Yes, I have not been reading lately and am, therefore, a bad person. But you simply don't realize how time consuming being a teacher is. If you count the 500 papers I have to grade every week, I have been doing more reading than you.
Richard Russo: Empire Falls
this book got off to an amazing, hopeful start, which made the sluggish, awkward middle that much more disappointing. Russo clearly has a great grasp of what makes literature. The book is packed with nice imagery, layered meaning, and tightly packed themes that make one wish it was better written. I watched a painful travesty of a play the other night, one that stemmed from the abortive notion that being a theater critic makes one qualified to also write plays. David Skolnick, by the way. Miss it at all costs. But Empire Falls suffers from a similar problem. Russo simply can't write believable dialogue. Every time a character opens his or her mouth, one gets the impression that Empire Falls is peopled with greeting card writers. Thank goodness that the book ended on as powerful a note as it began. If one can overlook the writing and focus on the content, Empire Falls is a real delight.
Toni Morrison: The Bluest Eye
I was supposed to have read this in college. Better late than never. Although the book is wonderfully epigrammatic and powerfully vivd, I can't help but agree with Morrison's own criticism of it. It doesn't quite work the way she wanted it to, she writes in the Afterword. The broken structure doesn't come create the effect she intended, and the theme is just short of consistent. Still, I don't regret reading it for an instant, and would do so again, which is a rare compliment.
Genesis
I am astonished at all that I failed to recognize when reading this as a fundamentalist. These men are nasty, greedy, vindictive, lustful liars. Whose idea was it to emulate them? This said with the exception of Joseph, whose powers of divination would have gotten him excommunicated in the church where I grew up.
Alfred, Lord Tennyson: English Idyls and Other Poems
I could go on at length about the rich variety of love about which Tennyson writes, or about the sincerity of his passion, or the seeming ease with which he writes in the voice of characters wildly different in background, occupation and gender from hhis own. But it would be exhausting. If anything, I lke Tennyson too much. When I teach poetry to my students next semester, I anticipate that he will appear in the curriculum more often than is probably wise.
I will offer this obscure excerpt, appropriate as it is to the current political climate:
That these two parties still divide the world--
Of those that want, and those that have; and still
The same old sore breaks out from age to age
With much the same result.
(Walking to the Mail)
And this one, to which I personally relate:
Let this avail, just, dreaful, mighty God,
This not be all in vain, that thrice ten years,
Thrice multiplied by superhuman pangs,
In hungers and in thirsts, fevers and cold,
In coughs and aches, stiches, ulcerous throes and cramps,
A sign betwixt the meadow and the cloud
Patient on this tall pillar I have borne.
(Saint Simeon Stylites)
BTD: 63. At least I've read more than a book a week. Don't judge me.
Sunday, November 12, 2006
Monday, September 04, 2006
Menage a Quatre
Truman Capote: In Cold Blood
Sister should have stuck to being a journalist. This book has all the markings of a Sunday Times Supplement stretched out to book length. Which is not to say that the topic is uninteresting, simply that turning it into a novel made it seem hokey and forced. The least he could have done is give it some recurring theme, but all he managed to do was color inside the lines that were already there.
4 Maccabees
It is especially interesting to read parallel accounts of the same event. I'm not sure Jesus would have turned out to be such a celebrity if we had only one man's version of his life, but we have four and Voila! A rock star is born. It is, by the same token, interesting to reread the account of seven young men's brutal but inspiring deaths from 2 Maccabees from a different perspective. I don't mean to imply that there was another eyewitness to the fact--it is likely mythical. Rather, it is interesting to see the shift from Hebrew mysticism to Greek rationalism, and how it affects the telling of a story. In 2 Maccabees, the youths' deaths are inspiring as examples of faith, a la Hananiah, Mishael and Azariah. But in this later, more Greek version, the story is almost told as a Socratic dialogue, the purpose of which is to demonstrate the superiority of reason over emotion. And form meets function here, for the second telling is sterile, rational, and uneffacing.
William Shakespeare: The Comedy of Errors
This was a pleasant surprise. I expected another irritating, convoluted comedy along the lines of Twelfth Night, but instead found a clear plot and enough layered meaning to interest a scholar without hindering a casual observer. I especially liked the symbolism of the chain, and should really reread the play to see how the possesion of the chain affects each character. My working theory of Shakespeare is that each play exists in an alternate universe with slightly different rules of physics. In The Comedy of Errors, as in no other Shakespearean play that I can make mention of, the rule is rhyming=proximity. The closer a character is to another, the more likely he or she is to rhyme while speaking to him or her. In fact, rhyming becomes a game, especially between siblings. I'm not sure why that's important, but it certainly gives the play more tint :)
Jack Shaeffer: Shane
I read this book back when I was in middle school, and now I'm having my students read it. What better time to revisit an old friend? As I remembered, it is a well written book, but I certainly don't remember all the sexual tension between the three adults in the book. Is there a doctoral thesis in there somewhere?
Sister should have stuck to being a journalist. This book has all the markings of a Sunday Times Supplement stretched out to book length. Which is not to say that the topic is uninteresting, simply that turning it into a novel made it seem hokey and forced. The least he could have done is give it some recurring theme, but all he managed to do was color inside the lines that were already there.
4 Maccabees
It is especially interesting to read parallel accounts of the same event. I'm not sure Jesus would have turned out to be such a celebrity if we had only one man's version of his life, but we have four and Voila! A rock star is born. It is, by the same token, interesting to reread the account of seven young men's brutal but inspiring deaths from 2 Maccabees from a different perspective. I don't mean to imply that there was another eyewitness to the fact--it is likely mythical. Rather, it is interesting to see the shift from Hebrew mysticism to Greek rationalism, and how it affects the telling of a story. In 2 Maccabees, the youths' deaths are inspiring as examples of faith, a la Hananiah, Mishael and Azariah. But in this later, more Greek version, the story is almost told as a Socratic dialogue, the purpose of which is to demonstrate the superiority of reason over emotion. And form meets function here, for the second telling is sterile, rational, and uneffacing.
William Shakespeare: The Comedy of Errors
This was a pleasant surprise. I expected another irritating, convoluted comedy along the lines of Twelfth Night, but instead found a clear plot and enough layered meaning to interest a scholar without hindering a casual observer. I especially liked the symbolism of the chain, and should really reread the play to see how the possesion of the chain affects each character. My working theory of Shakespeare is that each play exists in an alternate universe with slightly different rules of physics. In The Comedy of Errors, as in no other Shakespearean play that I can make mention of, the rule is rhyming=proximity. The closer a character is to another, the more likely he or she is to rhyme while speaking to him or her. In fact, rhyming becomes a game, especially between siblings. I'm not sure why that's important, but it certainly gives the play more tint :)
Jack Shaeffer: Shane
I read this book back when I was in middle school, and now I'm having my students read it. What better time to revisit an old friend? As I remembered, it is a well written book, but I certainly don't remember all the sexual tension between the three adults in the book. Is there a doctoral thesis in there somewhere?
Saturday, August 12, 2006
Maxim Gorky: The Lower Depths and Other Plays
Maxim Gorky is to Anton Chekov as Vaclav Havel is to Samuel Beckett. That is to say, he does what Chekov does well--perhaps with a bit less flair--, but refrains from what makes Chekov annoying. In the case of Havel and Beckett, just to illustrate, Havel uses the absurdly meaningless to create deep meaning just as Beckett does, but doesn't infuriate the reader/viewer with seemingly arbitrary stupidity.
Most would agree that Chekov is king of complex characterization, but I would put Gorky only slightly lower on that scale. His people are so delightfully epigrammatic and layered, and, as in Chekov, each sentence is pointed and revealing. At the same time, Gorky's work doesn't seem to feel so ponderous and unresolved as Chekov's. While carrying the same hint of the fundamental distance between people, he also has something to say about Russian culture without being apocalyptic. The idea that flows throughout the three plays in this collection is that peole, particularly Russian people, "live in a convulsion of ideas" (The Zykovs, act II). In Russia, "everything is caught on the wing". As a result, Tatyana in Enemies comments that life is "an amateur performance--the parts are badly cast, there are players of no talent, the acting is terrible-- and you can't make out what the script is all about" (Act I). Who has not felt like this? Well done, Gorky. Now cut back on the profusion of characters and you'll have a resurgence that will leave Eugene O'neill in the dust.
BTD:55
Most would agree that Chekov is king of complex characterization, but I would put Gorky only slightly lower on that scale. His people are so delightfully epigrammatic and layered, and, as in Chekov, each sentence is pointed and revealing. At the same time, Gorky's work doesn't seem to feel so ponderous and unresolved as Chekov's. While carrying the same hint of the fundamental distance between people, he also has something to say about Russian culture without being apocalyptic. The idea that flows throughout the three plays in this collection is that peole, particularly Russian people, "live in a convulsion of ideas" (The Zykovs, act II). In Russia, "everything is caught on the wing". As a result, Tatyana in Enemies comments that life is "an amateur performance--the parts are badly cast, there are players of no talent, the acting is terrible-- and you can't make out what the script is all about" (Act I). Who has not felt like this? Well done, Gorky. Now cut back on the profusion of characters and you'll have a resurgence that will leave Eugene O'neill in the dust.
BTD:55
Monday, July 31, 2006
Catchy Heading
Aristotle: De Poetica
I read this little item in anticipation of a stagecraft workshop I went to recently. I have worked with the speaker, Tom Lindblade, before and he is the best director I have ever met. He insists, as part of his directorial approach, that all theater, and in particular all acting, begins with Aristotle's Poetics. Naturally, I wanted to read more so that I would understand what he would speak about at this workshop. Imagine my surprise at learning that this supposedly seminal work is only thirty pages long. Furthermore, it spends the bulk of those scant pages iterating the difference between comedy and tragedy, between epic and dramatic poetry, and making other trivial distinctions. The one piece of useful information I gleaned was that the plot--or as Stanislavsky later clarified, the intention--is the first thing about any theatrical work. Second in importance is the character, followed by the thought or, in more modern terms, the meaning, the diction or language, and the song, which I take to mean the artistic embellishments. I believe this to be an entirely accurate and helpful hierarchy. As an actor, I tend to put the character first--ending up with what amounts to a caricature. An as an English major, I tend to consider the thought and the diction next in importance. It would probably be helpful not to ignore that which Aristotle thought most significant.
