I shouldn't really be trying to do justice to these books, some of which are among the best ever written, in this state of exhaustion. I thought that I would find the energy to write about them in the manner they deserve, but I have not, so this will have to do.
Athol Fugard: Valley Song
This is the second time I have read this book, this time with a view to teaching it to my world literature class. On second reading it is, if possible even more charming. Valley Song is an example of how to do drama right. There is a not so fine line between Shaw, Ibsen and , especially Strindberg--the very definition of realistic drama--and Becket, Ionesco and their ilk. I suppose it is a continuum of sorts, and Fugard falls slightly to the right of Pirandello on the scale. Not so real as to be boring, but not to absurd as to be . . . absurd? Rather, he passes seemingly effortlessly between the two worlds, into and out of the characters' minds. The real beauty is that it seems so natural that the reader/viewer doesn't even think to ask, "What parts of this are real, and which imaginary" until trying to write something about it.
Murasaki Shikibu: The Tale of Genji
This monster has long been on my list, and only Philip Ward was persuasive enough to get me to follow through. I almost feel regret for reading it under such compulsion, for I didn't really begin to appreciate the beauty of it until three-quarters of the way through. I was reading it as such an English Major, such a westerner, always looking for the meaning, that I didn't stop to appreciate that it really is written quite beautifully. The prose is so flowery that it may as well have been written in verse, and I have no doubt that the Lady Murasaki would have been up tot that task as well. Sadly, I was in too modern a frame of mind, both literarily, and mentally--wanting to get through it and defeat it.
In spite of its general lack of theme, however, I did manage to take away a sympathy with the title character, and even his adoptive son, who dominates the last third of the book. Neither of them ever really found permanent love; nobody in the book did except, perhaps, the suspiciously named Murasaki, Genji's favorite. There is always, especially for men, another side of the fence, another field to be mown, so to speak. Maybe gay marriage is not such a good idea . . .
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle: The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes, The Return of Sherlock Holmes, His Last Bow, The Case-Book of Sherlock Holmes.
I was originally intending to write this revivew as what Leslie Klinger calls in his introduction to the anthology, "a gentle fiction". Throughout, he takes the amusing tack of treating the works as honest-to-god biographies, commenting in extensive notes about Holmes' and Watson's lives as though they were real people. This was not entirely annoying, for the extent of Sherlockian scholarship would make comprehensive annotations impossible. "Why not then," says I, "write the review in the same style." I may yet write an apocryphal work, wherein Holmes uses his powers to deduce that he and Watson are, in fact, fictional, and critiques how he is written. But not today.
Michael Chabon: The Yiddish Policeman's Union
Far more enjoyable and succinct than Kavalier and Klay [sic] due largely to the way Chabon's masterful way with an epigrammatic metaphor naturally fits the detective noir genre. Some of my favorites:
"A badge of grass, a green brooch pinned at the collarbone of a mountain to a vast cloak of black trees" (247).
"The Body, the horror and the splendor of it, naked as a giant bloodshot eyeball without a socket . . . Now it emerged ponderous from the steam, a wet slab of limestone webbed with a black lichen of hair . . . the belly pregnant with elephant triplets, the breast full and pendulous, each tipped with a pink lentil of a nipple. The thighs great, hand-rolled marbled loaves of halvah" (341).
This latter one reminds me of a certain opera singer I know. I thought I saw Jessie yeterday, but it was only a white Volkswagon.
Often a certain ghost contributor to this blog and I read side by side--different books, of course, his unbearably non-fictional--and read cute little passages to each other. I had to stop myself, though. Every page of the Union has at least one aphorism that deserves to be read aloud. I think it perfectly just that he won the Hugo this year, an event that I was, may I mention, witness to.
There was another book I finished recently, but I can't remember which one . . . BTD: 29?
Added later: the book is Three Guineas by Virginia Woolf. I have some relevant things to say about it, but I can't find my copy.
Friday, December 05, 2008
Friday, October 31, 2008
Gary Soto: Novio Boy
At the beginning of this school year, I was very excited at the idea of teaching this play. I hadn't yet read it, but I had taught others of Soto's works with wild success to a similar student population. Now that I have finally gotten around to reading it, I am glad that I didn't get around to teaching it.
In spite of his Mexican roots, Soto manages to come across as pandering and cloying. Novio Boy has the feel of a politician courting votes in New Mexico by peppering his regular campaign speech with Spanish phrases and bits of local color. The play itself is unremarkable, but every fifth word is in cutesy Spanish that feels completely out of place. I can hear my students now: "Mister, we don't talk like that. who is this guy?"
