Blood Letters

The staggering story of the most important Chinese political dissident of the Mao era, a devout Christian who was imprisoned, tortured, and executed by the regime Blood Letters tells the astonishing tale of Lin Zhao, a poet and journalist arrested by the authorities in 1960 and executed eight years later, at the height of the Cultural Revolution. The only Chinese citizen known to have openly and steadfastly opposed communism under Mao, she rooted her dissent in her Christian faith -- and expressed it in long, prophetic writings done in her own blood, and at times on her clothes and on cloth torn from her bedsheets. Miraculously, Lin Zhao's prison writings survived, though they have only recently come to light. Drawing on these works and others from the years before her arrest, as well as interviews with her friends, her classmates, and other former political prisoners, Lian Xi paints an indelible portrait of courage and faith in the face of unrelenting evil.

"Both Rubacher and Manson are brilliant, intuitive, half-mad artists and psychologists/manipulators...only God knows why one uses his energy and talent for good and why one wastes it in evil. Rubacher is on to something." San Francisco Chronicle "Rubacher's journey to the heart of darkness was not without travail. During the two years he corresponded with Manson, Rubacher says, he endured threats from members of the family and from Manson. Manson ordered several family members to pay menacing visits to Rubacher at his home." Sacramento Bee "R&R, I may let you live. Then again, maybe not. Sweet dreams." Charles Manson "The author has incredible courage or is mad to involve himself with the psychopathic killer." Lawrence McLoughlin, Speakers Bureau, Pattaya Expats Club, Thailand "Charlie Manson is one of the most intriguing personalities in law enforcement history. To study him is to confront evil at its worst." Ret. Lt. H. Sigworth, Los Angeles County Sheriff's Department.

Karl Marx remarked that the only way to write about the origins of capitalism is in the letters of blood and fire used to drive workers from the common lands, forests, and waters in the sixteenth century. In this collection of essays, George Caffentzis argues that the same is true for the annals of twenty-first-century capitalism. Information technology, immaterial production, financialization, and globalization have been trumpeted as inaugurating a new phase of capitalism that puts it beyond its violent origins. Instead of being a period of major social and economic novelty, however, the course of recent decades has been a return to the fire and blood of struggles at the advent of capitalism. Emphasizing class struggles that have proliferated across the social body of global capitalism, Caffentzis shows how a wide range of conflicts and antagonisms in the labor-capital relation express themselves within and against the work process. These struggles are so central to the dynamic of the system that even the most sophisticated machines cannot liberate capitalism from class struggle and the need for labor. Themes of war and crisis permeate the text and are given singular emphasis, documenting the peculiar way in which capital perpetuates violence and proliferates misery on a world scale. This collection draws upon a careful rereading of Marx’s thought in order to elucidate political concerns of the day. Originally written to contribute to the debates of the anticapitalist movement over the last thirty years, this book makes Caffentzis’s writings readily available as tools for the struggle in this period of transition to a common future.

Bengali writer Riza Rahman is the author of more than fifty novels, as well as countless short stories, set in Bangladesh and bringing to life the difficult, mostly forgotten lives of its poorest and most disadvantaged citizens. Letters of Blood is set in the often violent world of prostitution in Bangladesh. Rahman brings great sensitivity and insight to her chronicles of the lives of women trapped in that bleak world as they face the constant risk of physical abuse, disease, and pregnancy, while also all too often struggling with drug addiction. A powerful, unforgettable story, Letters of Blood shows readers a hard way of life, imbuing the stories of these women with unforgettable empathy and compassion.

