Sometimes our own experience gives us unique insight and perspective that the world needs to know about. Sometimes it blinds us to the kernel of truth and leads us astray from it. In this movie, I would say that both are true. Stone's own experiences in Vietnam no doubt made him uniquely qualified to create this film, and justify the existence of yet another in the "War is Hell" genre, even after Apocalypse Now should have had the final word. Unlike that masterpiece though this film feels like it lost its way about halfway through. I could put no finger on exactly why or where, until reading Pauline Kael's analysis: "too much poetic license, and too damn much romanticized insanity ... The
movie crowds you; it doesn't leave you room for an honest emotion." That's it exactly. The film feels just grounded enough in authentic human experience and emotion, thanks in large part to Sheen's masterful performance, to promise something better--something real--but then loses itself in the effort to become Art. Each piece is a part of a slightly different puzzle, and they never come together in a way that feels whole. A good movie, but not great.
Tuesday, January 16, 2024
Platoon
Yunus
It is to be hoped that the return to opening with بِسْمِ اللَّهِ signifies something less of an invective than At-Tawbah.
1: It is somewhat surprising that Hulusi doesn't have much to say about opening with the mysterious الر ۚ. Perhaps he agrees that their meaning is to remain unknown.
2: One might call this the thesis statement of the book. In Western dialectic, it would be followed by some statement of connection or purpose, but hopes are slim for that here, and we will likely digress, only for the connection to be revealed later.
3-4: I expect to learn more about Hulusi's fixation with ق in the book that bears its name. For now, no other translator that I am referencing seems concerned with it here.
5-6 One begins to see where this is going. If Allah created the sun and the moon, surely it is no stretch for him to use a prophet. There is also the hint of a theme: the cycles of life, of creation and rebirth.
7-8: Another seeming non sequitur, no doubt to be connected later.
9-10: The sense is of one unbothered by the demands of so-called unbelievers, challenging them to fuck around and find out.
11: Hulusi consistently renders لِقَآءَنَا as "returning", which is a bit of a stretch, but consistent with the themes developed earlier.
12-13: The connection: this is not the first time a prophet has come, nor the fist tiime he has been doubted and rejected.
14: A bit problematic theologically, and not unique to the Quran. What need does the divine have to "see ho it goes"?
15-17: Sound logic, if one takes the victories of Mohamad as "signs".
18-21: So far all much sounder and gentler reproof than in previous books.
22-24: A new expression of an existing theme, and a reminder of the bigger picture. The mysteries of everything are revealed in nature, and there is no need for intercessors. Allah has created the moon and the sun both. The waves and the wind, the rain and the drought. All of these are signs, and one must have perspective to understand them.
25: This problem of predestination and divine appointment remains problematic and unsolved.
26-29: An almost comedic takedown of the idolators
30-36: So much for idols.
37-39: A series of persuasive, but subtly fallacious, arguments:
- This book is just a continuation of what has been revealed already. It must be from Allah.
- You think you can do better? Go ahead.
- Don't forget what happened to people who didn't believe in the past . . .
40-44: A bit of protesting too much. The more you say, "I don't care," the more we suspect that you do.
45-46: A bit of support for the theme of the meeting with Allah being a return, according to the natural order. This بِلِقَآءِ is mentioned rather a lot in this book, and I don't recall it being so phrased elsewhere.
47: This is the argument that I would use: there is always a prophet. If not me, then who is it?
48-52: Another more sound argument: "Oh, you want to see now, do you? Be careful what you wish for."
53-56: Hard to see this as anything other than demagoguery though.
57: Hulusi's interpretation of رَّبِّكُمۡ opens up quite a deep well here. If it is within us, as he maintains, then the return is simply a moment of clarity with one's self.
58-61: It remains unclear what the reasons for inventing certain proscriptions were.
62-66: A summary of the reasons for this book: don't forbid what Allah has allowed, and don't use idols. Eerily parallel to certain passages in the Greek scriptures. One definitely feels that this book was not entirely meant for a modern audience, and designed specifically to address concerns that are no longer relevant.
67-70: Fairly specific, and the target is clear.
71-73: I don't recall this moment in Genesis. One of my favorite things about this project is this sort of elaboration on existing stories.
74-87: This more closely parallels the Judaeo-Christian account.
88-90: I don't recall Pharaoh saying this haha. It brings one back to the literal meaning of Muslim.
91-92: This would be more convincing if the doubters had then been summarily eaten by snakes or something, a la Moses. This religion is less interested in such signs, however. It considers the witness of the natural world and that of our own higher self to be sufficient.
93-97: There can be no argument against this, especially as so succinctly put in 94.
98: What good are signs? That worked exactly once before: in Ninevah. Might as well stop asking. Actually, this brings me a moment of pause, as I evaluate my own spiritual practice.
99-101: So problematic. What is the point of any of this, then?
102-104: They really are asking for it . . .
105-109: Pretty solipsistic, if you ask me. But in keeping with the overarching theme of submission.
Konstantin Paustovsky: The Story of a Life
What am I? More specifically, what is the "I", any I among us? It is manifestly not the body, for I continue in the mind even when my body sleeps. It is not even, as Sartre observes, the mind, for the mind that thinks "I am" cannot be the same I of which it thinks. That I is the object, not the subject; it is rather a "me". It is inextricable from the biological and social forces to which it is subjected, and maybe even from the bacteria which inhabit its body. The only thing that can lay a claim to being the I, the subject, is that gaze which gives attention to one thing and not another. I have found the metaphor of a finger on a keyboard to be useful: I am not the keyboard, nor the music which it creates; I am the finger itself. I am the gaze.
Paustovsky masterfully demonstrates here that what is true for the individual philosophically is also true for the author literarily. The author is as much subject to his body and the society in which he lives as the individual is. It is only his gaze which is truly his own, and only by observing where and how that gaze falls can we approach understanding.
Perhaps it is my impulse as a scholar that compels me to take this idea further, and perhaps it is my instinct as a teacher that taxonomizes it for easy consumption and lecture. At any rate, Paustovsky's mastery and maturity eliminates the background noise, and gazes with such intention that certain functions of that gaze become clear:
- What he attends to: the details that he chooses to observe, out of infinite details that are available.
- What he ignores: those aspects of a scene which might have capture the attention of another author.
- How he judges it: it is in this that Paustovsky is especially judicious. His descriptions are usually so specific and objective, that the moments he lets an opinion or feeling in are startling and revealing.
- When he turns his gaze inward: it is again the care with which he chooses his moments that make them stand out. He is not prone to flights of reflection, so when he does it, the reader notices.