In spite of his Mexican roots, Soto manages to come across as pandering and cloying. Novio Boy has the feel of a politician courting votes in New Mexico by peppering his regular campaign speech with Spanish phrases and bits of local color. The play itself is unremarkable, but every fifth word is in cutesy Spanish that feels completely out of place. I can hear my students now: "Mister, we don't talk like that. who is this guy?"
Friday, October 24, 2008
Dennis Cooper: The Weaklings
Normally this book would not merit its own entry. I found it pretty unremarkable, although a certain ghost contributor to this blog swears that the author is worthy. I seem to remember liking one of the poems, but, looking back, I can't remember which one.
Orson Scott Card: Ender's Game
"Alai suddenly kissed Ender on the cheek and whispered in his ear, "Salaam." Then, red-faced, he turned away and walked to his own bed at the back of the barracks. Ender guessed that the kiss and the word were somehow forbidden" (69).
Ender's Game is unmistakably flawed. At first riveting, it gradually becomes self-indulgent and forced, until it ends in a convoluted afterthought. At 324 pages, it is also the first book of any length I have read through without stopping in many years. I could not have put it down if it were on fire.
In my youth, as mentioned elsewhere in a blog accessible from this point, I lived in a world of fantasy, both conscious and un-, in which there were certain central themes. My sleeping dreams, much like my waking ones, found me the aloof leader of a team of my peers whom I treated with a sense of noblesse oblige, invariably engaged in some noble task. I distinctly remember two such dreams in particular.
I trace the first to the age of six or seven. My first grade class and I were engaged in a game of tag in my backyard. When tagged in this dream, I became injured, and was taken by my teammates to the gardening shed where I was bandaged and fed mashed potatoes by a girl named Autumn, whom I still remember .
In the second, from some later age, I am similarly engaged in a contest with my peers, but this time we have a plush headquarters. We are called upon to best a team of rivals. The leader of these opponents was a dark version of myself, an athletic, soccer-playing, seemingly indigent Latin. The finalevent, between this leader and myself, was breakfast-making. I won with a delicious cinnamon toast. My sleeping mind didn't really know how to make cinnamon toast, so my dream self affixed the spices to the toast with spit. When I woke up, I remained infatuated with this mysterious doppelganger, and I made a point of learning how to make cinnamon toast for real. My waking fantasies largely mirrored this pattern. I always was in charge of a group of my peers, but unfulfilled and incomplete, searching for a complement.
In short, flawed though it is, Ender's Game is a magical realization of every element of my childhood--and even adolescent--fantasies. It is as though I myself wrote the book, not the ironically homophobic Orson Scott Card. As I read that "Salaam", that kiss, I wept, gasping. That moment is all I have ever wanted in life, I exaggerate not.
Ender's Game is unmistakably flawed. At first riveting, it gradually becomes self-indulgent and forced, until it ends in a convoluted afterthought. At 324 pages, it is also the first book of any length I have read through without stopping in many years. I could not have put it down if it were on fire.
In my youth, as mentioned elsewhere in a blog accessible from this point, I lived in a world of fantasy, both conscious and un-, in which there were certain central themes. My sleeping dreams, much like my waking ones, found me the aloof leader of a team of my peers whom I treated with a sense of noblesse oblige, invariably engaged in some noble task. I distinctly remember two such dreams in particular.
I trace the first to the age of six or seven. My first grade class and I were engaged in a game of tag in my backyard. When tagged in this dream, I became injured, and was taken by my teammates to the gardening shed where I was bandaged and fed mashed potatoes by a girl named Autumn, whom I still remember .
In the second, from some later age, I am similarly engaged in a contest with my peers, but this time we have a plush headquarters. We are called upon to best a team of rivals. The leader of these opponents was a dark version of myself, an athletic, soccer-playing, seemingly indigent Latin. The finalevent, between this leader and myself, was breakfast-making. I won with a delicious cinnamon toast. My sleeping mind didn't really know how to make cinnamon toast, so my dream self affixed the spices to the toast with spit. When I woke up, I remained infatuated with this mysterious doppelganger, and I made a point of learning how to make cinnamon toast for real. My waking fantasies largely mirrored this pattern. I always was in charge of a group of my peers, but unfulfilled and incomplete, searching for a complement.
In short, flawed though it is, Ender's Game is a magical realization of every element of my childhood--and even adolescent--fantasies. It is as though I myself wrote the book, not the ironically homophobic Orson Scott Card. As I read that "Salaam", that kiss, I wept, gasping. That moment is all I have ever wanted in life, I exaggerate not.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Convince Me
Somehow, some way, the jerk-offs in charge think that some words from Mrs. Clinton will convince me that Mr. Obama is sincere. About green collar (hand) jobs, ad ad infinitum.
So here's Gov of Montana, prepping the crowd with wit and humor:
Chanting with the crowd? Why was no one in the crowd prepared for this turn?