David Edmonds and John Eidinow: Wittgenstein's Poker
I suppose I should give this book a demerit for false advertising. I expected it to contain, as it claimed, an account of the notorious clash between philosophers Karl Popper and Ludwig Wittgenstein. Instead, all it has to say about the eponymous event is that nobody really knows what was said, although Popper seemed to think he emerged from the encounter victoriously.
Which is not to say that the book was without interest entirely, simply that it contained little philosophy. Instead, it detailed the very interesting personal histories of the two men, highlighting the many parallels. For instance, both were of Jewish descent and living in Vienna near the time of the Anschluss. The primary difference lay in the fact that the Wittgensteins were the Rockefellers of Austria-Hungary, and the Poppers were only respectably middle class. It is no wonder that Popper seemed to hold a personal vendetta against Wittgenstein when one considers that the former lost many family members during the holocaust and that the latter's family was able to preserve itself with its vast wealth.
And I suppose I did learn a bit about the two men's respective philosphies. Popper seemed preoccupied with so-called philosophical problems, such as that of induction, while Wittgenstein insisted that such problems did not exist and were simply tricks of language. I suppose neither side is particularly interesting to me, since I fail to see the practical relevance of such arguments. I am more of a Utilitarian, if you care about labels. I will say this for Ludwig, though. The point of philospohy may indeed be, as he put it, "To show the fly the way out of the bottle."
1 Esdras
What can one say about those books of the Bible which I call the list-books. Numbers, Leviticus, and likewise 1 Esdras, are so largely compsed of family lineages that any message they carry is almost completely obscured. I will say this: those glimpses of the man Ezra which the book grants are nice additions and serve as flavor to earlier books where he is only briefly outlined.
The Prayer of Manasseh
By the same token, this fleeting glimpse into one of my favorite characters in the Bible is savory indeed.
Psalm 151
One wonders if a Hebrew copyist simply limited the book of Psalms to 150 because he had OCD. Whether authentically written by David or not, this addition is touching and meaningful.
3 Maccabees
In the parable of the ungrateful slave, the character Christ spoke of a servant who was forgiven an enormous debt and subsequently raged against a fellow slave who owed him comparatively little. Although I'm sure the book of 3 Maccabees was not meant to paint the Israelites in such a light, such was the effect on this reader. Rescued by their God from imminent eradication (again), they pivot on one foot and execute all those of their number who "transgressed the divine commandments" (7:11). Not only is this the same kind of elitism from which they were rescued, but their reasoning is the same as their persecutors'. The Israelites were accused of being subversive due to "the ill-will [they] had toward all nations" (7:4). Their accusation against those of their own number was that "they would never be favorably disposed toward the king's government" (7:11). What ungrateful slaves. I would have smitten them if I was God.
2 Esdras
"And now I see that the world to come will bring delight to few, but torments to many" (7:47). This objection of Ezra to his prophetic visions is a persistent theme through 2 Esdras, and one never fully answered. The allegorical wild beats shown to Ezra, while of the same flavor as those shown to Daniel and John, are never explicated. God was kind enough to tell Daniel that the four-headed leopard meant Greece, the goat Medo-Persia, etc. But Ezra seems to awake from his visions confused. How frustrating it must have been to hear as the answer to his plea for understanding, "If, therefore, you will pray again and fast again for seven days, I will again declare to you things greater than these" (6:31). Always the angel Uriel replies with an instruction to fast for seven more days. At least on the fourth set of seven days, by which point Ezra must have been famished, the angel allowed him to eat wildflowers. But the answer is never given. Why must the vast majority of mankind be destroyed in the fiery wrath of a vengeful God? Are not all men equally guilty? "Quite so, Ezra," seems to be the reply. "But why?" he asks. "Quite so, Ezra."
BTD:54
I read this little item in anticipation of a stagecraft workshop I went to recently. I have worked with the speaker, Tom Lindblade, before and he is the best director I have ever met. He insists, as part of his directorial approach, that all theater, and in particular all acting, begins with Aristotle's Poetics. Naturally, I wanted to read more so that I would understand what he would speak about at this workshop. Imagine my surprise at learning that this supposedly seminal work is only thirty pages long. Furthermore, it spends the bulk of those scant pages iterating the difference between comedy and tragedy, between epic and dramatic poetry, and making other trivial distinctions. The one piece of useful information I gleaned was that the plot--or as Stanislavsky later clarified, the intention--is the first thing about any theatrical work. Second in importance is the character, followed by the thought or, in more modern terms, the meaning, the diction or language, and the song, which I take to mean the artistic embellishments. I believe this to be an entirely accurate and helpful hierarchy. As an actor, I tend to put the character first--ending up with what amounts to a caricature. An as an English major, I tend to consider the thought and the diction next in importance. It would probably be helpful not to ignore that which Aristotle thought most significant.
David Edmonds and John Eidinow: Wittgenstein's Poker
I suppose I should give this book a demerit for false advertising. I expected it to contain, as it claimed, an account of the notorious clash between philosophers Karl Popper and Ludwig Wittgenstein. Instead, all it has to say about the eponymous event is that nobody really knows what was said, although Popper seemed to think he emerged from the encounter victoriously.
Which is not to say that the book was without interest entirely, simply that it contained little philosophy. Instead, it detailed the very interesting personal histories of the two men, highlighting the many parallels. For instance, both were of Jewish descent and living in Vienna near the time of the Anschluss. The primary difference lay in the fact that the Wittgensteins were the Rockefellers of Austria-Hungary, and the Poppers were only respectably middle class. It is no wonder that Popper seemed to hold a personal vendetta against Wittgenstein when one considers that the former lost many family members during the holocaust and that the latter's family was able to preserve itself with its vast wealth.
And I suppose I did learn a bit about the two men's respective philosphies. Popper seemed preoccupied with so-called philosophical problems, such as that of induction, while Wittgenstein insisted that such problems did not exist and were simply tricks of language. I suppose neither side is particularly interesting to me, since I fail to see the practical relevance of such arguments. I am more of a Utilitarian, if you care about labels. I will say this for Ludwig, though. The point of philospohy may indeed be, as he put it, "To show the fly the way out of the bottle."
1 Esdras
What can one say about those books of the Bible which I call the list-books. Numbers, Leviticus, and likewise 1 Esdras, are so largely compsed of family lineages that any message they carry is almost completely obscured. I will say this: those glimpses of the man Ezra which the book grants are nice additions and serve as flavor to earlier books where he is only briefly outlined.
The Prayer of Manasseh
By the same token, this fleeting glimpse into one of my favorite characters in the Bible is savory indeed.
Psalm 151
One wonders if a Hebrew copyist simply limited the book of Psalms to 150 because he had OCD. Whether authentically written by David or not, this addition is touching and meaningful.
3 Maccabees
In the parable of the ungrateful slave, the character Christ spoke of a servant who was forgiven an enormous debt and subsequently raged against a fellow slave who owed him comparatively little. Although I'm sure the book of 3 Maccabees was not meant to paint the Israelites in such a light, such was the effect on this reader. Rescued by their God from imminent eradication (again), they pivot on one foot and execute all those of their number who "transgressed the divine commandments" (7:11). Not only is this the same kind of elitism from which they were rescued, but their reasoning is the same as their persecutors'. The Israelites were accused of being subversive due to "the ill-will [they] had toward all nations" (7:4). Their accusation against those of their own number was that "they would never be favorably disposed toward the king's government" (7:11). What ungrateful slaves. I would have smitten them if I was God.
2 Esdras
"And now I see that the world to come will bring delight to few, but torments to many" (7:47). This objection of Ezra to his prophetic visions is a persistent theme through 2 Esdras, and one never fully answered. The allegorical wild beats shown to Ezra, while of the same flavor as those shown to Daniel and John, are never explicated. God was kind enough to tell Daniel that the four-headed leopard meant Greece, the goat Medo-Persia, etc. But Ezra seems to awake from his visions confused. How frustrating it must have been to hear as the answer to his plea for understanding, "If, therefore, you will pray again and fast again for seven days, I will again declare to you things greater than these" (6:31). Always the angel Uriel replies with an instruction to fast for seven more days. At least on the fourth set of seven days, by which point Ezra must have been famished, the angel allowed him to eat wildflowers. But the answer is never given. Why must the vast majority of mankind be destroyed in the fiery wrath of a vengeful God? Are not all men equally guilty? "Quite so, Ezra," seems to be the reply. "But why?" he asks. "Quite so, Ezra."
BTD:54
Monday, July 10, 2006
Imre Kertesz: Fateless
I bought this book five years ago during a short-lived period of determination to read a work by every Nobel laureate. As usual, I didn't read it until I was meant to. Kertesz's work resonates with recent experiences of my own as it could not possibly have years ago.
To be specific, the numb terror of internment as Kertesz writes it is so accurate as to inspire pungent, nearly post-traumatic stressful memories on my part. The wound on Georg's leg, the morbid task of milking pus out of it daily to prevent infection, and especially the frustrating notion of hobbling on an unresponsive, doomed leg, are all within my own memory, and quite accurate. Which is not to praise the book in general, only to say that I related to it.
As to whether it was a worthwhile read, as opposed to merely another concentration camp memoir, I must say yes. The first thing that elevates it above that latter, compelling but meaningless, category is Kertesz's choice to write his own experience through a fictional person. Kertesz was himself imprisoned in Auschwitz as a boy, but he does not write about himself. Instead, he writes in the voice of Georg, a Hungarian boy of Jewish descent. This choice frees him to write a novel, not simpy of horror, but of philosophical merit. All around him, fellow prisoners are bewailing their fate, but Georg, who doesn't come from a religious family, has no frame of reference for this term. The brilliant recurring device of "The man with the bad luck," unimportant to the plot but crucial to the meaning, is the first hint of Kertesz's intention. He means, as one should have gleaned from the title, is to write a novel, not about concentration camps, but about the nature of fate. Perhaps the Jews are being punished for the sins of their race. Perhaps the horror of the concentration camps is unavoidable. Or is there some other answer?