These are the only things the writer has to offer, and especially the autobiographer. Everything else is noise, just as the body, and even the mind are distractions from what is real: the self, which is only a disembodied gaze. An eye for an I.
Arthur Evans: The Evans Symposium
Inspiration is rare. My heart feels at times deadened by existence on this plane, and even poetry feels out of my reach, let alone joy. I am not alone in this, as a scroll through social media would easily reveal. What does it mean, this existence? I've even unlocked a new intrusive thought this week: "Why did I even bother to come out? It's not as though it has made any difference."
A posthumous thank you is due to Arthur Evans for reminding me that meaning built from institutions, from the mechanics of existence, will always be a desiccated husk. For millennia, we humans created meaning--and joy--from nature, and not the nature of botanical gardens, but that of the wild, virile, orgiastic forest and copse. To find meaning, one must surrender to the dance of the Fae, of Diana and Dionysos, and whirl around like Maenads in a frenzy. What care I that the world has no place for me? Gay culture has become as dead and mechanical as the institutions it once defied.
At a birthday party recently, a clutch of four queens stopped by to put in their appearances, and I was instantly uncomfortable. It struck me that their appearances were indeed all that they brought with them, being of the performatively attractive sort that serve as representatives to the straight world these days. As they prepared to leave the party, having completed their display, the lead hen announced, "Well, the gays have to go to the gay bar now," leaving me smirking at the assumption. He asked me, "Do you ever go to the gay bar?" I do, but only on alternative nights when Arthur Evans and the other Radical Faeries would have joined me in shedding the veneer of respectability and frolicking. I even dressed as The Green Man of legend on my most recent visit, and vibed with a stripper who understood the reference.
"On a normal night?" I answered. "Eww no."
His disgust was evident, and they departed in a dismissive "Whatever", no doubt with their own thoughts about what sort of gay I am. It is that which I must remember: I am an Arthur Evans gay--wild, horned, and joyfully rooted in the Earth.
Pablo Neruda: Canto General
I'm not certain whether Latin-American writers have a special ability to put together words in exciting and unexpectedly vivid combinations, or whether this is simply a function of reading in a non-native language. Neruda--along with Paz and Borges, among others--delights and startles on every page with the way he sees and describes the world. It feels at times that he is just introducing words to each other, and standing back to see how they interact. Let's conduct a little experiment, shall we? Here is a table of the combinations on a "random" diptych, to the extent that anything is random.
It is amusing that I can't even cite the specific pages from which these were taken, spanning two poems, the book having closed as I type. One can clearly see the interchangability of Neruda's descriptions, and that "desnuda tierra de un incendio" or "dulces racimos de mi patria" would be just as serviceable--and just as Neruda--as any other combination, in spite of never having occurred. What we are left with then, is not a specific moment or vivid image that defines Neruda, but rather a corpus of words that combined reveal the soul of his epic. He does not seem to be carefully selecting his juxtapositions--though of course he did. He seems to be pouring everything sharp, putrid, herbaceous, and mineral together into a boiling cauldron, and letting it boil over.
This is something of a mercy to the reader, proportionally to how closely the reader intends to look. A scholar could, and no doubt has, devote at least an essay to, for example, Neruda's descriptions of love in "El Hondero":
"Sólo un golpe de madreselvas en la boca,
sólo unas trenzas cuyo movimiento subÍa
hacia mi soledad como una hoguera negra" (606)
any one of which could be plugged into the above table and replaced with others. Neruda states over and over, however, that he did not write to enable such analysis. Rather, as he says in "Artigas", he writes because "Sumergí mi cabeza en tu arena y en la plata do los pejerreyes, en la clara amistad de tus hijos, en tus destartalados mercados" (251), and again in "Compañeros de Viaje":
". . . buscando
Cada tarde en mi pobre poesía las ramas,
Las gotas y la luna que se habían perdido.
Acudí al fondo de ella, sumergiéndome
Cada tarde en sus aguas . . . " (609).
He has submerged himself in the reality of nature and humanity, and presents it to us swirling and beautiful and cruel. Furthermore, he wants nothing back from us, as readers, scholars, or as members of the nature and the humanity he describes. As he reveals in "Que Despierte el Leñador",
"Yo no vengo a resolver nada.
Yo vengo aquí para cantar
y para que cantes conmigo" (473).
As in many works of greatness, the answer was there all along in the title. This cauldron bubbles over in a song that Neruda cannot help but sing. It is fitting that he invokes Mayakovsky at the end of this epic in "Testamento" (636). Like that poet, all he wants is to shine, and everything else can go hang.
Piers Anthony: Bio of a Space Tyrant Vol. 1--Refugee
I could almost have read this for pleasure. In fact, I could almost continue reading the other five volumes, and immerse myself in the world of Hope Hubris. Anthony is an absolute master on several levels, here as in other works: his characters are both compelling and believable, and the world he creates is vivid and consistent. At the end of this volume, I found myself wanting more, eager to see how each of the three siblings' stories progressed, and rooting for each of them to rise from the ashes of tragedy. What stops me, however, is the world itself. I don't remember Anthony being such a merciless writer. The trauma could have stopped at any moment, and it would have been more than enough, but in this world there is no reprieve. The only thing one can expect after trauma is more of the same, and it is no doubt intentionally ironic that the protagonist is named Hope in a world where there is none. There is no hope for the characters, and there is none for the reader. The only thing that could be expected from the remaining novels of this series is more rape--so much rape--and tragedy. If I wanted to immerse myself in that world, I need only step outside.
H.P. Lovecraft: The Call of Cthulhu and Other Stories
On the surface, it would be difficult to say why Lovecraft has commanded such an outsized influence over popular culture. It is surely not his skill as a writer. His prose is obscure, inconsistent, and needlessly precious. His characterization? Nonexistent. Plot? Pacing? Almost amateurish. He is often cited as a master of mood, but even if it were true--and I am not convinced on this point--it could scarcely be enough to account for his market share of the modern mind.
The argument can easily be made that his philosophy matches the current moment. What difference is there, practically speaking, between a crumbling, cruel, and ravenous world and the awakening of a ancient god? The only natural response to either is overpowering dread. This dread has become a hallmark of the current generation, and Lovecraft is a natural fit. However, his influence is not sudden and recent. It is more accurate to say that decades of influence have positioned him perfectly to speak to the current moment, and one returns to the question, "What is responsible for those decades of influence?"
