Fotoessay: Onion Cake Festival at the Fire Brigade House (Satis Shroff, Freiburg-Kappel)

http://www.chefkoch.de/rezepte/864841192000406/Badischer-Zwiebelkuchen.html

 Spätestens wenn der Federweißer wieder angeboten wird, beginnt die Zeit für Zwiebelkuchen. Zwiebelkuchen kann man gleich in großen Mengen auf Backblechen zubereiten, oder nach einem Rezept für weniger Personen in einer Springform. Wem die normalen Haushaltszwiebeln zu scharf sind, der sollte Zwiebelkuchen mal mit den milderen Gemüsezwiebeln zubereiten. Wer keine Küchenmaschine besitzt, um die doch recht großen Mengen an Zwiebeln zu hobeln, der kann auch die Brotmaschine dafür benutzen. Aber bitte nur mit Fingerschutz arbeiten. Damit Zwiebelkuchen bekömmlicher wird ist es unbedingt erforderlich, dass man ihm etwas Kümmel, ob als Ganzes oder gemahlen zufügt. Zwiebelkuchen gibt es mit verschiedenen Belägen wie Speckwürfeln, gekochten Schinken, rohen Schinken oder Creme Fraiche.

THE SPLENDOR OF SYLT (Satis Shroff)

North Sea Lyrik:

 THE SPLENDOR OF SYLT

 SYLT AT DAWN (Satis Shroff)


You hear the waves

As they splash onto the shore.

You haven't opened your eyes,

But you discern the cries of sea gulls,

As you slowly let the sunlight

Into your eyes.



Ah, the reassuring rays caress your face,

As you proceed to the balcony,

Stretch yourself

And let out cha-cha-cha,

Pa-pa-pa sounds between your teeth,

That you've learned

While singing in your choir.



A seagull with a fish in its beak

Flutters by.

All white and airborne,

Twinkling on a blue sky.

Out in the horizon,

A turquoise blue trawler chugs by.

* * *

Habitat for Wild (Satis Shroff)



The flora and fauna

have a hard time

In winter.



The white mantle

Of snow covers

The branches, buds and barks.



The owl loves winter

As it takes in all

Beings that move,

With its keen sight.



The woodpecker knows

Where the larvae and insects

Are hiding.



It's Spring,

The landscape gardeners

Have chopped all the trees.

Now the spur is bare,

No more can I see

The deer that came

To greet me,

To chill in the peace

Of the undergrowth,

And partake

Of the wild elderberries.



Man needs new dwellings again,

Alas, the habitat shrinks some more.

When the deer eat vegetables

In Frau Sumser's garden,

She cries,

'Inform the official hunter.

They have to be shot.'



The deer are unwelcome guests

In her precious garden.

Now and then

A russet fox,

With a bushy tail,

Comes stealthily by.



Hope the hunter doesn't get a hint.

His duty is to keep wild away,

From human domiciles.

If he doesn't shoot,

He's a bad hunter.

If he does,

He's a bad guy.



And so the habitat dwindles,

For the wild.



* * *


Lost Friendships (Satis Shroff)



When old friends

Go asunder,

What remains

Are memories,

Of moments

In tranquility.



When world tremble

And words shiver,

When lips vibrate

And nothing comes out

Of your larynx.



Just the uneasy

Breath from your nostrils.

The silence and solitude

That prevails,

When friendships

Have lost their meanings.



Encounters,

Wiedersehen,

Become embarassing.

And words become superfluous.

The old wounds bleed again,

Causing pain,

That come like sea waves,

Incessantly,

Stab and go.



* * *


TIME AND TIDE (Satis Shroff)



It's early in the morning,

On a cold wintry day.

The horizon,

A crimson and orange haze.



The sea looks blue, far away,

But a muddy brown near you.

A solitary figure in a black overcoat,

Throat wrapped with a long muffler,

Stands like a black stork,

Staring at the sand below his feet.



Is he watching

The crustaceans,

Creeping on the shore?

Or is he thinking about a friendship?

Suddenly the frothy white waves

Drench his feet.

Too late.

Time and tide

Don't wait for your thoughts.

He walks on,

With furtive glances

Thrown at the sea.



* * *



SEA SHELLS ON THE SHORE (Satis Shroff)



How beautiful life is,

With you

And me.

Like little children,

Gathering lovely sedimentary stones,

Washed and chiseled by time,

And by the waves

In the North Sea.