Georg's youth grants him a unique capacity to answer this question. He often reminds the reader that he does not know what (such and such an experience) means. He is not concerned with meaning, per se. He simply reports his experiences as they occur, that is, until the final, brilliant chapter. "Do you want all this horror and all my previous steps to lose their meaning entirely?" he asks adults who insist upon his return to Budapest that all is fated. Why can't you see that if there is fate then there is no such thing as freedom . . . that is, we ourselves are fate?" The adults are, of course, horrified. How could people themselves be held responsible for their own persecution and extermination? "The point," Georg explains, "Is in the steps. Everyone stepped forward as long as he could . . . Now there is no other blood, and there is nothing but given situations and concomitant givens within them" (188,189). Here Kertesz finally reveals himself. Surely this is not fourteen year old Georg speaking at all. I mean really, concomitant? And what he says is ponderous. There is no fate. Only steps. The only thing to do, no matter how terrible the stench, how painful the pressure, is to put one stump in front of the other.
To be specific, the numb terror of internment as Kertesz writes it is so accurate as to inspire pungent, nearly post-traumatic stressful memories on my part. The wound on Georg's leg, the morbid task of milking pus out of it daily to prevent infection, and especially the frustrating notion of hobbling on an unresponsive, doomed leg, are all within my own memory, and quite accurate. Which is not to praise the book in general, only to say that I related to it.
As to whether it was a worthwhile read, as opposed to merely another concentration camp memoir, I must say yes. The first thing that elevates it above that latter, compelling but meaningless, category is Kertesz's choice to write his own experience through a fictional person. Kertesz was himself imprisoned in Auschwitz as a boy, but he does not write about himself. Instead, he writes in the voice of Georg, a Hungarian boy of Jewish descent. This choice frees him to write a novel, not simpy of horror, but of philosophical merit. All around him, fellow prisoners are bewailing their fate, but Georg, who doesn't come from a religious family, has no frame of reference for this term. The brilliant recurring device of "The man with the bad luck," unimportant to the plot but crucial to the meaning, is the first hint of Kertesz's intention. He means, as one should have gleaned from the title, is to write a novel, not about concentration camps, but about the nature of fate. Perhaps the Jews are being punished for the sins of their race. Perhaps the horror of the concentration camps is unavoidable. Or is there some other answer?
Georg's youth grants him a unique capacity to answer this question. He often reminds the reader that he does not know what (such and such an experience) means. He is not concerned with meaning, per se. He simply reports his experiences as they occur, that is, until the final, brilliant chapter. "Do you want all this horror and all my previous steps to lose their meaning entirely?" he asks adults who insist upon his return to Budapest that all is fated. Why can't you see that if there is fate then there is no such thing as freedom . . . that is, we ourselves are fate?" The adults are, of course, horrified. How could people themselves be held responsible for their own persecution and extermination? "The point," Georg explains, "Is in the steps. Everyone stepped forward as long as he could . . . Now there is no other blood, and there is nothing but given situations and concomitant givens within them" (188,189). Here Kertesz finally reveals himself. Surely this is not fourteen year old Georg speaking at all. I mean really, concomitant? And what he says is ponderous. There is no fate. Only steps. The only thing to do, no matter how terrible the stench, how painful the pressure, is to put one stump in front of the other.
Thursday, July 06, 2006
John Shelby Spong: Why Christianity Must Change or Die
I don't know why I should feel self-conscious when I fail to post here regularly. It's not like anybody reads this anymore. I will say this, though: the longer I wait after actually reading a book before writing anything about it, the less I have to say. When I orginally finished this particular book, I felt that I had volumes to say. But now it is all encapsulable in one saying from Spong's own Christian lexicon: new wine in old wineskins.
I don't fault Spong for phrasing the debate over the death of God in terms of his own staunch Christianity. He (understandably) feels compelled to reassert his own faith, perhaps anticipating criticism, perhaps vainly trying to convince himself. He admits that his persistent call to reform the Christian Church is a result of his own passage thorugh "the door of Christ," and his attachment to that path. But he also allows, "I will never again assert that my Christ is the only way to God" (239).
This is precisely the opening I need. You see, unlike Spong, I have no attachment to the path of Christianity. I have been trying to fit my own spirituality into that mold for some time, but it no longer seems necessary. I have not walked through the "Christ doorway," as Spong puts it, and have no desire to. It makes no sense to me, and the form of Christianity Spong proposes in this book may as well bear a different name entirely. He forces the truth about being into an old mold that will no longer bear it.
I will offer this commendation: Spong manages to capture a key to a central dilemma of worship. People fret over the "Will of God," and other such nonsense, when God is not a being. He is being itself. The God one must worship (although occasionally it helps, for sake of reference, to act as if God is a person) is the "source of life, the source of love, and the ground of all being." This is Spong's repeated framework for the divine, and it serves nicely, along with the accompanying exhortation to "Live fully, love wastefully, and enter into the fullness of being." that is a message into which I can jump with confidence.
I don't fault Spong for phrasing the debate over the death of God in terms of his own staunch Christianity. He (understandably) feels compelled to reassert his own faith, perhaps anticipating criticism, perhaps vainly trying to convince himself. He admits that his persistent call to reform the Christian Church is a result of his own passage thorugh "the door of Christ," and his attachment to that path. But he also allows, "I will never again assert that my Christ is the only way to God" (239).
This is precisely the opening I need. You see, unlike Spong, I have no attachment to the path of Christianity. I have been trying to fit my own spirituality into that mold for some time, but it no longer seems necessary. I have not walked through the "Christ doorway," as Spong puts it, and have no desire to. It makes no sense to me, and the form of Christianity Spong proposes in this book may as well bear a different name entirely. He forces the truth about being into an old mold that will no longer bear it.
I will offer this commendation: Spong manages to capture a key to a central dilemma of worship. People fret over the "Will of God," and other such nonsense, when God is not a being. He is being itself. The God one must worship (although occasionally it helps, for sake of reference, to act as if God is a person) is the "source of life, the source of love, and the ground of all being." This is Spong's repeated framework for the divine, and it serves nicely, along with the accompanying exhortation to "Live fully, love wastefully, and enter into the fullness of being." that is a message into which I can jump with confidence.
Friday, June 09, 2006
Happy Berfday @ Me!
2 Maccabees
Surprisingly, this is not a sequel to 1 Maccabees, but a concurrent account from a different perspective. For one thing, the fighting is enhanced by the presence of golden, angelic warriors--always a nice touch--but for another, the tone is completely different. The language betrays a more modern authorship, using terms such as 'Judaism' and 'Hellenization,' which I don't remember anywhere else in the Bible. The best part, however, is that it fills in the gaps in the narrative of the family Maccabeus, specifically the area around the leadership of Judas. One of these day, in my abundant spare time, whe I've run out of other things to read--I'm going to go back and read all four Maccabees simultaneously.
Donald Marguilies: Dinner With Friends
I have a suspicion this would be a delight to perform, as it was to read. The characters are complex, layered, believable creations, although, as with most character-driven pieces, the plot is, well, there isn't one. As far as theme, I'm not sure whether I can get on board with Margulies' take on marriage/relationships. He implicitly sides with the happily--if awkwardly--married couple, as opposed to the happily separating couple. How do I feel about marriage again? I can't remember if I'm for or against it. On the one hand, it would certainly be nice to have a big party celebratin one's relationship, but on the other hand no relationship is forever. Except your mom, that is. By the way, she says to say hi. Is there some sort of balance to be struck? Some sort of "Marriage for Now" ceremony?
Tom Stoppard: Hapgood
Fooking brilliant. Bridges of Konisberg. Quantum physics. Must be read to be believed.
BTD:47
Surprisingly, this is not a sequel to 1 Maccabees, but a concurrent account from a different perspective. For one thing, the fighting is enhanced by the presence of golden, angelic warriors--always a nice touch--but for another, the tone is completely different. The language betrays a more modern authorship, using terms such as 'Judaism' and 'Hellenization,' which I don't remember anywhere else in the Bible. The best part, however, is that it fills in the gaps in the narrative of the family Maccabeus, specifically the area around the leadership of Judas. One of these day, in my abundant spare time, whe I've run out of other things to read--I'm going to go back and read all four Maccabees simultaneously.
Donald Marguilies: Dinner With Friends
I have a suspicion this would be a delight to perform, as it was to read. The characters are complex, layered, believable creations, although, as with most character-driven pieces, the plot is, well, there isn't one. As far as theme, I'm not sure whether I can get on board with Margulies' take on marriage/relationships. He implicitly sides with the happily--if awkwardly--married couple, as opposed to the happily separating couple. How do I feel about marriage again? I can't remember if I'm for or against it. On the one hand, it would certainly be nice to have a big party celebratin one's relationship, but on the other hand no relationship is forever. Except your mom, that is. By the way, she says to say hi. Is there some sort of balance to be struck? Some sort of "Marriage for Now" ceremony?
Tom Stoppard: Hapgood
Fooking brilliant. Bridges of Konisberg. Quantum physics. Must be read to be believed.
BTD:47
Thursday, June 01, 2006
Hans Gombrich: The Story of Art
I love Gombrich's opening quote: "There is no such thing as Art, only artists." In one of the later appendices, Gombrich retracts this powerful statment, supposing that when first written it gave people license to mislabel rubbish as Art. The story of art (as opposed to Art) is the story of reactions, artists solving and inventing problems of representation in response to the approaches of their forbears. The current dilemma, as Gombrich sees it, lies in the lack of problems. The counterculture, rebellious nature of art has lost its force, since the very disgust a piece elicits may serve to qualify it as Art in the minds of some. Art criticism, therefore, has ground to a halt, as anything can go and the repellent or clumsy aspects of a piece may simply be included in the artist's overall vision. "Where can art go from here?" he seems to ask.