If the discussion is limited to literary talent, then there is no good answer. To understand Lovecraft, it is necessary to stop viewing him as a writer at all. He is not, in reality, an author of fiction at all. He is a cultural anthropologist, whose chosen subject happens to be fictional. He is not, in this sense, to be compared to other writers with whom he shared an era: Conan Doyle, for example. He is rather analogous to the Doyle scholar Leslie Klinger, who immersed himself in the "gentle fiction" Of Doyle's world, and made it real.
What Klinger does for Doyle (and others), Lovecraft does for an entire dream world that exists in the human subconscious. He takes the works of his lesser known peers (Blackwood, Machen, etc.) and sees how they are not isolated expressions of creative minds. They are, rather part of a collective world that exists just under the surface of consciousness and in the corners of waking vision. He then integrates them with his own half-dreaming glimpses of that world, and reveals and analyzes it with an almost scholarly attention to detail. He even goes so far as to pin it to the greater reality in certain key places. He does this partly with both with geographical plausibility, creating places that may well exist and mingling them with places that actually do. In this way, he creates something like a prototypical Kcymaerxthaere, a world that is pinned to our reality, but just slightly out of phase with it. The most effective tethers to what we may perceive as reality, however, are figures like Robert Olmstead who see more of the shadows, and whisper to the reader, "What you see in the corners of your room are also real." This is, for lack of a better explanation, what gives him such inroads into our minds. He is not the entertainer who creates a fanciful world for us to enjoy; he is the reassuring, terrifying voice of a stranger who says, "I see it too."
Sunday, August 20, 2023
Giant
Without really meaning to, this blog has turned into something of a meditation on what I really believe about Art, Literature, Poetry, and, especially in the case of cinema, "greatness". Suppose I were to take this opportunity to review where I'm at with each, and apply them to this work?
ART
A great deal of what I have come to think about Art comes from Giorgio Vasari, who seems to have come closer than anyone else to putting his finger on it. My fairly faithful summary of his definition is that Art is the successful transmission of a truly human moment through honesty and mastery of a medium.
Is Giant Art? At times, yes. Three of the Artists involved deserve to be credited for their mastery and success in my opinion. Two of them were at least acknowledged for their work: Ivan Moffat and Fred Guiol were nominated by the academy for their screenplay, which does most of the work here, especially in the dialogue. A quick look at her other work and achievements make it likely that the real artist is Edna Ferber, who wrote the novel on which it is based. In every scene, however, it is Elizabeth Taylor who is clearly the master. Though Hudson and Dean were the ones recognized for their acting, it is Taylor who Vasari would have applauded: every moment both technically perfect, and excruciatingly human. Though not recognized for her work here, it seems safe to say that her status as an artist, rather than a mere actor, is pretty universally recognized.
LITERATURE
My approach to this label is more practical and, perhaps, unique to me. To be Literature in my mind, something need merely be literate, literary, to exist in communication with the body of human work that precedes and follows it. This, like all of these labels, is a continuum; Literature is not a bar to be cleared, but rather an attribute. Something is Literature "to the extent that . . . "
Is Giant Literature? Certainly. Ferber has a place in that conversation, though not often by name. And this work in particular gives more than it took, inspiring other works that have become inextricable from the fabric of culture.
POETRY
This definition is entirely my own, and completely unsupportable. Poetry is more than verse; we often speak of poetic justice, or apply the term to music, visual art, or dance. To me, and to any of my students who will listen, Poetry is layering, the act of doing many things at once with only what is necessary. In verse, this means imagery, figurative language, texture, form, etc. all working together to create a unified moment, elegant and magical in its efficiency. The opposite, of course, is Prose: one thing at a time, sequential, mechanical.
Is Giant Poetry? Perhaps the only element that could really qualify by my criteria is the art direction of Boris Leven and Ralph S. Hurst, for which they were duly nominated, though I can't argue with the ultimate victory going to Lyle R. Wheeler and John DeCuir, and Walter M. Scott and Paul S. Fox for The King and I. The one award Giant won, that for best direction, seems to be a nod to the more popular criterion that something be merely beautiful.
GREATNESS
This is the definition that I have worked hardest to put into words. In my current thinking, something is Great to the extent that it has a reason to exist, and then rises to the level of that reason in every facet. It is the intersection of importance and mastery. Truly Great things arise irresistibly from a collective moment, almost without the willingness of their respective creators. The word itself has as many meanings as there are people, and could just as easily mean "enjoyable", but I am not known for being easily satisfied.
Is Giant Great? It certainly needed to be made. Its criticism of Texas style capitalism, and the subtlety with which it strove to meet that need, are certainly noteworthy. But that's the label I would give it, rather than Great: noteworthy. The moment that called for its creation was approached, but not reached. It remains specific, rather than universal, and is correspondingly liked, but not worshiped.
Ramón Gómez de la Serna: Las Proximas Greguerías hasta 800
700. El calzador es la cuchara de los zapatos.
The shoehorn is the spoon of shoes.
701.Abdicación es dejar la corona sobre la mesa y marcharse de viaje.
To abdicate is to leave your crown on the table and go on a trip.
702.Cuando aparecen tres perlas en una ostra es que el mar ha regalado al hombre una botonadura.
When three pearls appear in one oyster, it is as though the ocean has gifted a man an entire set of buttons.
703.Los bostezos son oes que humen.
Yawns are Os that have escaped.
704.Debajo de la almohada do los cochecitos de niño esconde la mamá sus ilusiones muerta.
Under the pillows of baby carriages, moms hide their own dead illusions.
705.El río cree que el puente es un castillo.
The river must think that the bridge is a castle.
706.En los cipreses retoñan los palos de los navíos naufragos.
Cypresses sprout the slats of sunken ships.
707.El que en la desgracia se oculta la cara con las manos parece que se está haciendo la mascarilla de su pena.
He who covers his face with his hands in disgrace seems to construct the mask of his shame.
708.Los vegeterianos no admiten sino transfusiones de sangre de remolacha.
Vegetarians only allow blood transfusions from beets.
709.Una de las cosas más tristes de los trenes es que las ventanillas de la derecha no podrán ser nunca las ventanillas de la izquierda.
One of the saddest things about trains is that the windows on the right can neer become the windows on the left.
710.Entre las cosas que quedaan en las papelerías están las manos doradas para coger en su pinza los papeles que deben estar unidos y a la vista. Esas manos doradas nos han emocionado siempre, porque tienen algo de manos de difuntas fuera de sus féretros, bellas manos de mujeres cándidas.
Among the things offered in stationery stores is gilt hands to clasp papers that must remain together and in sight. These gilt hands make us emotional because they have something of the hands of the deceased outside of their coffins, beautiful hands of innocent women.