Cockles and mussels in their unique

Facets and colors,

Caught between dark sea weeds,

Trapped between the man-made Buhnes,

Far from the dunes.



Alas, the fascinating life forms

That lived inside the carbonate

Mussels and shells,

Have long lost their homes;

Either eaten by the gulls

Or other winged fishers.



What remains are the crushed

Cockles and shells

Of salt water mollusc,

When human boots tread on them.

And children and grown ups

Collect them.

Conversation pieces,

In afternoons with coffee, cakes and scones.

'Look what I found on the shore!'



* * *



SPRING ON THE SEA (Satis Shroff)



The birds twitter,

The sun shines.

The crocuses are everywhere,

Upon well-laid lawns.



You can smell Spring,

When it gets warm.

The wet air climbs up

And with it the scents

Of grass and spring flowers,

Dancing gaily in the North Sea wind.



You bend down often,

While walking along the beach,

To admire a strand snail or a dead sea horse,

Heart mussels, American sword mussels,

Oysters or sea urchins,

Shells with chunks and fissures.



The silver seagulls flying low,

With long wings spread,

Argus eyes foraging for food.

Geese searching for mollusc morsels

In the sandy dunes.



Now and then you see

The black oyster fishers,

White tailed bearing wing stripes,

Dive in the green-bluish water,

Swooping down like kamekazi planes,

With breathless precision.

Out they come from the sea

With fidgety fishes

Between their sharp, orange beaks.



They're experienced

At cracking stubborn molluscs,

Till the adductors give way.

The gulls known as Lachmöwe,

Search for edibles in garbage depots,

And even behind ploughing tractors.



* * *



THE CANVAS OF NATURE (Satis Shroff)



The colors on the canvas of Nature melt:

Blue skies,

Yellow fields,

The grey of the wintry waves,

When the sunlight is hidden,

Behind a veil of fog.



You're overwhelmed

By your feelings,

Moments of euphoria,

Streams of consciousness

In the melancholic North Sea environs.



Intimate, gleeful moments,

When you see a big orange crab,

Stranded on the beach.

Entangled in dark sea weed,

Or Seetang as we call it in German.



The next big waves arrive,

With short intervals,

Sweep over the stones and sea shells on the beach.

The crab has disappeared,

Claimed by the sea.

What a delight.



A seagull lies on the shore,

Amid the flotsam and jetsam,

Blown by the last storm,

In List to the north of Sylt.



Another seagull circles the prey

From the sky,

Comes down and perches near the dead gull,

Picks and pulls its entrails.



To think that life began,

In the primordial ocean.

The relationship between humans

And the sea,

When man began to venture,

Towards the unknown.



Fired by the desire

To search for the unknown,

Limits of the peaks and seas,

With bigger and bigger boats and ships,

The ear of colonialism began.



But such voyages had to be backed

With money and things it can buy,

By rulers who smelt and wanted more

Riches and spices from the Indies,

West or East.



* * *



TALE OF DESTRUCTION (Satis Shroff)


Tell the tale you clouds and gulls,

Despite the happiness and hope,

Spread by the sunlight

In early Spring.



Tell your tale of destruction

Carried by the gales and storms,

That bore names.



The wooden stairs and platforms

Lie now strewn upon the shore,

Blown to smithereens.

Plastic products everywhere,

Among a people that care.

A water desert,

That has been left behind,

As a warning,

Till the next big gale.



* * *



THE GOLDEN SUN (Satis Shroff)



Through the cloudy veil

Appears the golden sun,

Changing the silvery North Sea

To a golden and crimson horizon.

The waves adorned with rich teints

Of yellow, orange blue and brown hues.



A fascinating play of colors,

Unfolding before your eyes.

Even the man-made Buhnen glow.

As you trudge on the beach sand,

To avoid wetting your shows,

By the ever coming frothy waves,

As they peter out near you.



You're thankful for everything

That you've been given or attained

In lifespan.

Like a moment of revelation,

An epiphany,

Or when you've had a near-death experience.



Thankful for who and what you are,

Towards your parents, teachers and mentors,

Who've moved you towards your goal.

In this spectacular theatre called life.

Ah, when Heaven and Earth unite,

The air, land and water.



Chandrama the moon appears

Like a sickle in the vast blue sky,

Bidding farewell to Surya,

The Sun God,

Who has metamorphosed into Agni,

The fiery Goddess that swallows all,

With her purifying flames.

This is the revelation of an epiphany,

A spectacle bathed in scarlet,

Orange, yellow, greenish-blue light.