But it is revealling to analyze Gombrich's summary of art on a basic level. The fundamental questions of art are, "What to represent?" and "How to represent it?" The former is, in my mind the more interesting of the two, as the latter can be seen as a function of technique and materials. But what to paint/sculpt/defecate is a fascinating question. I don't mean to say that the the oscillation between religious and secular topics is interesting. Rather, artists have been asking themselves whether to paint what one knows or what one sees (or, more recently, what one feels) since the very beginning. Raphael vs. DaVinci, Carraci vs. Carravaggio, Reynolds vs. Gainsborough, Turner vs. Constable, Monet et al vs. Cezanne, and other fascinating comparisons highlight this fundamental question. Does one focus on the visual effect of seeing and faithfulness to nature, or on the ideal concepts of beauty and symbolism? For that matter, why not, as per Kandinsky, paint something completely internal?
If this is the fundamental question of art, it is by no means solved. The solution would, of course, be a synthesis of the two methods, some way of representation that conveys the truth of something both according to the eye and according to the mind. Bewailing the state of art, albeit warranted when a cross in a jar of urine is haute couture, is unwarranted in the larger scheme. Such a synthesis has not been reached (and cannot be), so art will continue to evolve and fascinate the public.
But it is revealling to analyze Gombrich's summary of art on a basic level. The fundamental questions of art are, "What to represent?" and "How to represent it?" The former is, in my mind the more interesting of the two, as the latter can be seen as a function of technique and materials. But what to paint/sculpt/defecate is a fascinating question. I don't mean to say that the the oscillation between religious and secular topics is interesting. Rather, artists have been asking themselves whether to paint what one knows or what one sees (or, more recently, what one feels) since the very beginning. Raphael vs. DaVinci, Carraci vs. Carravaggio, Reynolds vs. Gainsborough, Turner vs. Constable, Monet et al vs. Cezanne, and other fascinating comparisons highlight this fundamental question. Does one focus on the visual effect of seeing and faithfulness to nature, or on the ideal concepts of beauty and symbolism? For that matter, why not, as per Kandinsky, paint something completely internal?
If this is the fundamental question of art, it is by no means solved. The solution would, of course, be a synthesis of the two methods, some way of representation that conveys the truth of something both according to the eye and according to the mind. Bewailing the state of art, albeit warranted when a cross in a jar of urine is haute couture, is unwarranted in the larger scheme. Such a synthesis has not been reached (and cannot be), so art will continue to evolve and fascinate the public.
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
Octavio Paz: Poemas Prontos
Allow me to begin by saying that I am out of my depth here. I don't mean to say that the Spanish is beyond me, although it took a while to get used to Paz' vocabulary. His word choice is more varied and precise than either Lorca's or Borges', and I have a feeling some of the subtlety is lost on me. Aside from that minor difficulty, I have to say that I could never write this well. Tennyson, Wordsworth, Borges--I could, under the right circumstances, write what they have written. Not Paz. Oh boy, this is universe-class stuff.
Take, to begin with, his imagery. "Tus hombros tienen la marca de los dientes de amor" (Semillas Para un Himno). Wow! Or, "Cataratas de abejas sobre los ojos mal cerrados" (Mutra). Where would a person come up with this stuff? And it packs every line. I was constantly out of breath with awe at his poetic choices and humbled at the ease with which he amazed me.
And his thematic fearlessness is equally amazing. For Paz, the day in its infinite variety represents the entirety of human experience. While, for most people, the night is simply what separates the days, for Paz it is the opposite. The day represents the "fulgor de agua astancada donde flotan / pequenas [sorry, no tilde] alegrias" (Mascaras del Alba). The day is stagnant, the solitary instant which doesn't end, change, or progress. This is not to say that it is insignificant, merely that it does not serve the function we might ascribe to it. The night, on the other hand, is where the action is. "Es un combate a muerte de inmortales," the shards of which "se buscan en mi frente." (El Rio). All night, the poet drowns in blood, ink, and the alphabet, which become synonomous with one another, the result of which combat is that"el papel se cubra de astros y sea el poema un bosque de palabras enlazadas" (El Rio). The crystal forest which the poem becomes is the only way to escape the perpetual conflict between stagnant day and overwhelming night. We must "descrifar el tatuaje de la noche y mirar cara a cara al mediodia y arrancarla su mascara" (El Cantaro Roto).
And the only worthy path is to"merece lo que suenas," to deserve your dream (Hacia el Poema).
Take, to begin with, his imagery. "Tus hombros tienen la marca de los dientes de amor" (Semillas Para un Himno). Wow! Or, "Cataratas de abejas sobre los ojos mal cerrados" (Mutra). Where would a person come up with this stuff? And it packs every line. I was constantly out of breath with awe at his poetic choices and humbled at the ease with which he amazed me.
And his thematic fearlessness is equally amazing. For Paz, the day in its infinite variety represents the entirety of human experience. While, for most people, the night is simply what separates the days, for Paz it is the opposite. The day represents the "fulgor de agua astancada donde flotan / pequenas [sorry, no tilde] alegrias" (Mascaras del Alba). The day is stagnant, the solitary instant which doesn't end, change, or progress. This is not to say that it is insignificant, merely that it does not serve the function we might ascribe to it. The night, on the other hand, is where the action is. "Es un combate a muerte de inmortales," the shards of which "se buscan en mi frente." (El Rio). All night, the poet drowns in blood, ink, and the alphabet, which become synonomous with one another, the result of which combat is that"el papel se cubra de astros y sea el poema un bosque de palabras enlazadas" (El Rio). The crystal forest which the poem becomes is the only way to escape the perpetual conflict between stagnant day and overwhelming night. We must "descrifar el tatuaje de la noche y mirar cara a cara al mediodia y arrancarla su mascara" (El Cantaro Roto).
And the only worthy path is to"merece lo que suenas," to deserve your dream (Hacia el Poema).
Finished three books in one day. And you just thought I was lazy . . .
Lewis Carroll: Alice's Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass and What Alice Found There
Here is a perfect example of what happens when an author gets too big for his britches. Just as Thomas Paine produced a work of genius and promptly became an obnoxiously self-important boor, so Lewis Carroll seems to have taken the success and masterfullness of his first Alice book too seriously and forced a level of literariness on his second book which makes it seem self-conscious and forced. Part of the delight in Wonderland, for me, comes from it's utterly unpretentious lack of structure or explanation. Alice trips dreamily from one scene to the next without exposition and, more importantly, without ever saying that she is in a dream world (although it is understood). The indelible characters, the fabulous puzzles and wordplay, take most of their allure from their complete whimsy.
Not so with Through the Looking Glass. Alice's environment shifts about her very heavyhandedly, as though Carroll is going to some effort in making his story more accurately represent a dreaming state. Also, there is a sense of continuity in the conceit of the chess game that leaves less to the reader's imagination. Perhaps this is why, with the possible esception of the White Knight, all of the characters in the latter Alice volume are quite forgettable. And the White Knight's nice characterization seems to come simply from the moral attached to Alice's encounter with him. In the person of the aging caballero, Charles Dodgson (not Carroll) reminds Alice Liddell, the intended audience, that there is virtue in befriending a pathetic elderly admirer. What a giveaway.
1 Maccabees
Is it possible that the Bible is a treatise on the Tragic Flaw? If so, it is no wonder that this book did not make it into the final canon. The family Maccabeus has none of the dramatic character flaws that make David (lust), Noah (intemperance), Moses (pride), and Paul (just a jerk) such formidable figures. In fact, with the exception of Jesus (open to debate) and Daniel (as you may know, one of my favorites), the heroes of the Bible all seem to suffer from some sort of Greek Theater complex, and are responsible for their own downfall. Not so with the family Maccabeus. Each brother (and presumably, as the narrative continues in 2-4 Maccabees, grandsons et al) is an upright and valorous defender of Truth whose end has nothing to do with his own faults. Booring.
Here is a perfect example of what happens when an author gets too big for his britches. Just as Thomas Paine produced a work of genius and promptly became an obnoxiously self-important boor, so Lewis Carroll seems to have taken the success and masterfullness of his first Alice book too seriously and forced a level of literariness on his second book which makes it seem self-conscious and forced. Part of the delight in Wonderland, for me, comes from it's utterly unpretentious lack of structure or explanation. Alice trips dreamily from one scene to the next without exposition and, more importantly, without ever saying that she is in a dream world (although it is understood). The indelible characters, the fabulous puzzles and wordplay, take most of their allure from their complete whimsy.
Not so with Through the Looking Glass. Alice's environment shifts about her very heavyhandedly, as though Carroll is going to some effort in making his story more accurately represent a dreaming state. Also, there is a sense of continuity in the conceit of the chess game that leaves less to the reader's imagination. Perhaps this is why, with the possible esception of the White Knight, all of the characters in the latter Alice volume are quite forgettable. And the White Knight's nice characterization seems to come simply from the moral attached to Alice's encounter with him. In the person of the aging caballero, Charles Dodgson (not Carroll) reminds Alice Liddell, the intended audience, that there is virtue in befriending a pathetic elderly admirer. What a giveaway.
1 Maccabees
Is it possible that the Bible is a treatise on the Tragic Flaw? If so, it is no wonder that this book did not make it into the final canon. The family Maccabeus has none of the dramatic character flaws that make David (lust), Noah (intemperance), Moses (pride), and Paul (just a jerk) such formidable figures. In fact, with the exception of Jesus (open to debate) and Daniel (as you may know, one of my favorites), the heroes of the Bible all seem to suffer from some sort of Greek Theater complex, and are responsible for their own downfall. Not so with the family Maccabeus. Each brother (and presumably, as the narrative continues in 2-4 Maccabees, grandsons et al) is an upright and valorous defender of Truth whose end has nothing to do with his own faults. Booring.