711.Esas cortinas cortas de algunas puertas son como cortinas de puertas embarazadas.
Those short curtains of some doors are like curtains of pregnant doors.
712.El compositor de música es el último negrero, por cómo acumula barcos de negros, en los mares del pentagrama.
The composer is the ultimate slave trader, for how he amasses boats of black notes in the seas of the staff.
713.El ruido más malagorero del cine es el de esa primera cortina que suena sus rodajas--pulseras subalternas y miserables--en cuanto chasquea el beso de la reconciliación final.
The most ominous sound of the theater is that of the first curtain sounding its panels--lowly and miserable straps--like the kiss of the final reconciliation.
714.El cinematógrafo da sólo una hora para que cenen los cómicos, los perritos y los chóferes y vuelvan a la pantalla.
The cinematographer gives only one hour, during which the comedians, puppies and chauffeurs dine and return to the screen.
715.Reminiscencia: rumiar recuerdos.
Reminiscence: chewing on memories.
716.Las violetas son actrices retiradas en el primer otoño de su vida.
Violets are retired actresses in the first autumn of their lives.
717.Lo peor del matrimonio de Adán y Eva es que no tuvieron anillos con la fecha grabada.
The worst part of Adam and Eve’s wedding was that they didn’t have rings with the date engraved.
718.El paisaje adora al molino.
The landscapes adores mills.
719.Cuando nos tardan en servir en el restaurante nos convertimos en xilofonista de la impaciencia.
When we linger in a restaurant we become the xylophonists of impatience.
720.El amor nace del deseo repentino de hacer eterno lo pasajero.
Love is born from the sudden desire to make eternal that which is fleeting.
721.El cisne es la S capitular del poema del estanque.
The swam is the capital S of the pond.
722.El ciervo es el hijo del rayo y del árbol.
The deer is the child of a bolt of lightning and a tree.
723.La medicina ofrece curar dentro de cien años a los que se están muriendo ahora mismo.
Medicine offers to cure within a hundred years those who are dying right now.
724.Lo que más irrita a la Luna es que sea la Tierra la que le pone los cuernos, eclipsándola de ese modo grotesco.
The which most irritates the moon is that it would be the Earth that gives it its horns, eclipsing it in this grotesque way.
725.Al pasar la luna por la sierra de los ladrones la roban el reloj.
As the moon passes the thieves mountains, they steal its watch.
726.De lo único que no hay operador que opere al hombre es del túmulo.
The only thing which operates on man, but has no operator, is the tomb.
727.Después del eclipse, la luna se lava la cara para quitarse el tizne.
After an eclipse, the moon washes its face to remove the soot.
728.Hay quien se reserva para dar su primer limosna a los pobres que haya a la puerta del cielo.
There are those who are waiting to give their first charity to those at the door of heaven.
729.El que se despierta de la siesta al atardecer, nota que le han robado el día mientras dormía.
He who wakes from his nap at dusk realizes that he has been robbed of the day while he slept.
730.Al inventarse el cine, las nubes paradas en las fotografías comenzaron a andar.
When the cinema was invented, frozen clouds in photographs began to walk.
731.Si no fuésemos mortales, no podríamos llorar.
If we were not mortal, we would not be able to cry.
732.Lo que ve el alfamado en su fama es su propia muerte anticipada.
That which the famous person see in his fame is his own impending death.
733.Cuando el banderillero y el toro se citan, queda en supenso una única cuestión: quién clavará a quién.
When the banderillero and the bull have a date, one question remains: who will stick it to whom?
734.El reloj no existe en las horas felices.
The clock does not exist in happy hours.
735.La X es el corsé del alfabeto.
The X is the corset of the aphabet
736.Si la realidad es apariencia, resulta que la apariencia es la realidad, eso si no es la realidad la apariencia de la irrealidad.
If reality is appearance, then appearance is reality and it must follow that the appearance of unreality is not real.
737.A asomarnos al fondo del pozo nos hacemos un retrato de naúfragos.
When we peer into a well, we make the portrait of a castaway.
738.La almohada siempre es una convaleciente.
The pillow is always a convalescent
739.En las huellas digitales está ya el laberinto del crimen, pero falta quien las sepa descifrar antes de que sea irreparable.
In fingerprints there already exists a labyrinth of crime, but there is nobody who can decipher it before it becomes irreparable.
740.Catálogo: recuerdo de lo que se olvidará.
Catalog: a record of that which will be forgotten.
741.El arco iris es la bufanda del cielo.
The rainbow is the scarf of the sky.
742.Las velas de cera gotean camafeos.
WAx candles rip camoes.
743.La luna es la lápida sin epitafio.
The moon is a tombstone without an epitaph.
744.Las algas que aparecen en las playas son los pelos que se arrancan las sirenas al peinarse.
The seaweed that appears on the beach is the hair that mermaids pull out while combing.
745.Sólo al morir nos acordamos de que ya morimos otra vez al nacer.
Only upon death do we remember that we died already when we were born.
746.Los cuervos se tiñen.
The crows dye themselves.
747.Lo mas dificil que hace un jinete es sostenerse en la imagen de su caballo reflejada en el agua.
The most difficult thing for a rider is to remain in the image of his horse reflected in the water.
748.La jirafa es el periscopio para ver los horizontes del desierto.
The giraffe is the periscope used to see the desert horizons.
749.Lo malo que La Bruyére es que tiene nombre de queso.
The worst thing about Bruyere is that he has a cheesy name.
750.El arco iris es como el anuncio de una tintorería.
The rainbow is like a dyeworks’ advertisement.
751.Quien sugirió al hombre la sopa de tortuga fue la propia tortuga, por llevar la sopera a cuestas.
It was the turtle himself who suggested turtle soup to man, to bring the tureen on his own back.
752.Al dar a la llave de la luz se despierta a las paredes.
Flipping the light switch awakens the walls.
753.La nieve se apaga en el agua.
The snow extinguishes itself in the water.
754.Se tocaba un bucle como si hablase por teléfono con ella misma.
She twirled her ringlets as if talking on the phone with herself.
755.Lo malo es cuando los glóbulos rojos se quedan en calzoncillos, conviertiéndose en glóbulos blancos.
The worst is when red blood cells stay in their underwear, becoming white blood cells.
756.Un papel en el viento es como un pájaro herido de muerte.
A paper in the wind is like a mortally wounded bird.
757.El agua no tiene memoria: por eso es tan limpia.
Water has no memory; thus is it so clean.
758.Lo primero que hace el sol es pegar en la tapia el cartel del día.
