable price. I have to be realistic. That will probably never happen. So this is all you get. I’m not trying to be mean. The way I am feeling these days, I would simply rather die than go through the agony of rewriting the coauthored chapters, and I don’t want to put up with fighting off those who would object to the publication. Maybe I’ll change my mind after a several-year vacation from Caligula, maybe. Maybe not. Probably not. Over this past year or so my emotions have been twisted around so many times that I’ll probably wish never to think about Caligula again. I am entirely out of energy and every last drop of my enthusiasm has been drained away. My nerves are shot. I give up. It would be madness to continue. It is time to stop. There really does come a time to walk away. I have waited long past that time. Now I’ll spend more time with my cat. There’s never been anybody in the world I’ve loved half so much as I love my cat. Time with her is my priority. She doesn’t twist my emotions around. I am now also freed to pursue other quests that have been on the back burner for over a decade. Hoorah!



Postscript: It has been a few short months since I stopped work on the book and posted the above fourteen chapters. I have been engaged in a prolonged effort to disentangle myself from the Penthouse archive, and that process is nearly complete. I am spending more time with my cat, who has a massive lung tumor, which formed and grew, unbeknownst to me, as I was working on the book. Like so many other morons, I purchased litter and food from the shops, thinking that was okay. It was not okay. Cats, like humans, need raw food, minus GMO and grains, and they need litter without sodium bentonite or crystalline silica dust. Standard cat foods cause digestive failure and IBS, which in turn lead to countless other fatal maladies. Standard cat litters cause lung cancer. The brand names we have all been brainwashed to trust through TV advertisements and prominent placement on shop shelves and whatnot, are the deadliest of all. Few pet shops would carry the good stuff. You need to shop around, and unless you live in a large city, you’ll probably need to order these items through the mail or through the Internet. I wish I had known this twelve years ago. Now my cat and I are both destined to die of lung cancer.

Freed from the book, I have gone back through the Ollendorff Italian course, beginning with Lesson One, and it is now much easier to absorb. At last I am nearly at the half-way mark, and the fears about how much I’d forget over the following week are now gone. There is no further need to fear, as I can work on it whenever I have some moments to spare, and, unlike before, I do have moments to spare. Further, when I forget things, as I always do, I can go over material again, without anxiety over pressing archive work and pressing book issues. My nerves are considerably calmer.

In this new state of mind, and in this new state of being, I make discoveries. The first discovery is that I have no desire to watch movies any more — except for the occasional educational item or documentary. Growing up was not a happy time, and movies were my escape. The Marx Brothers, Charlie Chaplin, Buster Keaton, Mae West, Charley Chase, Laurel & Hardy were my therapy. They kept alive in me the smallest ember of sanity that would otherwise have been irretrievably extinguished. The old vaudeville clowns led me, in my teens, to the wonders of the modern filmmakers — Fellini, Makavejev, Pasolini, and so forth. The films were a revelation, I thought.

Then came the fascination with the mutilated Caligula, widely castigated for all the wrong reasons. That is what began my investigation, which lasted from early 1979 through mid-2017, and the results, which you can see for yourselves in the fourteen chapters in the links above, are quite stunning. I’m a heck of a detective, if I do say so myself. I came to have a fluent understanding of data that had left teams of lawyers and streams of judges hopelessly mystified. This was good. I learned a skill. It is not a skill I would ever choose to monetize, but it is a skill that I can apply to daily living. In learning this skill, though, I saw that my life’s trajectory was not what I was expecting. When your plans unexpectedly but ineluctably lead you to Penthouse headquarters, you need to rethink your entire life. You need to reconsider all your thoughts, all your feelings, all your emotions, all your interests, even your very identity, because a path that leads to Penthouse is the wrong path.

Now that I have learned this detective skill, I can leave movies behind. I crossed that bridge, and I need never cross back. I can leave theatre behind. I can leave entertainment behind. They served their purpose and helped me to move on. They no longer interest me in the least. Of course, if the Red Mole were still alive and performing, I would make an exception for them, since what they did was far deeper than entertainment; they animated on stage the dreams of our prehistoric ancestors, and made their dreams our dreams. That was an amazing thing to experience. Alas, they are gone. There is nothing left that catches my attention.

The freedom now to pack up this part of my life, seal it into boxes, and put it all into storage, is truly a freedom in more ways than one. I am not forcing myself to do this. I am not doing this reluctantly. I am not doing this out of resentment. I am not doing this just to show people I can. I am doing this because that part of my life is over, and I don’t miss it in the least.

Despite all this, I have left the door cracked open just the tiniest little bit. Should anybody ever be seriously interested in rescuing Tinto’s works, I would be more than happy to assist. The Caligula-related documents I have gathered from countless sources, but mostly from Franco Rossellini’s storage locker, are still within reach. I have not entirely renounced my plans to complete 200 Degrees of Failure. It is set aside, safely. First I want to care for my cat. Then I want to learn Italian well enough to read Moravia and newspapers and to participate in basic conversations. I have tried this so often over the years, but my plans were thwarted every time, whether by multiple jobs, or overtime, or lousy texts, or no ability to meet up with Italians, or getting into trouble with the police, or having the FBI freeze my bank account, or having to move rapidly from place to place thanks to maniacal landlords, or getting sucked into ever-increasing volunteer work, or just working on that bloody 200 Degrees book, there was always something that filled up every last free moment. By the way, police, the FBI, corrupt lawyers, and dangerously psychotic bosses can make you a nervous wreck. It is impossible to study when you’re a nervous wreck. That’s all over. I have a little bit of free time now, and it brings me peace.