Ah, how must it have been,

When the world was created?



* * *



THE NORTH SEA (Satis Shroff)



The sea fascinates the artist in you,

It's dramatic setting,

With its ceaseless waves.



Strong winds are pushing

Curly clouds in the vast sky,

The heavy waves roll,

In the bluish-grey seascape,

Emitting a long line of spray,

Above the white froth.



* * *



A HYMN TO THE SPLENDOR (Satis Shroff)



The sea is calm and a fair moon

Stealthily appears in the sky,

Behind the northern clouds.



The red cliff of Kampen glimmers

Under the light of the dying sun.

And the waves take on yellow, orange, scarlet hues.

The tides still roar decently,

Cease, recede, only to come again.



A sweet Frisian nocturnal air,

Mingles with the smell of salt and fish,

Gets whipped up by the wind.



The golden light hangs,

Like a hymn to the splendor

Of this world.



* * *



THE EBB AND FLOW OF REFUGEES (Satis Shroff)



The waves shimmer like silvery fishes,

The sand is bleached by the moonlight,

As you walk holding hands,

Barefeet along the shore.



The waves have left pebbles,

Sea shells, sea weed and crustaceans,

Flotsam and jetsam,

On the sea shore.



And the ebb and flow of refugees,

In the distance of the Mediterranean Sea,

Who've struggled in their countries,

But were obliged to flee

From their human foes.



Taken to the open sea,

Which remains full of dangers,

Whimsical and unpredictable.

The longing for European shores,

Where milk and honey flow.



A forlorn hope that ends,

For many in the bottom of the sea.



* * *



INVISIBLE THRESHOLD (Satis Shroff)



Did I boast of fleeting things,

Of illusions in these earthly confines?

How vain we are,

When we don't realize,

That our very existence

Is an earthly maya.



Intangible shadows we grasp with our hands,

When we know we have to leave

For our eternal home.

When we cross the invisible threshold,

We don't need visas and passports,

Green and blue cards.

As we wander through the twilight

Sans bodies,

To be one with the cosmos.



* * *



A MAGICAL MOMENT (Satis Shroff)



The North Sea grey-green in the from afar,

Gets frothy as the waves approach the shore.

The splendor of colored clouds covering the immense sky.

It's inspired fear to mortals,

It's a revelation to those with hearts,

As seagulls glide over the horizon,

To land near the red cliff of Sylt.

A magical moment of forlornness,

Amid the beauty and vastness,

Of the sky and the waves.



As the glowing ball call the sun sinks,

It radiates sparkling hues,

Across the sky and waves.

The royal blue of the sky,

Is reflected upon the sea.

In the higher reaches,

It mellows to a brilliant yellow and orange,

As the fiery sun becomes scarlet.

Between Prometheus and Surgery (Satis Shroff)

Zeitgeistlyrik: Between Prometheus and Plastic Surgery (Satis Shroff)

Tags: children of nepal, satisshroff, hinduism, helping nepal, buddhism, freiburg, nepal, disabilities, twistinge, nächstenliebe, christianity, compassion, love, burns, plastic surgery, deformities, zeitgeistlyrik, devotion This time Satis Shroff tells you a story in verse of a western hospital manager who is trying to win over a Nepalese priest (bahun) to her medical, evidenced-based line of thinking. The priest, on the other hand, talks about his religious point of view that has been handed down the generations and written in the vedic scriptures. Will the two meet and agree? BETWEEN PROMETHEUS AND PLASTIC SURGERY (Satis Shroff, Freiburg)

Preacher: Break your bread with the hungry, Speak a word with the dumb, Sing with the sad, Share your house with the lonely. Fire is important to us. I have come to ignite a fire, Within us, A fire that’ll remain burning. But an open fire is dangerous, For small children in Nepal. Today we have a guest from Nepal. A woman who has a big heart, For the children of Nepal. Christa: Namaskar! I greet the Godliness in you. I’ve worked twelve years in Nepal, As a hospital manager. The role of a woman, Is different in rural Nepal. The women and children have to work hard. I went to many Nepalese farmers And their families. In the farmsteads there’s always an open fire, Which is the central point. Children creep on their fours to the fire, Fascinated, Attracted, By the licking flames. Bahun: What to you is fire, Is Agni in our eyes. Agni is the God of Fire. We need Agni’s presence, In Vedic rituals. It is also a sacricifical fire. The Nepalese home fire Has to burn all the time. Wedding celebrations and nuptial knots Are tied around the open fire, When the priest recites vedic prayers Give butter to Agni to make it bigger. The funeral rites, At the burning ghats on riversides, Are performed with fire. Ever step in life Is manifested by rituals around Agni. Fire is one of the most ancient Sacred objects of Hindu worship. Even today it plays An honourable role In sacrifices. The Nepali kitchen-fire was always open.