The first thing the sun does is put up the poster of the day.
759.Nunca queda posada una hoja sobre el cisne: la sería mortal.
A leaf never perches above a swan; it would be fatal.
760.El piano refleja en su espejo negro la llegada de la música al puerto una noche lluviosa.
The piano reflects in its black mirror the arrival of music at the door on a rainy night.
761.Bar pobre: una aceituna y muchos palillos.
A dive bar: one olive with a lot of toothpicks.
762.Somos lazarillos de nuestros sueños.
We are the blind guides of our own dreams.
763.Gracias a las gotas de rocío tiene ojos la flor para ver la belleza del cielo.
Thanks to the morning dew, the flower has eyes to see the beauty of the sky.
764.La luna está subvencionada por la Policía.
The moon is subsidized by the police.
765.Al levar el ancla parece que el barco, vista la hora, se mete el reloj con leontina en el bolsillo y parte.
Raising its anchor, the boat seems to see the time, put its watch and chain in its pocket, and depart.
766.El colador está harto de pepitas.
The colander is filled with seeds.
767.El león tiene en la punta de la cola la brocha de afeitar.
The lion has a shaving brush at the end of his tail.
768.¿Dónde está el busto del arbusto?
Where is the shrub’s bust? [untranslatable pun]
769.En el esternón está el camafeo del esqueleto.
The skeleton’s cameo brooch is in the sternum.
770.Laura sigue saliendo de misa bella y joven todos los domingos. Quien desapareció fue el Petrarca.
Laura comes out smiling and young every Sunday. It is Petrarch who disappeared.
771.Lo único que tenemos de porcelana son los ojos.
The only porcelain thing we have is our eyes.
772.Nos muerde el ladrido de los perros.
The dogs bite us with their bark.
773.Es más fácil quitar el traje o desollar a un cordero que desnudar a un niño dormido.
It’s easier to fleece and skin a lamb than to undress a sleeping infant. [liberties taken]
774.Parece que en sueños se nos va a morir el corazón, como un obrero que se rebelase a cumplir sin descanso una jornada de día y noche en el fondo de una mina lóbrega y húmeda, húmeda de sangre . . .
It seems that in dreams we kill our hearts, like a worker who rebels against journaling day and night in a gloomy and humid mine . . . of blood.
775.La tragedia de la gota de agua cayendo en el cubo del lavabo toda la noche es una tragedia de asunto lacónico, pero espeluznante, que conocen los pobres criaturas humanas, en las que no todo ¡ni mucho menos!, es heroico . . .
The tragedy of a sink that drips all night is that of a matter terse but terrifying, that all humans know that not everything--indeed, very little--is heroic.
776.Se tiene un poco de pánico a los papeles que giran en las calles de invierno, movidos por el fuerte viento de la estación, como si fueran perros que quisieran morder . . .
There is a bit of panic in the sheets of paper, turning in the winter streets, driven by the wind of the station, as if they were dogs who would like to bite . . .
777.El que se casa trata de solucionar con la expiación su deseo de mujer.
He who gets married tries to absolve himself of his desire for women.
778.Los rayos propenden al agua porque no tienen más deseo que refrescarse.
Lightning bolts are drawn to water because they have no other desire than to cool down.
779.Entre las cosas que ofrecía aquel gran hotel estaba: «Garaje para las moscas.»
Among the things offered by that grand hotel was “A garage for the flies”.
780.¿No os dice nada el que tantos grandes hombres hayan muerto? A mi me dice más que lo que ellos dijeron en vida.
Does it tell us nothing that such great men have died? To me, it says more than whatever they said in life.
781.El dedo gordo de pie asiente o deniega impaciente lo que decimos a lo que oímos.
The big toe confirms or denies impatiently what we say to what we hear. [wtf]
782.Cada tumba tiene su reloj despertador puesto en la hora del Juicio Final.
Every grave has an alarm clock set to the hour of the final judgdement.
783.En la Guía de teléfonos todos somos seres microscópicos.
In the telephone book, we are all microscopic orgamisms.
784.El polvo está lleno de viejos y olvidados estornudos.
The dust is full of old and forgotten sneezes.
785.La lluvia es triste porque nos recuerda cuando fuimos peces.
The rain is sad because it reminds us of when we were fish.
786.Los paraguas son viudos que están de luto por las sombrillas desaparecidas.
Umbrellas are widowers dressed in morning for lost parasols.
787.Aburrirse es besar a la muerte.
To be bored is to kiss death.
788.Los orgullosos dicen «columna vertebral», y los modestos, «espina dorsal».
The haughty say, “spine”, and the modest “backbone”.
789.El león daría la mitad de su vida por un peine.
The lion would give half of his life for a comb.
790.La pipa no se quema; luego si la Humanidad hiciese las casas con madera de cachimba, sobrarían los bomberos.
The pipe does not burn itself. If humans had made their houses out of the same wood, bombs would have been useless.
791.Era de esas mujeres que, al hablar, se dirigen a nuestras solapas como si tratasen de seducir a nuestro traje.
It was from [or perhaps “the age of”]those women who, speaking, directed themselves to our lapels as if to try and seduce our suit.
792.Si os tiembla la cerilla al dar lumbre a una mujer, estaís perdidos.
If the light of a match on a women makes us tremble, we are lost.
793.El que lleve mucho el reloj al oído es que es corto de vista de la suposición.
He who often brings his watch to his ear is short-sighted in making suppositions.
794.El coleccionista de sellos se cartea con el pasado.
The stamp collector carries on correspondence with the past.
795.Las cebras son directamente caballos nacidos para los carrouseles.
Zebras are horses born directly for the carousel.
796.El erudito pone las manos crispadas en la librería, como el pianista en el teclado, y arranca veinte libros para sacar veinte notas.
The scholar puts his tense hand on the bookshelf, and pulls out twenty books to play twenty notes.
797.La sandía es una hucha de ocasos.
The watermelon is a repository of sunsets.
798.El cantar rabioso del gallo quiere decir, traducido: «¡Maldito sea el cuchillo!»
The furious song of the rooster is translated, “Cursed be the knife!”
799.En la gruta bosteza la montaña.
The mountain yawns in the cave.
800.Si hubiese habido fotógrafo en el Paraíso, habría sido bochornoso el retrato de bodas de Adán y Eva.
If there had been a photographer in Eden, Adam and Eve’s wedding portrait would have been embarrassing.
Friday, August 04, 2023
At-Tawbah
Already this book has taken an ominous tone by the omission of the invocation of the compassion and mercy of the divine بَسْمَلَة.