Monday, May 15, 2006
Peter J. Gomes: The Good Book
Reading this book served a double purpose. In the first place, my reading group has placed it upon the altar to be pecked at like a wounded chicken, on top of which I volunteered to lead the discussion on chapters 12-14. Of course, this predicated my actually reading the book, so I did.
In the second, and more relevant place, however, I am still in the process of baking a theology from scratch, (a metaphor of which I'm getting sick), and one of the central questions is, of course, "How much weight to grant the Bible?" My upbringing brought with it a substantial body of Biblical knowledge, although weighted heavily on the side of right-wing morals. As I read the Bible with an open mind for the first time (currently stumbling through 1 Maccabees), I wonder whether to read it as another piece of literature, or to cut some extra slack under the premise that it is inspired in some way. This is the question Gomes purports to answer.
He suggests that the Bible reader approach the text with an intense scholarly scrutiny of difficult texts (homsexuality, Women, etc.) and broad appreciation of the Bible's larger themes (suffering, evil, and temptation). I appreciate his approach, and find it a nice balance of what he calls "Biblical idolatry," that is, worship of the text rather than of God, and strict literary criticism. In practice, however, Gomes presents a watery version of the text that is guilty of the same sort of selective scholarship of which he accuses more conservative parties. He presents a compelling case that homosexuality is not condemned in the Bible, merely ignored, but what help is that to a homosexual man who wants to take something away with him from the text?
In short, I am no closer, after reading this book, to deciding what to do with the Bible. I suppose I'll keep reading it, and let it decide for itself.
In the second, and more relevant place, however, I am still in the process of baking a theology from scratch, (a metaphor of which I'm getting sick), and one of the central questions is, of course, "How much weight to grant the Bible?" My upbringing brought with it a substantial body of Biblical knowledge, although weighted heavily on the side of right-wing morals. As I read the Bible with an open mind for the first time (currently stumbling through 1 Maccabees), I wonder whether to read it as another piece of literature, or to cut some extra slack under the premise that it is inspired in some way. This is the question Gomes purports to answer.
He suggests that the Bible reader approach the text with an intense scholarly scrutiny of difficult texts (homsexuality, Women, etc.) and broad appreciation of the Bible's larger themes (suffering, evil, and temptation). I appreciate his approach, and find it a nice balance of what he calls "Biblical idolatry," that is, worship of the text rather than of God, and strict literary criticism. In practice, however, Gomes presents a watery version of the text that is guilty of the same sort of selective scholarship of which he accuses more conservative parties. He presents a compelling case that homosexuality is not condemned in the Bible, merely ignored, but what help is that to a homosexual man who wants to take something away with him from the text?
In short, I am no closer, after reading this book, to deciding what to do with the Bible. I suppose I'll keep reading it, and let it decide for itself.
Saturday, May 13, 2006
Reading Uphill Lately
I've been readin things! Honest!
Alfred, Lord Tennyson: Juvenilia
I'm not sure whether this collection of Tennyson's poetry is genuinely worse, or if I simply have been in a critical mood. No matter; here's my reaction. The inconsistent meter which seems to contribute to Tennyson's later works seems simply lazy here. With the possible exception of "Mariana," the first lines of which every gay man will recognize, not much here kept my eye. Nonetheless, it is interesting to see the seeds of Tennyson's characteristic themes, brotherly love and the poetic mind, in such poems as "The Gardener's Daughter," and the revealingly titled, "The Poet's Mind."
Bel and the Dragon, Susanna
These apocryphal books are a nice, if merengue in their insubstantiality, addition to the story of Daniel, who seems rather poorly characterized in his own book. Nonetheless, I can't quite give them credence. They clearly don't belong to the same author as that book, and have an almost renaissance feel to them.
Alfred, Lord Tennyson: Juvenilia
I'm not sure whether this collection of Tennyson's poetry is genuinely worse, or if I simply have been in a critical mood. No matter; here's my reaction. The inconsistent meter which seems to contribute to Tennyson's later works seems simply lazy here. With the possible exception of "Mariana," the first lines of which every gay man will recognize, not much here kept my eye. Nonetheless, it is interesting to see the seeds of Tennyson's characteristic themes, brotherly love and the poetic mind, in such poems as "The Gardener's Daughter," and the revealingly titled, "The Poet's Mind."
Bel and the Dragon, Susanna
These apocryphal books are a nice, if merengue in their insubstantiality, addition to the story of Daniel, who seems rather poorly characterized in his own book. Nonetheless, I can't quite give them credence. They clearly don't belong to the same author as that book, and have an almost renaissance feel to them.
Monday, April 24, 2006
Lately
Plato: Euthyrpho, Crito, Phaedo
Surprisingly accesible. Although I can't really decide whether to attribute the ideas to Plato or Socrates, I agree with them nonetheless. I especially like that the discussion of Piety ends abruptly and without resolution. I suspect Platocrates is positing that 'Piety' is a meaningless word, in that it cannot be defined satisfactorily, and that its only use is demagoguery.
Abelard and Heloise: collected letters
Disappointing. What's the big deal? Romeo, Tristan, and Troilus he ain't. His supposedly romantic letters are rude, terse, misogynist, and altogether free from beauty. She is a bit more savory, and the tension between religious restraint and amorous desperation is palpable, but still does not live up to the hype.
unless . . .
Also included in this collection were excerpts from anonymous letters sent by a similar couple in the twelfth century. Scholars have suggested based on usage and grammar analysis that the anonymous letters are actually written by Abelard and Heloise. If this is so, Wow! Zing! The smoldering poetry and exhausting lust in these few fragments is zesty indeed, and would change my opinion entirely if they were indeed the authors in their precloistering.
On a personal note, I certainly can relate to Abelard's choice of monkhood after his disfigurement. I feel the same way myself lately. Of course, I'm far too impatient for the monastic life, but I have considered it. And I wonder if he would have maintained his affection for Heloise if he still had his cock.
Christopher Marlowe: Edward II
All you Marlovian conspiracy theorists out there can go sit on your thumbs. Shakespeare he ain't. For all my issues with Willy, he blows this sucker out of the water. I'm sure Edward II, supposedly his most dramatically advanced work, is nice to see on stage, but even the worst of Shakespeare (probably Twelfth Night, although you will disagree) outstrips him mightily in content, flow and especially language. I can't think of a single speech from Edward that made me want to reread, digest and memorize it, while every page of Shakespeare inspires that response.
Sirach, Baruch, The Letter of Jeremiah, The Song of Azariah.
Fascinating as far as Apochrypha go, but still lacking the gravitas of the rest of the Bible. Sirach himself notes that his book is not to be taken as scripture. Filled as it is with valid observations (and the occasional distaff blunder), Solomon he ain't. Personal note: Azariah has long been one of my favorite characters in the Bible. This little fragment reinforces that stand.
Surprisingly accesible. Although I can't really decide whether to attribute the ideas to Plato or Socrates, I agree with them nonetheless. I especially like that the discussion of Piety ends abruptly and without resolution. I suspect Platocrates is positing that 'Piety' is a meaningless word, in that it cannot be defined satisfactorily, and that its only use is demagoguery.
Abelard and Heloise: collected letters
Disappointing. What's the big deal? Romeo, Tristan, and Troilus he ain't. His supposedly romantic letters are rude, terse, misogynist, and altogether free from beauty. She is a bit more savory, and the tension between religious restraint and amorous desperation is palpable, but still does not live up to the hype.
unless . . .
Also included in this collection were excerpts from anonymous letters sent by a similar couple in the twelfth century. Scholars have suggested based on usage and grammar analysis that the anonymous letters are actually written by Abelard and Heloise. If this is so, Wow! Zing! The smoldering poetry and exhausting lust in these few fragments is zesty indeed, and would change my opinion entirely if they were indeed the authors in their precloistering.
On a personal note, I certainly can relate to Abelard's choice of monkhood after his disfigurement. I feel the same way myself lately. Of course, I'm far too impatient for the monastic life, but I have considered it. And I wonder if he would have maintained his affection for Heloise if he still had his cock.
Christopher Marlowe: Edward II
All you Marlovian conspiracy theorists out there can go sit on your thumbs. Shakespeare he ain't. For all my issues with Willy, he blows this sucker out of the water. I'm sure Edward II, supposedly his most dramatically advanced work, is nice to see on stage, but even the worst of Shakespeare (probably Twelfth Night, although you will disagree) outstrips him mightily in content, flow and especially language. I can't think of a single speech from Edward that made me want to reread, digest and memorize it, while every page of Shakespeare inspires that response.
Sirach, Baruch, The Letter of Jeremiah, The Song of Azariah.
Fascinating as far as Apochrypha go, but still lacking the gravitas of the rest of the Bible. Sirach himself notes that his book is not to be taken as scripture. Filled as it is with valid observations (and the occasional distaff blunder), Solomon he ain't. Personal note: Azariah has long been one of my favorite characters in the Bible. This little fragment reinforces that stand.
Monday, April 10, 2006
Miscellaneous
Deepak Chopra: The Path to Love
Not the sort of thing I would usually pick up, but interesting nonetheless. Chopra has a real knack for putting complex metaphysical truths simply without being condescending or diluting them beyond usefullness. At the same time, so much of the book was written to those who already have significant others and wish to improve their relationships, I didn't feel like I got as much out of it as I might have.
Tacitus: The Annals
Something tells me I have read this book out of sequence. I was able to follow the successions and personal dramas easily, but my incomplete grasp of Roman politics and government made certain of the other details difficult to grasp. I has to invent mnemonics to remind myself that a Quaestor was less important than an Aedile, who was less important than a Praetor, who was less important than a Consul, and so on. Still, eventually I will return to this (and to Plutarch) and refine my inderstanding. Also, some of the most fascinating sections of The Annals are lost to prosperity: Caligula's reign, and the last two years of Nero's.