Christa: People come with burns and deformities, Hare-lips, polydactylia, Injuries and infected wounds From the decade-long krieg In the Himalayas. Maoists versus the royal forces. 12,000 surgical operations were performed On 9000 patients in ten years. The wounded Maoist patients Couldn’t be quartered Near injured soldiers or policemen. A clash of ideologies, A struggle for rights, Repression against freedom, Leftists against rightists. Today, there’s a 50 bed hospital, Built with the help of other nations. In my western world, It was Prometheus who stole fire from Heaven. We are thankful to him for the precious flames. The Nepalese houses are built traditionally, But they have no chimneys. The dwellings are full of smoke, Emanating from the open fire. Smoke gets in the eyes of the Ama, The children’s bronchioles are clogged. This leads to heavy lung damage: Chronic pulmonary inflammation, Cases of choking, Massive blood circulation problems. Year after year 500 patients came, With burns caused by open open hearth fires. Most of the victims are small children, Who’ve fallen into the fire, Or have crabbled to the hearth. Small innocent hands That clutch the fury of the fire. There’s nobody to mind them. Keine Aufsichtspflicht. There are no qualified healers in the hamlets. This leads to disabilities For the rest of their lives. I have seen so much misery and poverty. The modern kerosene cookers explode, And women burn themselves, From the lips to their navels. Mothers come with their charges And say: ‘My baby fell into the fire.’ Stones are used outdoors to make a fire, Or cookers with three legs at home. Bahun: ‘Your surgeons are doing a good job.’ Christa: Plastic Surgery is good But it’s important to prevent burns. We even tried building a bamboo-fence Around the fire. It didn’t work. O Bahun! Kriya means ‘to do something’ in Sanskrit. Bahun: Yes, the performing of vedic rituals At the right time, As written in the Gita, To attain a balance. Christa: Would it not be better, To prevent a child from burning Or a mother from suffocating, By using a new kind of oven? Bahun: Righteous doing is without interest.

Christa: An oven that banishes the smoke Out of the kitchen, To the back of the house. The origin of evil is thus eliminated. Finally we made an oven with a chimney, To be used by the Nepali mother. The smoke-free oven costs only 8 euros. For us in the west it’s little money, But for a farmer it’s an enormous sum. We gather money for the ‘Die Offenmacherverein’ To finance the smoke-free kitchen oven, See to it that it’s used in Nepal, And organise the training For oven builders. Bahun: Datta, dayadhvam, damyata Shanti! Peace be with you. Peace which passeth understanding. Christa: Yes, Frieden sei mit Dir. Glossary: Gita:the holy scripture of the Hindus called the Bhagavad Gita Datta: means you give alms to the needy Dayadhvam: show compassion Damyata: tells you to practice self-control Escap: evergy sector assistance & organisations programme Danida: Danish international development assistance www.aepc.gov.np www.nepal-krankenhaus.de In Nepal: swasthachulo.nepal (ngo)i>

Zeitgeistlyrik: Rituals in the Himalayas (Satis Shroff)

Rituals in the Himalayas (Satis Shroff)

Tika, a Hindu symbol, A blessing from the parents, From the priest at the temple, During a visit to a shrine, After a puja, A ritual ceremony. Faith and belief in God, Spirituality in the Himalayas As old and strong, As the Abode of Snows, Undaunted by colonialism And conquests with the sickel sword. Om namo Shiva, Rituals reveal the unity, Between the self and the cosmos; A light in your innermost self. Through rituals you become one With your soul. You feel it within the molecules, Atoms and positrons in you. Be it big or small, In this eternally moving world, Nothing is without a meaning. The ancient rituals Have each a meaning, In the endless metamorphosis Of the individual, To be in tact with the universe. It is the daily rituals That lead us to unity, Growth of consciousness, That engulfs all. In rituals we bundle energy For the changes in the cycle Of Death and Creation. It is the litany of mantras Combined with ritual offerings, That create a work of art: the yantra. Dedicated to the Gods and Goddesses, In the shrine, temple and pagoda. Seasonal flowers plucked at dawn, To beckon and appease the Gods, Sandalwood tika paste, Cereals and herbs, Sweetmeat and fruits. The beauty of the yantra Creates harmony. The chime of the temple bells Evoke feelings of spirituality. There is a mingling Of cultural powers that be, In peace and balance. If you’re ill perform a ritual At the right time, To restore the balance, Between illness and recovery, Between right and wrong, Between holy and unholy, Between wealth and poverty, Between rain and sun, Flood and drought, Life, death and rebirth.