1-2: And no wonder: it is identified immediately as an ultimatum to the polytheists or, as Hulusi names them, the dualists.
3-5: It is not until after their death sentence has been given that the possibility of commutation is offered and the compassion and mercy of Allah is invoked.
6-12: This is justified with the explanation that these dualists would do the same if the roles were reversed--a rather petty argument.
13-15: And furthermore, they always have the option to reverse course. In this respect, at least, the god of the Quran is more merciful than the god of the Hebrew scriptures.
16-18: There is some disagreement among the translators how to render مَساجِدَ. The word itself invokes the act of worship, though it seems to be inextricably tied with the non-translation "mosque". For my part, I prefer Hulusi's rendering "place of prostration" for it's thematic consistency.
19: There is a theological principle here that could bear comparison with similar concepts in other religions: the interplay between faith and works, with clear preference here being given to the former.
20-22: The admonition that the particular place of worship is not of utmost importance seems to be lost on modern Muslims.
23-27: A nice moment of thematic consistency here: the reality of things is not connected to their physical form. Attachment to physical things, including particular holy sites, is not to be confused with actual faith.
28: Which makes this command inexplicable
29: Likewise the command in one breath to fight the unbelievers, and to fulfill the duty to protect them implied in the collection of الجِزيَةَ .
30-32: Hulusi makes a rather uncharacteristic point of transliterating the entire phrase لا إِلٰهَ إِلّا هُوَ, which he usually does only for words he considers holy in their very pronunciation. One wonders if there is a connection to the very peculiar orthographic features of the character لا, the only one in Arabic that might be considered syllabic rather than alphabetic.
32-33: I don't know if this is an accurate characterization of the Jews and Christians of the time. It is rather the Muslims who are interested in abolishing other religions, in this very same breath.
34-35: This, at least, is fair--even poetic.
36-37: Rather a difficult sentence to parse, as reflected in four very different translations. Hulusi renders it in a way that indicates a one-year period for the creation.
38-39: The call to battle is altogether incompatible with a detachment from earthly concerns.
40: The intersection of muddy pronoun reference and shifting listener require a level of dialectic mastery I will never attain.
41-47: A rare rebuke of The Prophet here, and a bit inexplicable. In 40, the assurance is that those who stayed behind were not necessary, and in 47 that they would even have been a hindrance. Why is The Prophet scolded for allowing it?
48-50: It certainly sounds like leaving these individuals to their own devices was the right choice.
51-55: A nice parallel with 19-22 here, and a reversal of the corresponding concept in James 2:26.
56-59: If these verses were followed today, the result would be world--or at least regional--peace.
60: The only thing that stands out about this seemingly apostrophic verse is the inclusion of those who collect the charity in the list of recipients. I can see how that would go south very quickly.
61-66: The Surah that these chatterers feared is this very one.
67-68: I suppose it is the behavior in 62 that qualifies them as hypocrites, rather than just disobedient or greedy.
69-70: The stories of عادٍ and ثَمودَ were seemingly as familiar to the audience as those of Noah and Lot, but I find very little specific narrative of those stories, here or elsewhere. Maybe in a future surah we will get details.
71-72: The fact that the promised rivers flow under paradise, rather than through it as in Judeo-Christian texts, is no doubt a regional accommodation.
73-79: The list of charges here draws attention to something that is not present (so far) in the Quran. The defendants here are guilty of muttering, conspiring, and withholding charity. The god of the Israelites would have rained death upon them for even one of these charges, but this version of the divine is content to punish them in the hereafter.
80: A contrast with Abraham's experience of mercy. Despite caveats in 66 and elsewhere, forgiveness does not seem to be an option for these hypocrites. The plea deal has been withdrawn, so to speak.
81-93: And Allah has not forgotten that they stayed behind during the battle either, though his instructions to The Prophet regarding them are contradictory. The fact that Allah has "sealed their hearts" remains troubling theologically.
94-96: The sudden change in tense here is difficult to integrate. Indeed, the book retains traces of its character as a surah that has been pieced together after the fact.
97-99: The mention of a still existing specific ethnic group here would seem to have modern implications. I wonder how modern Bedouins feel about these verses.
110-104: Even the Prophet does not know the heart, and this book returns to the position that it is best to mind one's own work and not worry about others . . . lovely, but in contrast to the rest of this book.
105: One of my favorite verses in the entire Quran so far.
106-110: A fascinating side tale, but one wonders about a few things: since the details of the episode are not mentioned here, how were they retained? Is there some adjunct book that gives the narrative? The earliest surviving account seems to have been written 200 years after the fact. Also, the directions in 108 are seemingly a rare moment of direct and specific revelation to The Prophet alone.
111: I don't know if it is accurate to say that the directive to kill and be killed is also in the Gospel.
112-114: This is not the story of Abraham I was thinking of in 80, but I look forward to learning more about it in future surahs.
115-117: There might be some resolution to the tension between mercy, repentance, and free will here. It seems that the principles operate differently in groups than in individuals--something akin to the statistics being useless in individual cases.
118-119: It is assumed that these are Ka’b ibn Mâlik, Murarah ibn Rabi’, and Hilâl ibn Umaiyah, mentioned in 106. More evidence for the gradual revelation of this surah, and possibly a key to unraveling confusing passages in other surahs.
120-122: A distinct minority report exists in the interpretation of these verses, and for once it is not Hulusi who is the dissenter. Of the four translations I am referencing, three interpret this to refer to the fight at Tabuk, but https://al-quran.info/#9 interprets those who "march forth" to be going to Medinah.
123-125: I can certainly imagine that some grew suspicious or weary of the timing of these revelations. The writing of this text even as it was happening gives it a unique structure and character among holy books.
126-129: I don't recall another instance of the Prophet himself being given the descriptor رَحيمٌ, elsewhere used almost ritually to describe Allah, and especially in the invocation that begins every surah but this one.
Ocean Vuong: On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous
I feel within me lately an idea developing, a new way of looking at works of narrative fiction. Reading this author concurrently with Konstatin Paustovksy, two very different styles and eras, served to highlight the contrast in what I am tentatively thinking of as the writer's gaze. Every word the writer makes is a choice, and the choices Vuong and Paustovsky make are so divergent that my naturally tendency to systematize things kicked in and I began to look for a taxonomy of their choices, and the choices of prose writers in general.
The first choice the writers makes, or at least the most basic one, is what to look at, what to attend to. Why does the writer tell us about this passerby rather than that one, this detail of the landscape instead of another. There are infinite choices available to her or him in any scene, but, although experience is had in parallel, writing is done in series, and the writer must tell the reader what specifically is worthy of notice. Vuong reveals himself thus to be interested in words, weather, faces, death and the dead in ways that Paustovksy, for example, is not.