Tom Larkin paid fifty grand for his brilliant red casket months before they planned a sailor’s funeral for him that night. His coffin cruised at 120 mph with its dash lit like a jet’s cockpit, where the most-important reading to Larkin glowed on his Porsche’s digital clock--4:00 AM. Perhaps it was his darkest moment before dawn, but he had other plans. He drove recklessly, hydroplaning northbound on Manhattan’s flooded FDR Drive through sheets of pouring rain. The drive home took an hour, but, with minimal visibility in a torrential downpour, the flooded Harlem River Drive leading to the George Washington Bridge concealed potholes rattling the fine suspension of his German-made wet dream. Larkin’s greater problem—DWI—was a given they had counted on. Still, they drugged his last sour mash at Rao’s, just to up the prelude’s tempo to an evening dirge. With the bad weather, his inebri- ation, and hallucinations from a subtle drug taking hold of his senses, the distance between Larkin and home lengthened as time became his enemy. Vera, his wife, told him she’d kill him the next time he stumbled in after daybreak. It was no idle threat. He knew she could kill in a crime of passion, especially him. Death lurked at the start and finish of his race homeward, but, with two strikes against him, only he could fathom the third --his bent to self destruction. If all went as planned, Harbor Police would find Tom Larkin dead behind the wheel after hitting the muddy bottom of the East River, or any other river. They just wanted him gone, stateside or overseas, no matter what. Larkin still felt sharp an hour after downing his third double Jack Daniels. In his mind, past, present, and future were clear. Remembering his hat size, Social Security number, and the measurements of a dozen bimbos was no problem. He could read his driver’s license number from three paces, backward, upside down, with either eye or both—without glasses. He’d been sharp for two hours before he started driving, but an hour after his last belt, the one first kicked in with the drugs and compounded his usual buzz. Seeing Vera as more dangerous than the road, he sped recklessly despite the hazardous conditions. He had no idea anyone wanted to kill him for anything other than his flagrant infidelities. To his right, the black depths of the East River was a fatal attraction. He could be a loser on two counts, but there was a third alternative, the loser’s hat trick--call strike-three without a swat to stay alive. His own worst enemy, he knew they might find him dead before dawn on all three counts. “Bastards,” he grumbled, cursing his so called buddies who let him get behind the wheel after he had been pumping drinks for hours. Their names escaped him. So much for clarity. Sharp as a rose thorn? he wondered. My ass. Where were those faceless nonentities? They were friends enough to buy his fourth drink in a dingy saloon, yet, they had turned their backs when he squinted to read the address on his parking stub. Had they callously watched him stumbling to his Porsche trying to get the himself home? So much for twenty-twenty fucking vision, he thought. Vera will kill me if I’m not out of here. What time you got, Pal? I can’t read my damn watch.” His mind and car sped out of control at a mile a minute. The East River beckoned. Who could ever see clearly in a dim twilight between happy hour and an untimely death? He shrugged and imagined seeing his own hands clutching the steering wheel but saw no flesh, only bone. In the rearview mirror, he caught the malicious grins of three Mexican capungos, bandits who’d kill as soon as spit.

Covering the years 1934 to 1966, this revealing self-portrait by one of the most remarkable women of our time recounts, through her letters to friends and family, Goodall's enduring love affair with the "dark continent." 16-page photo insert.

Helga Rist tells her story of survival in post-World War 2 Soviet prisons in East Germany, behind the Iron Curtain. Captive for over seven years, Helga was incarcerated for being accused of associating with anti-Communist elements in the Soviet-occupied territory. Typical prison stories from the era deal with the Jewish holocaust. Helga's was a different tale as a political prisoner. Her will to live was kept alive by slowly penning a letter home to her family using her own blood pricked from her finger. The letter was not delivered until she finally gained her freedom.

First English translation from the Latin of the first monograph written on the Eucharist: 'On the Body and Blood of the Lord' by the Carolingian theologian Paschasius Radbertus appearing in the critical edition found in 'Corpus Christianorum Continuatio Mediaevalis' volume 16.00The 'De corpore et sanguine Domini' by Paschasius Radbertus was the first monograph ever written solely on the Eucharist. This English translation of the 'De corpore', along with its companion piece the 'Letter to Fredugard', make an important contribution to our understanding of the development of Eucharistic theology in the Carolingian era and after. Because of their place in history and the nature of their doctrine, these works give an important witness to the received tradition on the Eucharist, as well as demonstrate an early substantial change theory that contributed to the development of the doctrine of transubstantiation. The translation, along with its extensive commentary and notes, makes this volume in the 'Corpus Christianorum in Translation' series an important resource for the study of Eucharistic theology.00The source text of this volume appeared in 'Corpus Christianorum Continuatio Mediaeualis' as Pascasius Radbertus ? 'De corpore et sanguine Domini, cum appendice Epistola ad Fredugardum' (CCCM, 16). References to the corresponding pages of the 'Corpus Christianorum' edition are provided in the margins of this translation.00.