Not the sort of thing I would usually pick up, but interesting nonetheless. Chopra has a real knack for putting complex metaphysical truths simply without being condescending or diluting them beyond usefullness. At the same time, so much of the book was written to those who already have significant others and wish to improve their relationships, I didn't feel like I got as much out of it as I might have.
Tacitus: The Annals
Something tells me I have read this book out of sequence. I was able to follow the successions and personal dramas easily, but my incomplete grasp of Roman politics and government made certain of the other details difficult to grasp. I has to invent mnemonics to remind myself that a Quaestor was less important than an Aedile, who was less important than a Praetor, who was less important than a Consul, and so on. Still, eventually I will return to this (and to Plutarch) and refine my inderstanding. Also, some of the most fascinating sections of The Annals are lost to prosperity: Caligula's reign, and the last two years of Nero's.
Saturday, April 01, 2006
Federico Garcia Lorca: Selected Poems
I find that I have learned something about poetry during this little translation kick on which I have been. Part of the reason it was such an easy undertaking to translate Borges, as I have mentioned, is that his poetic vocabulary is rather limited. Once I learned the words for nightingale, mirror, and labyrinth, I was set. Of course, it also helped that Borges is, as poets go, remarkably consistent in terms of theme, but that's another essay altogether.
The same is true of Lorca. Now that I have learned the words for gypsy, mud, and putrid, and have become fluent in the conjugation of the verbs 'to groan' and 'to wail', I find that the going is a bit smoother. Of course, it was at first confusing that he makes such extensive use of the imperfect indicitave and subjunctive tenses, which are scarcely used in English, but I adapted.
I am certain therefore, that the same will be true as I undertake the reading of Octavio Paz, and furthermore that the same is true of poetry in all languages, including my own. My English lexicon is simply so comfortable that I don't notice when a poet uses the same word repeatedly. By contrast, I never learned the words for 'carnation' or 'iodine' in High School Spanish class, so their repetition in Lorca is startling, memorable and telling. I intend to revisit some of my poetry and see what words have established squatting rights in my verse. Perhaps it will be equally illuminating.
Another aspect of Lorca's work that makes it more complicated than Borges' is his inconsistency of theme. Although his tone never wavers from the passionate disillusionment and reminiscence of a Marica out of place, he draws constantly from folk tradition that is only indirectly revealing of his intent. Many of his poems are not only in the form of traditional Andalusian or Gypsy songs, but they also draw from those themes. Therefore, when the married woman has an affair on the bank of a river as in La Casada Infiel, one really must dig to extract Lorca's meaning--which I take to be the disconnect between the pleasure of pale thighs and the dawn.
The central poem of the collection, Oda A Walt Whitman, is the key to unlocking Lorca. The raillery he here unleashes against gay culture underlies most of his other work, especially when it touches upon the subject of erotic love. He declares, "No Haya Cuartel!" against those "Madres de lodo, arpias, enemigas sin sueno (where's a tilde when I need it?)" I have personally met those men! "Asesininos de palomas! . . . emboscadas en yertos paisajes de cicuta (one of Lorca's favorite words)." By contrast, there exist "los clasicos, los senelados, los suplicantes / os cierran las puertas de la bacanal." These are the real men, those who can live with such poetry as Lorca reveals in his later work, especially the volume "Divan Del Tamarit." The Gacelas held here (about which form I need to learn more) made me gasp with amazement and cry flavorless tears, neither of joy or sorrow. The desperate love, the men pierced by fountains who spill their blood in in a widening shadow on the silk of their divans, the reclining nights of a single golden moment, this is the world I am terrified and ecstatic to inhabit. There are no gay bars here.
The same is true of Lorca. Now that I have learned the words for gypsy, mud, and putrid, and have become fluent in the conjugation of the verbs 'to groan' and 'to wail', I find that the going is a bit smoother. Of course, it was at first confusing that he makes such extensive use of the imperfect indicitave and subjunctive tenses, which are scarcely used in English, but I adapted.
I am certain therefore, that the same will be true as I undertake the reading of Octavio Paz, and furthermore that the same is true of poetry in all languages, including my own. My English lexicon is simply so comfortable that I don't notice when a poet uses the same word repeatedly. By contrast, I never learned the words for 'carnation' or 'iodine' in High School Spanish class, so their repetition in Lorca is startling, memorable and telling. I intend to revisit some of my poetry and see what words have established squatting rights in my verse. Perhaps it will be equally illuminating.
Another aspect of Lorca's work that makes it more complicated than Borges' is his inconsistency of theme. Although his tone never wavers from the passionate disillusionment and reminiscence of a Marica out of place, he draws constantly from folk tradition that is only indirectly revealing of his intent. Many of his poems are not only in the form of traditional Andalusian or Gypsy songs, but they also draw from those themes. Therefore, when the married woman has an affair on the bank of a river as in La Casada Infiel, one really must dig to extract Lorca's meaning--which I take to be the disconnect between the pleasure of pale thighs and the dawn.
The central poem of the collection, Oda A Walt Whitman, is the key to unlocking Lorca. The raillery he here unleashes against gay culture underlies most of his other work, especially when it touches upon the subject of erotic love. He declares, "No Haya Cuartel!" against those "Madres de lodo, arpias, enemigas sin sueno (where's a tilde when I need it?)" I have personally met those men! "Asesininos de palomas! . . . emboscadas en yertos paisajes de cicuta (one of Lorca's favorite words)." By contrast, there exist "los clasicos, los senelados, los suplicantes / os cierran las puertas de la bacanal." These are the real men, those who can live with such poetry as Lorca reveals in his later work, especially the volume "Divan Del Tamarit." The Gacelas held here (about which form I need to learn more) made me gasp with amazement and cry flavorless tears, neither of joy or sorrow. The desperate love, the men pierced by fountains who spill their blood in in a widening shadow on the silk of their divans, the reclining nights of a single golden moment, this is the world I am terrified and ecstatic to inhabit. There are no gay bars here.
Sunday, March 26, 2006
You know the drill by now.
Wisdom of Solomon
I expected this to be an apocryphal version of Proverbs, but no! Rather, it reminds me of Boethius' Consolation of Philosophy. It is not a sequence of pithy epigrams, but rather a panegyric to Wisdom herself. Very nice.
Bret Easton Ellis: Glamorama
I respected Robert far more before he suggested this book to me. It was nice, but why is it his favorite? Just because people's vaginas fall out of the bodies in response to virulent poisons and others' intestines shoot out of their rectums in a purple foam while being electrocuted does not make it a classic. Funny, but not a classic.
Augustine: Confessions
I can relate, Augustine, old boy. I have, like you, been a slut, a prey to my baser--if not basest--instincts. Like you, I have grown tired with it, but found myself unable to give it up entirely. And like you, I have searched for meaning in religion and found it wanting. What was it that made you change your mind? Did you have an epiphany? If so, where can I get one? You make it sound like you simply decided on a purely rational basis that devotion was the way to go, but I have reasoned myself to a different--if compatible--conclusion. Where did our paths diverge?
Oh, and the commentary on Genesis? Boooooring.
I expected this to be an apocryphal version of Proverbs, but no! Rather, it reminds me of Boethius' Consolation of Philosophy. It is not a sequence of pithy epigrams, but rather a panegyric to Wisdom herself. Very nice.
Bret Easton Ellis: Glamorama
I respected Robert far more before he suggested this book to me. It was nice, but why is it his favorite? Just because people's vaginas fall out of the bodies in response to virulent poisons and others' intestines shoot out of their rectums in a purple foam while being electrocuted does not make it a classic. Funny, but not a classic.
Augustine: Confessions
I can relate, Augustine, old boy. I have, like you, been a slut, a prey to my baser--if not basest--instincts. Like you, I have grown tired with it, but found myself unable to give it up entirely. And like you, I have searched for meaning in religion and found it wanting. What was it that made you change your mind? Did you have an epiphany? If so, where can I get one? You make it sound like you simply decided on a purely rational basis that devotion was the way to go, but I have reasoned myself to a different--if compatible--conclusion. Where did our paths diverge?
Oh, and the commentary on Genesis? Boooooring.
Monday, March 20, 2006
Jorge Luis Borges: Selected Poems
I have been working on this for years. I started by reading the English translations on the converse and looking for inaccuracies. Gradually, I would read the Spanish obverse in its entirety By the time I got to Dos Versiones De "Ritter, Tod und Teufel," I barely looked at the English. Now I move on to do the same with Lorca, Quevedo and Neruda.
Part of what made Borges such a provident beginning to this project was his apparent amnesia. He wrote only a handful of poems, as prolific as he was. Uns Rosa Amarilla is the same poem as El Golem, and Mi Ultimo Tigre, from his penultimate volume Atlas, is a prosaic version of El Otro Tigre from his early El Hacedor. I henceforth use the translated versions of the texts to spare myself the effort importing tildes.
Every poem seems to ask and answer the questions, "What am I? Am I nothing or everything?", the answer to which is a guarded yes. In his underrated short story, Pierre Menard, Author of Don Quixote, Borges makes it clear that all literature ceases to belong to the author as soon as it is read. This volume now belongs to and was authored by Brandon Payne, who spilled a casserole in the margins to notarize his ownership. In his poetry, Borges expands on the idea; not only literature, but all sensation and experience is owned by and composes myself. Borges never wanders far from the banks of Heraclitus' river, which wears labyrinthine arroyos into experience, and faces itself to reflect an endless succession of mirrors. Things and people float on the surface of this river, on which we bump into each other like driftwood, and often Borges poems are simple lists of the things he is:
The Colors of a Turner when the lights
Are turned out in the narrow gallery
And not a footstep sounds in the deep night.
The other side of the dreary map of the world.
The tenuous spiderweb in the pyramid.