The second choice the writer makes is how to describe these things, what and how many judgements to put on them with adjectives and adverbs. One effect of these choices is a tacit choice of how much to lead the reader, if at all. Mark Twain famously abhorred telling the reader what to think or feel about the things to which he directed their attention,, saying, "when you see an adjective, kill it." Vuong seems to feel the opposite: that adjective always need a friend and furthermore that they should make clear through connotation what the reader is to think and feel about the noun in question. One method is not superior to the other by nature, but Twain's method allows the reader to inhabit the world of the writing, and Vuong's forces the reader to inhabit the narrator's body instead.
And this tendency of Vuong's to commandeer the reader's experience is even more present in the third set of choices he makes as a writer: what connections to make for the reader through allusion, comparison, and figurative language. He does not seem to think a paragraph is complete without a metaphor or three in stark contrast to Paustovsky and his realist influences: Flaubert, Pushkin, Gogol, etc.. The effect in Vuong is appropriate to the narrator that he forces the reader to inhabit. The Little Dog of this novel is indeed too poetic for this world, and if the reader occasionally grows a bit weary of his poetic flights, it only serves to suggest that the narrator himself may be sick of them too. This choice, combines with his extensive descriptions, make it no surprise that the writing feels most natural when he occasionally breaks into something resembling verse.
The fourth choice a writer makes, and it is this that might be considered a mark of youth and immaturity in Vuong, is when to mandate meaning. Paustovsky, and I'm sure I'll have more to say about this when I eventually finish his 800-page epic, says what something means so rarely that the reader is allowed time to forget the eyes with which they are forced to look, and the rare moments when she or he is reminded that the writer has a point to make are the more effective for their rarity. Vuong does not allow the reader this freedom. What to look at, how to feel about it, and what it invokes are all choices that I am comfortable ceding to the writer. If I am also constantly told what it means, however, I begin to resent it. Literature is a conversation, and this one was a little bit one-sided. And just as in a conversation in which it is difficult to get a word in edgewise, I felt by the end that my partner was a little bit insecure in what he was saying, and overcompensated accordingly. A gifted young man, filled with passion and poetry. I wonder what he'll write in twenty years when he calms down a little and settles into himself.
David F. Vennells: Beginner's Guide to Reiki
Well, I guess I've found my new thing. There are books in my life that I enjoy, not because they are masterful works of literature, but because as I am reading them, they are reading me back. the works of Philip K. Dick are a key example of this: they are not particularly well-crafted, but whenever I pick them up they speak to something deeply personal and eerily real in my life at that moment.
It is similar with this book. It is not particularly well-written, and didn't contain any deep and profound truths that changed the way I think about or see things. nonetheless, every time I picked it up to read a few chapters, a feeling of peace and energy came over me, as if to say, "This is the path for you right now. Keep going."
So I did. I don't know that this book is even that good of an introduction to Reiki, just as I have my doubts about the level 1 Reiki course I took while reading it. In these cases, however, the medium is not the message. The words and exercises themselves were almost incidental to the experience of simply being on a path that feels right. The question remains, however: where to go from here? And even as I write it, the answer comes to me. "Don't worry. You are already going there."
Saturday, June 24, 2023
Jorge Luis Borges: El Aleph
I will never have said everything I have to say about Borges. Each glimpse I get of him, behind his elaborate Potemkin villages, reveals something new, the blind man palpating the elephant, Beethoven with his ear to the soundboard.
On this reading, he reveals himself to me as the first Bokononist, winkingly proclaiming "It is nothing but foma! All of the true things that I am about to tell you are shameless lies." It is beyond dispute that Vonnegut knew and drew from Borges' works. It is a shameless and atextual leap for me to say that Borges is Bokonon, but there. I have said it. Such Foma!
Pierre Menard and Tlon Uqbar wear different faces in El Aleph, but their fingerprints are everywhere. There is always Foma floating on Borges' Latte [please clap], a ludicrously elaborate parallel world of invented places and invented scholars to study them. None of this is real, not Uqbar, not Tarnowitz, and not Droctulft. They are all the third best thing, the orbis tertius, of the three-body problem. It is the nature of this third best thing that it is the only thing we can talk about, however. "'Cuando se acera el fin,' escribió Cartaphilus, ‘ya no quedan imagénes del recuerdo; sólo quedan palabras’” (El inmortal, 29). Words are not real; they cannot be, for that is their nature. "Lo que vieron mis ojos fue simultáneo: lo que transcribiré, sucesivo, porqie el lenguaje lo es" (El Aleph, 205)
But the kcymaerxthaere that Borges creates is not merely Middle Earth or Westeros. Those worlds have their own parallels to ours, but they float over it, detached, and secure in their fiction. Borges' alternate universe is strategically tied to ours in such a way that every name he drops has a chance of existing in the Encyclopedia Britannica. Each offhanded pin tacked to our reality with "actual" names and places serves to highlight the vast canopies vaulting away from our grasp. This reality, the actual, the action, has more of a claim to exist than the words which describe it. If the "palabra"is the third best thing, the "acto" is the second best thing. "Mejor dicho un instante de esa noche, un acto de esa noche, porque los actos son nuestro símbolo" (Biografía de Tadeo Isidoro Cruz, 69). The fact is the finger pointing at the moon: slightly more real that the awestruck, "Look!" that announces it, but still not the moon itself. It is still just a symbol, and like all symbols only real to the extent that it is ours, that we all see it and agree on what it means.
What is the moon, then? What is El Aleph, el jaguar (as in "La escritura del dios"), that each of Borges' third-best scholars search for and, in some cases, find? What are all the battles, the mutilations, the embarrassments for? I cannot tell you, and neither can Borges. He can, however, tell you that he cannot tell you. "Como Cornelio Agrippa, soy dios, soy héroe, soy filósofo, soy demonio, y soy mundo, lo cual es una fatigosa manera de decir que no soy" (El inmortal, 24). The eye cannot see itself, the sun cannot feel its own light, and the mind that thinks will always be at least two steps away from being known. You only exist by virtue of that which you are not, that which is outside you, including your own thoughts and especially your words. I am a Cartesian well, a mind beyond subject and object, trapped forever between wave and particle. "Quizá en mi cara estuviera escrita la magia, quizá yo mismo fuera el fin de mi busca" (La escritura del dios, 147). The moment I am anything else is the moment that ends the search, and with it ends all moments.