THE GHOST WRITER (Satis Shroff)

THE GHOST WRITER (Satis Shroff)

When I close my eyes,

I see everything in its place

In Nepal.

I see the highest building in Kathmandu,

What looms higher than the Dharara,

Swayambhu, Taleju and Pashupati?

The former King’s Narayanhiti palace,

Built by an architect,

From across the Black Waters.

Therein lived Vishnu,

Whom many Hindus still call:

The unconquerable preserver.

The conqueror of Nepal?

No, that was his ancestor

Prithvi Narayan Shah,

A king of Gorkha.

Vishnu is the preserver of the world,

With qualities of mercy and goodness.

Vishnu is all-pervading and self-existent,

Visited Nepal’s remote districts

In a helicopter with his consort

And militia.

He inaugurated buildings

Factories and events.

Vishnu dissolved the parliament too,

For the sake of his kingdom,

As I was told to write.

His subjects and worshippers were,

Of late,

Divided.

Alas, Ravana and his demons

Have besieged his land.

The king was obliged to go,

And with him I lost my life-job

As a ghost-writer.

I cannot remember

How many articles, speeches, decrees,

Proclamations I penned

In His Majesty’s Service.

Who would have thought

That I’d have to look

For another job?

Towards the end,

My boss not only lost his shirt,

But also his land,

And blamed me,

His sincere ghost-writer,

For my bad verses and prose.

He barked in a tirade:

“You are to blame for the misery

In my country.”

I, who had praised him,

Written admirable speeches,

Full of love, pathos and empathy

For his poor subjects,

Was now a mere scapegoat.

I, who had written

Soothing lines for the unruly masses,

Who were in revolt,

After centuries of feudal hierarchy,

Mismanagement,

Bad governance,

Corruption and nepotism.

I, who had sought a voice

To pacify the lynch mobs

In the streets of Catmandu,

Biratnagar, Dolpo

And Janakpur.

That was the unkindest cut of all.

The royal newspapers and the paid-press

Were blooming with news

Of development in Nepal.

But the people knew better.

They were waiting.

The dam of development

Had been broken,

A word play on ‘development.’

When the royal dam collapsed in Pokhara,

The people had a big laugh.

The king’s dying father said:

‘When I die,

My country should live.’

On still moments,

I hear the refrain:

Ma marey pani,

Mero desh,

Bachi rahos.

Nepal is now a republic

With cantons instead of zones,

We even have a fish-tailed mountain

That looks like Zermatt.

We have tourism too,

But where are the bankers,

The executives and firms?

We have an Aid Industry,

Cashing in dollars

From foreign governments

And NGOs.

Nepal exports carpets,

Human labourers

For the emirates,

Sherpas for the climbers

And Gurkhas for the Brits

And flesh for the Upper and Lower Grant Roads.

When I open my eyes,

I see Vishnu still slumbering

On his bed of Sesha,

The serpent

In the pools of Budanilkantha

And Balaju.

Prithee,

Where is the Creator?

When will he wake up from his eternal sleep?

Only Bhairab’s destruction

Of the Himalayan world is to be seen.

Much blood has been shed

Between the decades and the centuries.

The mound of  noses and ears

Of the vanquished at Kirtipur,

The shot and mutilated

At the Kot massacre,

The revolution in front of the Narayanhiti Palace,

When Nepalese screamed

And died for democracy.

Now the corpses of the Maobadis,

Civilians and Nepalese security men.

Hush! Sleeping Gods should not be awakened.

I, who wracked my cerebrum for the King,

Am sickened by the royal demeanour,

For Mr. Shah is now a mortal,

A politician to boot.

I, a royal ghost-writer,

Who once smelt the air

Of the Narayanhiti Palace,

Have nowhere to go.

I’m a writer no more.

I’m a ghost

Under the shadow of the Himalayas.

* * *

Satis Shroff: Flourish

That's the new Schlagwort 'flourish'.Are you flourishing? At the Frankfurter Book Fair your were asked to write a work that characterises your personality, so I wrote what came to my mind at that moment: flourish..das ist ein Schlagwort..

