Between 1916 and the 1930s, a mysterious illness called encephalitis lethargica spread across the globe. It affected more than a million people and is believed to have caused roughly half a million deaths. For many of those who survived, the body remained alive while the mind was sealed inside a kind of prison.

It often began with harmless symptoms: a sore throat, fever, headache, fatigue… Then the eyes would drift strangely, eyelids would droop, and an irresistible sleep would take over. Some people lost consciousness mid-meal, a half-chewed bite still in their mouths. They sank into a deep sleep that lasted for weeks—sometimes months.

Some never woke up. Some woke up, but they were never the same.

Years later, a portion of survivors developed severe neurological damage resembling Parkinson’s disease. Faces turned blank. Muscles stiffened. Bodies became statues—motionless, locked in place. Yet the mind could remain painfully intact. They could think. They could feel. They simply couldn’t reach the world. Doctors called them “living statues,” and Oliver Sacks described them as “extinct volcanoes.”

For some children, the aftermath was even darker. Those who had the illness at a young age sometimes underwent profound personality changes over time—uncontrollable impulses, sudden violence, self-harm. Even when they regretted what they did, they couldn’t stop themselves. This wasn’t evil. It was an invisible storm tearing through the deepest parts of the brain.

The outbreak appeared around the same time as the Spanish flu, so for years many suspected a connection. But no definitive proof was ever found. Some researchers blamed an autoimmune reaction; others suspected a bacterial or viral trigger. Tens of thousands of investigations followed, and thousands of papers were written… yet the answer never arrived.

And then, as mysteriously as it appeared, the disease vanished.

By the mid-1920s, cases began to decline. By 1930, the epidemic had almost completely burned out. Since then, only a handful of isolated cases have been reported worldwide. No one knows why it came—and no one knows why it left.

In 1990, the film Awakenings brought this story back into the public eye. The Parkinson’s medication L-DOPA briefly returned some long-frozen patients to life. They spoke. They laughed. They moved… but the miracle didn’t last. Side effects surged, and the door closed again.

More than a century has passed. Science advanced, the brain was mapped, genes were decoded. Yet encephalitis lethargica remains one of medicine’s greatest mysteries.

Once, the world was filled with people who couldn’t wake up. And perhaps the most frightening part was this: they weren’t asleep. They simply couldn’t reach the world.

One of the greatest masterpieces in cinema history, The Godfather Part II doesn’t just tell the story of a criminal empire’s rise—it also traces two radically different inner journeys, father and son, moving in opposite directions. And the key to that journey is hidden right in the opening minutes: inside a folk song that slips out of a child’s mouth.

Ellis Island: More Than a Name

In the opening scenes, young Vito is quarantined on Ellis Island, wearing ID badge number 7 and lying in bed number 52. —sings a traditional Sicilian folk song: “Lu Sciccareddu” (“Little Donkey”).

Francis Ford Coppola doesn’t choose this song by accident. The song is about the death of a loyal, obedient donkey that helps its owner with everything. Symbolically, it points to the death of the “gentle village boy” identity Vito left behind in Sicily—and to the loss of that pure innocence he must sacrifice just to survive inside America’s hard machinery. 

In a system where immigrants are tracked by numbers instead of names, Vito is no longer treated as a person with an identity—he becomes a registration object, a record in a bureaucracy. And yet, even while his identity is being stripped away, he keeps holding onto his roots through the very song he sings.

An Empire Born From a System Error

Vito Andolini is severed from his past because of a simple clerical mistake: the Ellis Island officer assumes the name of his village—Corleone—is his surname, and records him that way. His new identity is literally built on a system’s error.

But Vito turns that error into something enormous. His arc is the transformation of a “number” into a “human being,” and then into a leader of a community. He has nothing—and he builds a world.

Michael Corleone: Getting Lost While Having Everything

With Michael, the process runs in reverse. In the first film, we meet him as a war hero, a college graduate, a respectable American citizen. Over time, he becomes rigid—hardened.

Michael’s arc is the transformation of a “human being” into an “office/title.” He consumes his identity while already having everything. His name is clean and legitimate, but the identity of “Don” gradually moves in front of his name, tearing him away from human context.

The Architecture of Power: The Hidden Message Inside the Offices

This massive difference between father and son isn’t only written into dialogue and plot—it’s built into space itself, into the design of their rooms:

Vito Corleone's Office: It exists in an order that doesn’t need to perform power. Even when it’s dark, it carries warm, golden tones; there’s natural light leaking through shutters. Vito’s power is accepted with respect—he feels reachable.

Michael’s Office: It becomes a distant symbol of power, positioned like a throne—centered in the room, parallel to the wall, formal and imposing. And even though it’s wrapped in massive glass, it’s cold—blue and gray. Michael is “ice-cold” and alone even in brightness.

Conclusion: Freedom, or a Golden Cage?

Because Vito truly lived the oppression of being reduced to 7 and 52, he uses power quietly—almost wisely. Michael’s tragedy begins where Vito’s survival story ends: Michael’s power is not simply recognized; it becomes something he must impose.