Zachari Logan: A Natural History of Unnatural Things
"The artworks I become enamored with offer simple clues about their creators" (from "Paper, Petals, Leaves and Skin").
What is it about queerness that announces itself to me? How do I perceive, from a single image, that there was something queer in its creation? The above work, used to advertise an exhibition by Logan at the Peabody Essex, was one such image, and it moved to the top of my list with a glance.
Post-facto analysis gives some hints at a logical underpinning for the phenomenon. Clearly male lips, surrounded by flowers: very queer. A prominent gap between the incisors: almost stereotypical in its queerness. In the moment, however, none of those thoughts occurred to me. I simply knew that whatever this exhibit was: A. it was queer as fuck, and B. I must see it.
And it was marvelously queer. Every one of the works spoke to me, and each in a very different way. Logan's queer voice is a very specific one, seemingly obsessed with expressing the raw sexuality of the intersection of life (often flowers), and death (in many guises). In his poetry too, this equation is visible. Occassionally it is as elegant as his visual art, as in "Tattoo", where the scabs of a tattoo render it mute, dead, though life runs below it through a large vein,
"until spoken,
not by a voice,
but by the brushing
of your beard
on my arm."
More often, however, his poetry invited me to a dinner party where he is Truman Capote, and I am nobody. Invited by chance or fortune, to a world in which I have not made a place, I am instantly defensive. My ego sounds alarms, and every pointlessly arcane reference, every self-congratulatory asyndeton, and especially the myriad places where the host chooses the seemingly most clumsy, prosaic word possible, is a chance for that ego to save itself and affirm its own existence with a sneer. I adopt a grimace intended to convey incredulity, saying "Am I the only one who sees that the host is nude?"
Queerness is, as in Logan's art, the old made new with a moan. We are the flowers that bloom from the decayed remnants of culture that are left after all that is insincere and false has rotted away. We are also a thin shell of art over a gaping void where our place in the world should be. Capote was a boring writer, and a truly ugly man in many ways. Logan is rather bad at poetry. Both wear the elaborate decorative shell of queerness, for brashly is the only way we are allowed to exist. It is fickle, though, and can come apart with a pin prick. And this writing is my own version, a desperate attempt to join the party, for although I have no real place in the queer world, at least my facade fits right in.
Wednesday, June 21, 2023
Al-Anfal
I can never hear these introductions other than in the voice of Freddy Mercury.
1: The eponymous "Spoils" seem suspiciously like plunder, from a historical context. They do not seem to be the rewards of a battle between armies, but rather the pillaging of trade caravans
2-4: Which makes it somewhat disingenuous to insinuate that these material rewards are the result of pious reflection.
5-6: To those who resisted, it may have seemed the opposite at the time.
7-10: The implication is that simple bloodshed is not enough; there must be violent conflict on a grander scale. This is a bloodthirstiness that one would expect of the Hebrew god.
11-13: A level of pettiness one would not expect from the divine.
14-18: I'm finding this altogether difficult to reconcile with earlier portrayals of the divine as relatively tolerant and accepting. In earlier surah, the message is often "What do you care what others do? If they are good, they will be rewarded. If not, punished. Mind yourself." Here, however, there seems to be a caveat: "Unless they have nice things." Even Hulusi's metaphysical reading is strained.
19: For example, Hulusi interposes here that the Meccan's persistence is a metaphor for belief in duality. What then, is the metaphysical interpretation of the numerous troops that they are using to no effect? The whole thing seems manifestly literal, and was in fact an actual war, and any attempt to allegorize it fails to soften the violence.
20-24: The minds reels at the seeming irreconcilability of these two concepts. First, there are those who simply will never be able to perceive the truth. this is already problematic. Then it is added that the divine is willing to open the eyes and ears of such ones. Okay. But even if the divine so wills it, they will be unable to perceive! How is this possible? And what does it means that the divine "Stand between a man and his heart"? Is this as an impediment, a judgement, or an intercessor? If, as Hulusi interposes, it is the former, then is not all search for truth vain? The unsatisfying, though politically and commercially expedient, message seems to be that "If you do what I say, then you are doing it right. Don't worry about it."
25-28: More contradiction. The victories of the believers are held up as evidence that they are on the right path, but the spoils of those victories are said in 28 to be an object of trial.
29-31: The promised standard/criterion/فُرۡقَانٗا would solve the quandary of "chosen-ness". It is left vague, however, leading one to wonder if it exists.
32-35: The protestations of the dualists/Meccans certainly seem reasonable.
36-37: Unlike in Hebrew and Christian holy texts, hell is pretty clearly intended to be seen as a literal place here. No doubt this is because the idea had gained traction by the time of its writing.
38-40: "Fight until there is no more oppression" seems like quite the paradox. The warning given to the disbelievers here seems to be lip service. Have not their hearts and eyes been divinely sealed, and is not their path set for them?
41: More ambitious than the tenth prescribed in other holy traditions.
42-45:The metaphysical interpretation is irresistible here, and Hulusi does not disappoint. Numbers and groups and armies are illusions, and only contemplation of the names of reality can reveal the essence.
46-48: It is unclear how the trick played by the Shaitan here is different from that done in behalf of the Muslims. Both were shown something unreal to manipulate their actions.
49-51: As with belief in a literal hell, this verse reflects the belief of its time in a metaphysical soul--in contrast to earlier religious texts.
52-54: The push and pull with Hulusi is strong here. His metaphysical translation of these verses is consistent and justifiable. Sadly, it has almost no relation to the text.
55-57: The connection here between oath-breakers and people incapable of belief jumps several logical steps, but it is a revealing one nonetheless. To run it through the metaphysical interpretation engine one more time might produce: " Those who are inextricable from their ego-self will never keep their word, and are suitable only for object lessons."
58:But . . .but . . . those who break a treaty are the worst of all possible creatures in 55. Is it different somehow if one does so openly?
59-62: Seemingly advice for this specific situation rather than a general principle.
63-63: A lovely verse, tying up the central ideas of the surah.
64-66: A little bit of comedy here, which mirrors Abraham bargaining for the lives of Sodom. Yeah if you were steadfast, you could take ten times your number. But . . . maybe let's say twice your number, looking at you.
67-68: I'm reminded vaguely of a parallel account in the Hebrew scriptures of the Israelites trying to secretly keep a little plunder and the whole camp being punished for it. Wonder if I'm making it up. Aha! It was the sin of Achan in Joshua 7-9.
69-71: One wonders what became of these captives--whether good was found in their hearts, or betrayal.
72-75: Well, this at least seems to have come true on a grand scale.