Obituary: Bruce Dobler, Creative Writer, Emeritus Professor, Colleague

 Words to Lisa & Stephanie on Bruce Dobler, Creative Writer, Emeritus Prof and colleague who passed away recently. His daughter Lisa mailed me that Bruce had been taking photographs of the clouds, for he loved writing about clouds in his poems, and then he suddenly fell. 

I was so moved by Bruce Dobler's poem in which he addresses his two daughters Lisa and Stephanie. The poems is a bit long and I have edited it to a shorter version.

SIX DAYS INTO THE WAR (Bruce Dobler:January 21, 1991)

...And here in Pittsburgh,

where the trees grow darker

against their burden

the snow falls like memories:

are the children safe?

It's a holiday. Lisa in Baltimore,

can stay off the Beltway

at least this once.

Stephanie, in Bloomington, will have

the sense to wear a scarf.

I want them inside.

In Pittsburgh, we are staying in all day.

I wish I had been kinder when

snow fell past our windows in Vermont,

twenty years ago

just like today

everyone in their own sorrows

their own joys

everyone looking out the window

and everyone thinking:

how long will it go on

how much will we get?

* * *

 Es wird stille sein und Leere.

Es wird Trauer sein und Schmerz.

Es wird dankbare Erinnerung sein,

die wie ein heler Stern the Nacht leuchtet,

bis weit hinein in den morgen.

- Satis Shroff

Wer so wirkt im Leben,

Wer so erfüllte seine Pflicht

und stets sein Bestes hat gegeben,

Für immer bleibt Bruce Dobler uns ein Licht.

- Satis Shroff

Bruce Dobler is the author of two "documentary" novels, Icepick and The Last Rush North (Little, Brown) and an "as-told-to" memoir of a counterfeiter, I Made It Myself (Grosset & Dunlap).

He recently completed 1212: The Children's Crusade, a highly-researched historical novel, and is now working on his new book, Writing Creative Nonfiction: Creative and Critical Approaches, for Palgrave/Macmillan, to be published late in 2007. In addition, he is working on Vacant Lot, a quirky, off-beat memoir centered on one of those plots of ground that old-timers still called "prairies," down on the South Side of Chicago.

I Made It Myself By M.M. Landress With Bruce Dobler The true story of a respectable printer turned counterfeiter Some observations from one of the few counterfeiters who never served time: On tricks of his trade: "Printing money that's good enough to pass off on a bank is to a printer what the PhD is to a student." On temptation: "There is probably not a single printer who doesn't consider at some moment in his life the possibility of printing counterfeit bills....A standard joke in the trade is 'are you making any money?'" On the criminal life: "This was too exhausting, physically and emotionally. I don't think I was really cut out to be a criminal....I really couldn't see how the ones who were could stand it over the years. No wonder they are called 'hardened.'" Grosset & Dunlap (New York), 1973—ISBN: 0-448-02206-0

Icepick By Bruce Dobler A novel about life and death in a maximum security prison Icepick is neither the best nor the worst of the nation's maximum security prisons. It is overcrowded, understaffed. Its plant is antiquated. Guard brutality is comparatively rare at Icepick. Violence, on the other hand—sexual, racial, political—is commonplace. Icepick is not a nice place to visit. It is a far worse place to live and work in. Yet some 850 Americans (of whom 70 percent are African American) do make their permanent home at the Illinois State Penitentiary in Chicago. And most survive....Some do not.

In this sweeping and explosive documentary novel, ICEPICK, Bruce Dobler lays bare the harsh world of the maximum security prison. Little, Brown & Co. (Boston), 1974—ISBN: 0-316-18915-4 Novel About The Last Great American Frontier Adventure—The Building Of The Pipeline Across The Frozen Vastness Of Alaska. Ranging From High-Rise Executive Suites In Anchorage To Remote Base Camps Where Even The Fog Freezes, This Documentary Novel Portrays The Drive To Explore—And Exploit—That Has Dominated The Life Of Alaska...And Dramatizes The Perilous Tension Between An Unspoiled Wilderness And The Desire Of Men To Tame It. Bruce Dobler Traveled And Worked In Alaska For A Year And A Half. He Drove And Flew The Entire Pipeline Route In All Seasons And Visited Every Camp On The Line. Little, Brown & Co. (Boston), 1976—ISBN: 0-316-18916-2.