The sightless stone and the inquiring hand. (Cosas)
My cane, my pocket change, this ring of keys,
The obedient lock, the belated notes,(Las Cosas)
The circular time of the stoics,
The coin in the mouth of the dead man,
The sword's weight on the scale, (Las Causas)
Death, the weight of dawn, the endless plain
And the intricacy of stars,
And to have seen nothing or almost nothing
But the face of a young girl in Buenos Aires. (Elegia)
I feel like cutting the titles out of all the poems and conflating them into a prose work of remarkable depth, insight, and repetitiveness. Perhaps Borges simply became senile and forgot what he had written (he suggests as much in the prologue to El Oto, El Mismo), but I suspect that he simply had succumbed to the knowledge that all thoughts, all poems are one:
Soon, I shall know what I am.
Part of what made Borges such a provident beginning to this project was his apparent amnesia. He wrote only a handful of poems, as prolific as he was. Uns Rosa Amarilla is the same poem as El Golem, and Mi Ultimo Tigre, from his penultimate volume Atlas, is a prosaic version of El Otro Tigre from his early El Hacedor. I henceforth use the translated versions of the texts to spare myself the effort importing tildes.
Every poem seems to ask and answer the questions, "What am I? Am I nothing or everything?", the answer to which is a guarded yes. In his underrated short story, Pierre Menard, Author of Don Quixote, Borges makes it clear that all literature ceases to belong to the author as soon as it is read. This volume now belongs to and was authored by Brandon Payne, who spilled a casserole in the margins to notarize his ownership. In his poetry, Borges expands on the idea; not only literature, but all sensation and experience is owned by and composes myself. Borges never wanders far from the banks of Heraclitus' river, which wears labyrinthine arroyos into experience, and faces itself to reflect an endless succession of mirrors. Things and people float on the surface of this river, on which we bump into each other like driftwood, and often Borges poems are simple lists of the things he is:
The Colors of a Turner when the lights
Are turned out in the narrow gallery
And not a footstep sounds in the deep night.
The other side of the dreary map of the world.
The tenuous spiderweb in the pyramid.
The sightless stone and the inquiring hand. (Cosas)
My cane, my pocket change, this ring of keys,
The obedient lock, the belated notes,(Las Cosas)
The circular time of the stoics,
The coin in the mouth of the dead man,
The sword's weight on the scale, (Las Causas)
Death, the weight of dawn, the endless plain
And the intricacy of stars,
And to have seen nothing or almost nothing
But the face of a young girl in Buenos Aires. (Elegia)
I feel like cutting the titles out of all the poems and conflating them into a prose work of remarkable depth, insight, and repetitiveness. Perhaps Borges simply became senile and forgot what he had written (he suggests as much in the prologue to El Oto, El Mismo), but I suspect that he simply had succumbed to the knowledge that all thoughts, all poems are one:
Soon, I shall know what I am.
Friday, March 10, 2006
Philip Levine: Breath
To quote a Poem by Borges, the title of which I forget, "Soon I will know who I am." And as Philip Levine might say, I am in the process of naming myself, of discovering, "What did I bring to the dance?" (Gospel).
In what I consider the central poem of this collection, Naming, Levine endeavors to define himself via a series of Joycian vignettes from his life. In this poem, he shows the reader, "All the small secrets that contain [him]." He and his Brother go through life, "growing into the names they answered to / until they thought they were those names," in other words, without authentic names of their own. It is only through the act of experiencing life that Levine, and the human for which he speaks, actually develops a name, an identity.
That defining moment comes
. . . outside the Avalon at 2 A.M.
when the lights blink off, the kids leave in pairs,
to be alone then, hearing only breath,
your own breath rising to answer with words
you didn't know you knew the pale questions
of the full moon, to know for the first time
you are a name without a number.
I have had this very moment. If you scour my other blog, you will be able to locate it under the entry, "Please, Blue Fairy, Make Me A Real Boy."
In what I consider the central poem of this collection, Naming, Levine endeavors to define himself via a series of Joycian vignettes from his life. In this poem, he shows the reader, "All the small secrets that contain [him]." He and his Brother go through life, "growing into the names they answered to / until they thought they were those names," in other words, without authentic names of their own. It is only through the act of experiencing life that Levine, and the human for which he speaks, actually develops a name, an identity.
That defining moment comes
. . . outside the Avalon at 2 A.M.
when the lights blink off, the kids leave in pairs,
to be alone then, hearing only breath,
your own breath rising to answer with words
you didn't know you knew the pale questions
of the full moon, to know for the first time
you are a name without a number.
I have had this very moment. If you scour my other blog, you will be able to locate it under the entry, "Please, Blue Fairy, Make Me A Real Boy."
The Pages Creep on Apace
Books I've read since last posting:
Haggai-Malachi
Didn't take much away with me here.
Tobit, Judith, Esther (Greek version)
Fascinating as these stories are, I can understand why they are considered Apocryphal. They just don't live, they don't cut the way the rest of the bible does. Whether this makes them better or worse is open to interpretation, but they are clearly of a different species, more akin to The Decameron than The rest of the Hebrew Scriptures.
Charles Dickens: Nicholas Nickelby
I read this monster simply out of arrogance. I couldn't stand knowing that Mark Hennesy, that bag of wind, had read an iportant book I had not. And glad I am to have read it. That Complete Oxford Illustrated Dickens I bought on a whim five years ago has been gathering far too much dust. And it was enjoyable as well. I disagree with the common complaint that young Nicholas is too perfect, too earnest. He is as tragically flawed as any well written hero in literature, a hot-headed, impetuous, thoughtless, if loyal and stalwart figure.
Interestingly, I believe I have now read as many books so far this year as I did all year 2005.
Haggai-Malachi
Didn't take much away with me here.
Tobit, Judith, Esther (Greek version)
Fascinating as these stories are, I can understand why they are considered Apocryphal. They just don't live, they don't cut the way the rest of the bible does. Whether this makes them better or worse is open to interpretation, but they are clearly of a different species, more akin to The Decameron than The rest of the Hebrew Scriptures.
Charles Dickens: Nicholas Nickelby
I read this monster simply out of arrogance. I couldn't stand knowing that Mark Hennesy, that bag of wind, had read an iportant book I had not. And glad I am to have read it. That Complete Oxford Illustrated Dickens I bought on a whim five years ago has been gathering far too much dust. And it was enjoyable as well. I disagree with the common complaint that young Nicholas is too perfect, too earnest. He is as tragically flawed as any well written hero in literature, a hot-headed, impetuous, thoughtless, if loyal and stalwart figure.
Interestingly, I believe I have now read as many books so far this year as I did all year 2005.
Friday, February 24, 2006
Quickies
Books I've read since my last post but, for whatever reason, don't feel like writing about:
Harper Lee: To Kill A Mockingbird
I am wholly inadequate to the task of analyzing this book based on only one reading. I'll revisit later.
Stephen Chapman: The 5 Love Languages
Jason recommended this to me with nearly the same breath as, "Just friends." Taking that as feedback, I have now read it and, as with on other topics, Jason was right.
Jim Wallis: God's Politics
A thought-provoking, if repetitive and pedantic, book on the intersection between religion and politics. I was almost convinced.
William Shakespeare: Measure for Measure
M4M, as we have taken to calling it, was surprisingly cogent for a Shakespeare comedy. More readable and entertaining, in my opinion, than Twelfth Night or As You Like It. Read in preparation for a theatrical performance, which was worth the $10 student price, but not the $40 full price. Prudent of me to have kept my ID, no?
Obadiah-Zephaniah
Sadly, not much worth reporting here, save that Schadenfreude is frowned upon.
Harper Lee: To Kill A Mockingbird
I am wholly inadequate to the task of analyzing this book based on only one reading. I'll revisit later.
Stephen Chapman: The 5 Love Languages
Jason recommended this to me with nearly the same breath as, "Just friends." Taking that as feedback, I have now read it and, as with on other topics, Jason was right.
Jim Wallis: God's Politics
A thought-provoking, if repetitive and pedantic, book on the intersection between religion and politics. I was almost convinced.
William Shakespeare: Measure for Measure
M4M, as we have taken to calling it, was surprisingly cogent for a Shakespeare comedy. More readable and entertaining, in my opinion, than Twelfth Night or As You Like It. Read in preparation for a theatrical performance, which was worth the $10 student price, but not the $40 full price. Prudent of me to have kept my ID, no?
Obadiah-Zephaniah
Sadly, not much worth reporting here, save that Schadenfreude is frowned upon.
Saturday, February 11, 2006
Amos
I have reclaimed my interest in the Bible. After, as per my previous post, being unimpressed with what was formerly my favorite section, I felt like replacing it on the dust shelf. I figured, however, that Amos was only nine chapters, and that I should make a bit more progress before moving on. Wow.
It is provident that I read it immediately after reading a relevant portion of Jim Wallis' God's Politics, with which I have been so far only mildly impressed. Amos, as it happens, speaks precisely to Wallis' message of social justice. Take this striking example: "Hear this word, you cows of Bashan / who are on Mount Samaria, / who oppress the poor, who crush the needy, / who say to their husbands, / "Bring something to drink!" (4:1). I know these women! They often, even , claim to be liberal activists, while shopping at Terra Verde and spending obscene amounts on flowing garments. Or this: "Alas for those who lie on beds of ivory, / and lounge on their couches, / eat lambs from the flock, / and calves from the stall; who sing idle songs to the harp . . . who drink wine from bowls, and anoint themselves with finest oils" (6:4-6). I also know these men. Surely it is an obscenity in the face of God to spend vast sums on moisturizer, even thousands of dollars on decorative acoutrements for the house and yard, while even a single soul is hungry.
It is therefore a credit to me that I own nothing but what the universe has dropped on me, and it is a shame on me that I have been so phenomenally ungrateful. Thank you to God, Tao, JEHOVAH, the universe, whoever you are today. I have a new appreciciation for what Amos means when he identifies you repeatedly as "The God of hosts." Surely we are your guests, each and every one of us, and should behave accordingly. And you are only our God to the extent to which we ourselves are hosts, to the level of our hospitality for our fellow guests.