The famous Statue of Liberty Vito looks at through the Ellis Island window will never bring Michael real freedom. On the contrary: the immense power Michael builds will trap him—forever—inside the golden cage he created with his own hands.

After World War I, many returning Australian soldiers were settled on farmland in Western Australia and pushed toward wheat farming. Then the Great Depression hit. Prices dropped, costs stayed high, and farmers were already struggling to survive when a new problem arrived.

During migration season, a massive wave often described as around 20,000 emus moved through the region. The birds found open farmland with food and water and flooded into wheat fields, eating crops, trampling what they didn’t eat, and tearing through fences, which made it easier for other pests to get in too.

For farmers, it wasn’t a quirky wildlife story. It was an economic disaster.

Why Emus Were Such A Problem: Big, Fast, And Surprisingly Hard To Stop

Emus are built for speed and endurance. They can reach around 1.5 meters tall, they scatter instantly, and they don’t behave like one neat target. They split into smaller groups, weave through rough terrain, and vanish quickly.

Farmers tried local hunting and other improvised fixes, but it didn’t meaningfully reduce the damage. The birds were simply too many, too mobile, and too good at escaping.

The War Begins: When The Government Sends The Army

When farmers demanded help, they expected agricultural measures. Instead, the government sent the military.

The operation was backed by Defense Minister George Pearce. In November 1932, a unit was deployed under Major G.P.W. Meredith, equipped with Lewis machine guns. There was even an expectation that the mission could be filmed and turned into a public win, something that would reassure farmers and make the government look decisive.

That confidence didn’t last long.

The First Clashes: A Fiasco In The Fields

The operation began on November 2, 1932. Soldiers tried ambushes and opened fire on groups of birds, but the results were embarrassing. The emus scattered beyond range, disappeared into terrain, and refused to line up like a clean battlefield target.

Even when tactics changed, kills stayed low compared to the size of the flocks.

Reports described the emus behaving in smaller groups, sometimes with what looked like a “lookout” bird that sensed danger first, which helped the rest explode outward in seconds.

Emu War - Lewis Gun Drill

The Truck Plan: Mount The Machine Gun And Chase Them

Next idea: mount a machine gun on a truck and run the birds down.

In theory, modern engines and automatic fire should win. In practice, the birds were too quick, the terrain was too rough, and the moving platform made accurate fire difficult. Emus would hear the engine, sprint, cut across uneven ground, and vanish. Trucks bounced. Aim collapsed. The chase turned into slapstick.

Thousands of rounds were burned for minimal results, and the operation’s credibility kept sinking.

Retreat And Ridicule: When The Press Smelled Blood

Eventually, the government pulled the operation back. This “war” didn’t end with victory. It ended with the quiet realization that using soldiers and machine guns against migrating birds was not the quick fix it was supposed to be.

The press mocked it relentlessly. Politicians joked about medals, implying that if anyone deserved one, it was the emus. The nickname The Great Emu War stuck because it captured the perfect blend of seriousness and absurdity: real livelihoods were at risk, but the solution was dramatically mismatched.

What Happened After: Bounties, Fences, And A More Practical Approach

After the fiasco, Australia leaned into more conventional responses. Bounty systems paid per emu killed, and large numbers were culled over time. Longer, better fencing and protection measures were also used to reduce repeated damage.

It was slower and less cinematic, but it was more effective.

Why This Story Still Matters

The Great Emu War is funny on the surface because “army vs birds” is inherently ridiculous. But underneath, it’s a real case study in how policy gets made under pressure.

Economic collapse, political urgency, rural livelihoods on the line, and a public “do something” moment can produce a dramatic, symbolic response that looks strong and then collapses because it misunderstands the actual problem.

And the final irony is still perfect: the emu didn’t just survive. It remains one of Australia’s most recognizable animals, famously appearing alongside the kangaroo as a national symbol.

The Takeaway: You Can’t Machine-Gun A Migration Problem

The emus weren’t “invading.” They were migrating through land that had been reshaped into perfect feeding territory. The military could fire bullets, but it couldn’t change ecology, terrain, or animal behavior.

So the birds ran, the trucks bounced, the headlines laughed, and history got one of its strangest footnotes.

Australia went to war with emus. And the emus walked away.

• Norma Jeane and the “shadow father” problem: Her legal name begins as Norma Jeane; her mother is Gladys. Her father’s identity remains uncertain, with multiple names circulating but no definitive proof, and she never truly had a lived experience of “dad.” That missing anchor becomes a recurring undertone in how she searches for security and validation later.

• A childhood with no stable “home” feeling: Because of her mother’s severe health struggles and institutionalization periods, she cycles through foster homes, short placements, and repeated separations. The result is not just instability, but a lifelong internal alarm: I can be removed at any moment.

• Marriage at 16 as an exit strategy: When she marries James “Jim” Dougherty at 16, it is often described less as romance and more as a practical escape from returning to institutional care. The marriage reads like survival logistics, not a love story.

James (Jim) Dougherty and Marilyn Monroe

• The first major rupture: fame vs “stay in your place”: While Dougherty is away in the military, her photos begin circulating and the tension spikes: one side expects a conventional wife, the other sees a door opening. This is her first real identity fork: invisible life or public life.