Sitting outside my doorway with my cat, as I spend a day or two or three or four or five or six on a page of Ollendorff, brings me peace. When a page that I find difficult, five or six days later, becomes easy, I feel even more at peace. Then I want, at long last, to fulfill a childhood fantasy and learn ancient Greek. Prior to January 2016, I had no resources to do so. Yes, there were plenty of courses, but they were all dreadful. The books available on the market were appallingly awful, and made the language appear infinitely more complicated than it really is. The professors were incapable of speaking the language; all they could do was translate with difficulty. I wasn’t about to pay those bozos to “teach” me anything. I needed something better, and after a 45-year wait, I found it. Now I do have the resources — and I want to learn the language fluently. I don’t want to go to my grave without having read Homer in the original. From what I can see so far, ancient Greek is a thousand times easier than Italian. Then maybe I’ll write a different book, shorter, easier, maybe about the local American Indians, a book I could complete with maybe three or four months of labor. American Indians are more important than Caligula.

Should I be able to realize these simple little dreams, I would be refreshed. I would be a new person. Then, and only then, would I look again at 200 Degrees and decide if it merits my time and effort. In the meantime, you can read the fourteen chapters in the above links. They are the only chapters I like. In my opinion, the rest of the book is chock-full of good information, but it’s so unfocused as to be unreadable. If you wish to study Caligula, you need to understand that nearly all the articles in the press were a pack of lies. More importantly, you need to understand that the movie was just a pretext to perform a monumental amount of swindles. The swindles constitute the story. The stupid movie was just a pretext. That’s all. If you take it more seriously than that, you’re falling for a swindle.

Another postscript. A few months ago I attended a pow wow. Since that is not my ancestry, I never participate. I merely watch and meet up with friends. Pow wows are cleansing. At this particular pow wow, a vague thought began to form itself. I could not recognize what it was. It matured on its own, and finally, on the evening of Tuesday, 19 September 2017, it was clear enough that I could recognize it. The thought was about my book. For all those dozen or so years that I was struggling with myself to write that book, I had missed the central situation. I was blind to it. I was too close to the subject to see it. The people who lived through Caligula were also blind to it, because they were too close to the subject as well. I mentioned this to a Diné friend who had also attended that pow wow, also as a mere observer, not participant. She was amused, remarking how it so frequently happens that one never has insight into a topic until after one abandons it. So now I am in a state of mind that consists in equal measure of relaxation and agitation. Shall I pick up my book again and recast it, this time with a better perspective? Or should I just let it go? I still don’t know. What I do know is that Italian and ancient Greek come first. They are cleansing, too — not as cleansing as a pow wow, but they are cleansing.

Bye-bye.



Addendum. By mid-September 2017 my lovely cat was in constant pain, could hardly move, and had ever-more trouble breathing. I took her in for surgery on Saturday, 22 September 2017. That was the earliest opening, at 10:00am. Had the earliest appointment been at noon, she almost certainly would have been dead on arrival. The doctors immediately put her into an oxygen chamber, and then spent eight or nine hours trying with difficulty to reconcile the X-rays with the symptoms. They discovered that the previous diagnosis was wrong. She did not have lung cancer after all. The tumor had grown out of her heart, and thus could not be surgically removed. It was unresponsive to any attempt at stabilization or reduction. It was a genetic defect. It was nothing I had done. It was not from the silica dust in her clay litter. It was not from that criminally unsafe commercial cat food. The doctors worked on her for days, hoping for a breakthrough, though they had little hope for such. By the time the results came back, my cat was barely conscious, barely responsive, and no longer wanted to see me or anybody else. The results held no promise, only the expected prognosis. There was nothing to be done. The only love of my life died a horrid, painful death, after days of intense suffering, as the tumor rapidly crushed both lungs as well as her heart. We had done everything possible, to no avail, and we took her off life support, once she was no longer responsive, on the night of Tuesday, 26 September 2017. We had not been extending her life, but merely prolonging her dying process, artificially, and prolonging her agony. It was terribly unnatural, ghoulish, and it was torture. I cannot bring myself to describe her symptoms. Witnessing them nearly killed me. I doubt she would have lasted another few hours, in any case. She was not old. Were it not for the tumor, she would have lasted another six years or so, and I was looking forward with infinite joy to those next six years. She had adopted me in 2006, when the last thing I wanted was a pet, and she then proceeded to transform my life. Total, selfless love and affection is what she offered me, without fail. I’ve never had that from anyone else. She hated my book on Caligula. Anything else I did was fine with her, and she was okay with most of the book, but whenever I worked on chapters 19 and 29, she was spooked no end. I couldn’t figure out what was bothering her until it was too late. Had I understood what she was telling me, I would have stopped. My singular comfort now is knowing that I had not been in any way responsible for her illness. That is a small comfort, and a cold comfort, and a cruel comfort. Had I not gotten the test results, I would have been convinced I was at fault, and I would have jumped off a skyscraper. I was alone at the burial. That spells the end of my Caligula endeavors. I care not a whit anymore.