It is provident that I read it immediately after reading a relevant portion of Jim Wallis' God's Politics, with which I have been so far only mildly impressed. Amos, as it happens, speaks precisely to Wallis' message of social justice. Take this striking example: "Hear this word, you cows of Bashan / who are on Mount Samaria, / who oppress the poor, who crush the needy, / who say to their husbands, / "Bring something to drink!" (4:1). I know these women! They often, even , claim to be liberal activists, while shopping at Terra Verde and spending obscene amounts on flowing garments. Or this: "Alas for those who lie on beds of ivory, / and lounge on their couches, / eat lambs from the flock, / and calves from the stall; who sing idle songs to the harp . . . who drink wine from bowls, and anoint themselves with finest oils" (6:4-6). I also know these men. Surely it is an obscenity in the face of God to spend vast sums on moisturizer, even thousands of dollars on decorative acoutrements for the house and yard, while even a single soul is hungry.
It is therefore a credit to me that I own nothing but what the universe has dropped on me, and it is a shame on me that I have been so phenomenally ungrateful. Thank you to God, Tao, JEHOVAH, the universe, whoever you are today. I have a new appreciciation for what Amos means when he identifies you repeatedly as "The God of hosts." Surely we are your guests, each and every one of us, and should behave accordingly. And you are only our God to the extent to which we ourselves are hosts, to the level of our hospitality for our fellow guests.
Not Illiterate; Honest.
Just lazy. I've been reading at my usual rate, or perhaps even a little more, but I simply haven't felt like writing about any of them. Here is a rundown: Daniel (formerly my favorite Bible book) Hosea, Joel, none of which I felt interested in. Bulfinch's mythology, from which I gained considerable perspective and knowledge, but writing about which I don't feel competent to perform. And Gabriel Garcia Marquez' Chronicle of a Death Foretold, which was amazing, but which I need to read again to do justice.
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
Ezekiel
I know how the residents of Jerusalem must have felt. As Ezekiel took one third of his hair and burned it, struck one third with a sword (a comical image, if you ask me), and threw the remaining third to the wind, what could they possibly think except, "What the fuck is he doing?" The book which bears Ezekiel's name is bookended by two scrupulously detailed and mind-bogglingly pointless accounts of prophetic vision. Normally, description is used to highlight meaning, not to replace it. But by the eighth chapter of temple measurements, "From the gate to the vestibule was fifty cubits," and so on sin terminus, I had given up waiting for him to get to the point. He seems to expect that the distance from the nave to the pilaster is sufficiently interesting by itself. I disagree.
Which is not to say the meat in this boredom sandwich was not highly comestible. If one discards the aforementioned beginning and ending narratives, Ezekiel actually borders on the inspiring. For instance, JEHOVAH promises through Ezekiel, "A new heart I will give you, and a new spirit I will put within you; and I will remove from your body the heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh" (36:26). "Please!" was my spontaneously verbal response upon reading this passage. How nice it would be for God to grab me by the leg and shake me until all my broken ideas and feelings spill out of my pockets. He then could fill his promise, "I will take you . . . and bring you into your own land. I will sprinkle clean water upon you" 36: 24,25). Please, Show me where that land is, and I shall meet you there.
Which is not to say the meat in this boredom sandwich was not highly comestible. If one discards the aforementioned beginning and ending narratives, Ezekiel actually borders on the inspiring. For instance, JEHOVAH promises through Ezekiel, "A new heart I will give you, and a new spirit I will put within you; and I will remove from your body the heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh" (36:26). "Please!" was my spontaneously verbal response upon reading this passage. How nice it would be for God to grab me by the leg and shake me until all my broken ideas and feelings spill out of my pockets. He then could fill his promise, "I will take you . . . and bring you into your own land. I will sprinkle clean water upon you" 36: 24,25). Please, Show me where that land is, and I shall meet you there.
Terry McAdam: Very Much Alive
At first, I resisted reading this book on principle. My Grandfather presumed to recommend it to me on the assumption that I needed bolstering after my accident. The author happens to have been a professor of his forty-odd years ago at Washburn University, and also happens to have been a parapalegic. My immediate reaction was to assure myself that I didn't need any power of positive thinking, Lifetime made for TV movie, inspirational recounting of some guy's pathetic life. But eventually I relented on the grounds that the book is only 150 pages long.
Hidden between the invective about funding for veteran's hospitals and stern admonition to do one's best and keep a stiff upper lip, there is one chapter that I actually found relevant and touching. It seems that one nurse in his recovery ward was particularly beautiful and inaccessible. Wonder of wonders! She fell in love with and married one of the patients, a parapalegic. She actually managed to convince the man that she was attracted to him, and didn't care a sow's nipple about his infirmity. Those of you who know me or have read some of my blog may realize how nice I would think it if a man were to say sincerely, "Now, no more foolishness about [being damaged goods]" (121). I wonder if I will believe him.
Hidden between the invective about funding for veteran's hospitals and stern admonition to do one's best and keep a stiff upper lip, there is one chapter that I actually found relevant and touching. It seems that one nurse in his recovery ward was particularly beautiful and inaccessible. Wonder of wonders! She fell in love with and married one of the patients, a parapalegic. She actually managed to convince the man that she was attracted to him, and didn't care a sow's nipple about his infirmity. Those of you who know me or have read some of my blog may realize how nice I would think it if a man were to say sincerely, "Now, no more foolishness about [being damaged goods]" (121). I wonder if I will believe him.
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
Zora Neale Hurston: Their Eyes Were Watching God
This is what Toni Morrison would like to write when she grows up. It has all the rich characterization and colloquial creativity of Beloved or Song of Solomon, but--will wonders never cease--with thematic continuity. One would think, with Hurston's background in antrhopology, that it would be she who errs on the side of interesting, but disjointed, ethnic folk-tale. Not so. Regardless of the turns the novel takes, she keeps one finger pressed on the heart of Janie's quest.
It is this quest which gives this novel its soul. Janie "had found a jewel down inside herself and she had wanted to walk where people could see her and gleam it around" (90). I can think of no embellishment that would make this a better mission in life, except perhaps to say that the jewel at each of our centers could also use polishing on occassion.
The chief scholarly curiosity of Hurston's work lies in its ill-reception during her life. Modern theorists decry Langston Hughes and his cadre of so-called progressive black intellectuals, but I can see their point. Hurston is (I decline to write 'was', for she is more alive today than many with whom I have daily contact) a woman out of her time, and as such she certainly had no place in their Harlem Reidentification. She did not belong in the 20's, and if I had my druthers I would resurrect her and watch gleefully as she snatches Tyra Banks' weave off of her insincere head, and tells Maya Angelou to lighten up, for God's sake.
It is this quest which gives this novel its soul. Janie "had found a jewel down inside herself and she had wanted to walk where people could see her and gleam it around" (90). I can think of no embellishment that would make this a better mission in life, except perhaps to say that the jewel at each of our centers could also use polishing on occassion.
The chief scholarly curiosity of Hurston's work lies in its ill-reception during her life. Modern theorists decry Langston Hughes and his cadre of so-called progressive black intellectuals, but I can see their point. Hurston is (I decline to write 'was', for she is more alive today than many with whom I have daily contact) a woman out of her time, and as such she certainly had no place in their Harlem Reidentification. She did not belong in the 20's, and if I had my druthers I would resurrect her and watch gleefully as she snatches Tyra Banks' weave off of her insincere head, and tells Maya Angelou to lighten up, for God's sake.
Sunday, January 01, 2006
Sun Tzu: The Art of War
I suppose if I was into fighting, this would be a remarkably useful book. It manages to avoid confinement to Warring States period China, and could certainly be applied to modern warfare. In fact, given the tendency to turn everything into a battle, it could also find a home in the boardroom, on the football field, in various political think-tanks, even on the nightstands of married couples. I resent, however, the implication that "War is the road to survival or ruin . . . It is mandatory that it be thoroughly studied" (I.1). Although this is a common modern notion, namely that "freedom ain't free" and "someone's gotta fight fer our liberty," I contest it. I happen to think that an impressive military is not necessary for any nation, especially in our world of devastating missiles and other unmanned weapons. The entire culture of war is corrosive to the universe. It perpetuates a win-lose mentality that leaves mankind far short of its potential.
Which is not to say that I didn't glean anything whatsoever from "The Art of War." Sun Tzu does not pull his strategies out of thin air; they are based on a solid observation of what works--not only in war, but in general life. Therfore, when he says, "Weigh the situation, and then move" (VII.15), he could just as well be speaking of marriage or finance as of battle. He returns often to the idea that a battle must be won before it is engaged. "A victorious army wins its victories before seeking battle" (VI.14). What could be truer of life than that one must avoid instant gratification and weigh choices well in advance? Likewise, Sun advocates constant change. And in life, one must always be prepared to use cheng, normal forces, as well as ch'i, extraordinary ones, and to shift from one to the other at a moment's notice. One must be prepared for constantly shifting circumstances, and also to change approaches the moment they become ineffective.
Perhaps life is a battle. Perhaps the point is, after all, to win. But for now, I choose to see life as a journey, a path upon which all can walk simultaneously without competition. For to reach the end alone doesn't seem like any victory at all.
Which is not to say that I didn't glean anything whatsoever from "The Art of War." Sun Tzu does not pull his strategies out of thin air; they are based on a solid observation of what works--not only in war, but in general life. Therfore, when he says, "Weigh the situation, and then move" (VII.15), he could just as well be speaking of marriage or finance as of battle. He returns often to the idea that a battle must be won before it is engaged. "A victorious army wins its victories before seeking battle" (VI.14). What could be truer of life than that one must avoid instant gratification and weigh choices well in advance? Likewise, Sun advocates constant change. And in life, one must always be prepared to use cheng, normal forces, as well as ch'i, extraordinary ones, and to shift from one to the other at a moment's notice. One must be prepared for constantly shifting circumstances, and also to change approaches the moment they become ineffective.
Perhaps life is a battle. Perhaps the point is, after all, to win. But for now, I choose to see life as a journey, a path upon which all can walk simultaneously without competition. For to reach the end alone doesn't seem like any victory at all.
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