• Radioplane factory: the moment destiny pings: During WWII she works at Radioplane, and is photographed by David Conover for military-related morale/PR documentation. The weirdness is the origin story itself: her path to Hollywood begins on an assembly line, not a red carpet. Some retellings add that early modeling pay could be laughably low, the kind of detail that makes the climb feel even harsher.  Two Inventions That Changed the World : Drones and Marilyn Monroe >>

Marilyn Monroe with a RP-5 in 1944

• The Reagan connection: indirect, but cinematic: The internet loves “Reagan discovered her.” A more grounded version is: Conover’s work is tied to military film/photo operations where Ronald Reagan appears as a figure in the broader chain of that environment. Not “he held the camera,” more his name floats near the machinery of how it happened.

• Learning to be “Marilyn” wasn’t instant: The stage name changes fast; the brain doesn’t. Early anecdotes claim she hesitated with signatures and even fumbled letters, as if her hand didn’t fully believe the new identity yet. It’s funny on the surface, but the subtext is brutal: self-reinvention hurts.

• 1956: the legal lock-in: She uses Marilyn Monroe professionally for years before formalizing it legally in 1956. The symbolism is perfect: she becomes “Marilyn” in public long before she becomes “Marilyn” on paper. The world moves faster than the self.

• Platinum blonde wasn’t a dye job, it was a system: The iconic hair is not one color, it’s a maintained, calibrated look: tone adjustments, repeated touch-ups, and hair-preservation routines shaped around studio lighting. The “nine blonde shades” idea may be mythologized, but the reality is still true: it was brand engineering, not spontaneity.

• Right-profile obsession as micro-control: She reportedly preferred her right profile and staged herself accordingly. In a life where studios, press, and relationships try to steer everything, choosing an angle becomes a tiny island of control: If nothing else is mine, this frame is.

• Glasses and hidden myopia: She is known to have used prescription glasses, but kept them out of the core public image. Glasses can instantly read as “ordinary,” and her persona required “mythic.” Whether she experimented with early contact lenses or not, the motive is consistent: protect the illusion.

• Pushing back against the “dumb blonde” box: From the outside, she looks like she’s simply cast into one archetype. Inside the machine, she is often described as fighting the trap, pushing for better roles, better terms, and professional respect. The point isn’t that she hated glamour; it’s that she refused to be only glamour.

• Marilyn Monroe Productions: the power move: Partnering with Milton H. Greene and forming her own production entity is a loud message in a studio era: I’m not only the face on the poster. I want a seat at the table. For a woman star at that time, it’s an openly disruptive play.

• A private library, a private hunger: Accounts frequently describe her as building a serious reading identity, sometimes framed as 400+ books (the number varies by source). The famous image of her with Joyce functions like a declaration: don’t reduce me to the photo.

• Psychoanalysis and the boundary controversy: She worked with multiple therapists; the best-known debates revolve around Ralph Greenson and whether professional boundaries blurred in ways that are unusual for analysis. Some retellings also mention contact with Anna Freud, though the certainty and framing differ by source. The core driver stays consistent: fear of inheriting her mother’s mental collapse and treating therapy as a shield.

• Stuttering and the origin of the “breathy” voice: Her whispery tone is often marketed as pure seduction, but many narratives connect it to managing a serious stutter through breath and rhythm control. The voice becomes less a cosmetic choice and more a technique: control the breath, control the sentence, survive the room.

• Pregnancies and losses: During her marriage to Arthur Miller, pregnancies and miscarriages are widely discussed in biographical accounts. Some sources tie this to specific gynecological conditions, but the safest framing is: biographers report health complications and repeated losses. Either way, the emotional reality is clear: a quiet grief that doesn’t photograph.

• Body measurements as an industry weapon: Numbers like 94-58-91 circulate constantly. The deeper truth is not the exact digits, but the system: Hollywood reduces a living woman into metrics, then sells the metrics back as destiny. The cruelty is the conversion of a person into a product label.

• The subway grate scene: iconic shot, chaotic night: The famous scene is repeatedly described as drawing huge crowds and requiring multiple takes, turning her body into a public event. Some biographers go further, tying the night to severe marital conflict and even violence allegations. If you include that, the responsible phrasing is: some biographies claim it escalated dramatically.

• Helping Ella Fitzgerald: celebrity as leverage: The story goes that Marilyn used her visibility to support Ella Fitzgerald getting bookings, effectively saying she’d show up and sit up front, making it profitable and socially “safe” for the venue. The striking part is the tactic: soft power, applied directly, with no speeches.

• The “glow” secret: optics plus discipline: The dreamy on-camera look is often explained as a layered stack: fine facial hair (vellus), lighting choices, lens behavior, and classic set hacks like petrolatum-based shine tactics. Not magic. A controlled illusion built from physics.

• DiMaggio’s roses: love, guilt, or ritual: The long-running tale is that Joe DiMaggio arranged regular flowers at her grave for years. Exact frequency and duration vary by retelling, but the reason the story survives is emotional clarity: a devotion that arrives most loudly after it can no longer help.