Also the petrodictators keep changing the chant from chant to chant?
Let's see how she does. Fox News (Corp.) tried to convince me that Mrs. Clinton thought she was not the Dems' PR person, and in the course of the same story showed how much power she could wield if she were evil. Oh wait.
SO....
DNC
YES WE CAN & etc.
A vidoebio.
Astro-Hillary! Rock MUSIC. Clearly this woman could respectively play with men. I'm inspired, but she's not the nominee. Sidenote: "Bill Clinton brainwashed by the queen of heart btw? Can we expect some instruction from an aging Angela Lansbury about where to shoot? " 18 million cracks would be cool to find in bed. I wonder if Obama's videobio will be this full of cutaways and still photos? No, the runner up (read loser) is still a winner with 18million Kracckks in the sealing .
fin
No, no, thank you. You're a looker these days, Chelsea!
Hoorah! More rockin' music and idle idolatry. Some KBCO music about a Jezebel-esque. The royalties come pouring in from this convention.
(emerge Hillary, in orange pant-suit)
(crowd goes apeshit)
That's a lot of signage. Authorized signage.
A proud mother, dem sen. from NY, American, supporter of Obam., an' proud runner up in the catfight.
Single party! Single purpose! Single motherhood! And the same team! Go w(h)in(e) together!
Did she balance? Could she be the next Justice of the Supreme Meat Lovers Court? I think they deliver to my place.
Burn. No way, nohow no McCain. Was that what was said in the Wizard of OZ?
Can't wait for the no ad days. The future? I want to live in Kubrick's 2001.
Old dog and new tricks taught, whaddaya know.
Fight for healthcare! Do it from the SENATE!Do it from the SENATE!Do it from the SENATE!
Apparently Puerto Rico has children and more left behind. And something to do with the Bush Admin. and therefore McCain. I don't get it.
You die right before the convention, and the politicos will misuse your name to say why YOUR GUY should be elected. Wait, that mean Clinton lost a superdelagate by her death. Yikes.
Geoerosive forces have gone to work on our American Reputation AND Promise.
Save for College? and a Home? Hrm, my parents missed the boat.
Yay rights! I want rights.
Shift in tone for Terrorism! Get grave.
I just noticed that the UNITY signs, cleverly hidden before, just waited to appear til time came to say: Barack!
Toughest challenges (met and unmet): cracking open a beer with teeth, have orgy involving any of the Arquettes, cut taxes for big bad big oil, get elected to NY Senate seat.
Elect Obama and you too can become a stuffy elitist. He'll teach you!
I want to see how Obama signs his name, good point Hill.
Repair our alliances and the White House toilets? Is there anything this man cannot do?
And Michelle O. has the pursed lip-look when mentioned for her heartfelt speech that NPR indicated showed a different kind of political wymyn. One who can be smart, have judgement, and show her sensitive feminine intuitive side.
Twin cities, McCan't is twin of W, what a connection. Man, Woman, Child. Don't forget that Colorado's 1908 Convention hosted the first female delegates. Honor the shrine of our Constitution!
More cleverly hidden signs. OBAMA!
Let's phase out those Clinton signs! Yep, GONE! Now the signs indicate our unity. The show's almost over, kids. The take home: O&B*A$M@A! U!N(I/T^Y!!!
GOD SAVE THE QUEEN.
I don't feel vindicated. I'm still skeptical.
So here's Gov of Montana, prepping the crowd with wit and humor:
Chanting with the crowd? Why was no one in the crowd prepared for this turn?
Also the petrodictators keep changing the chant from chant to chant?
Let's see how she does. Fox News (Corp.) tried to convince me that Mrs. Clinton thought she was not the Dems' PR person, and in the course of the same story showed how much power she could wield if she were evil. Oh wait.
SO....
DNC
YES WE CAN & etc.
A vidoebio.
Astro-Hillary! Rock MUSIC. Clearly this woman could respectively play with men. I'm inspired, but she's not the nominee. Sidenote: "Bill Clinton brainwashed by the queen of heart btw? Can we expect some instruction from an aging Angela Lansbury about where to shoot? " 18 million cracks would be cool to find in bed. I wonder if Obama's videobio will be this full of cutaways and still photos? No, the runner up (read loser) is still a winner with 18million Kracckks in the sealing .
fin
No, no, thank you. You're a looker these days, Chelsea!
Hoorah! More rockin' music and idle idolatry. Some KBCO music about a Jezebel-esque. The royalties come pouring in from this convention.
(emerge Hillary, in orange pant-suit)
(crowd goes apeshit)
That's a lot of signage. Authorized signage.
A proud mother, dem sen. from NY, American, supporter of Obam., an' proud runner up in the catfight.
Single party! Single purpose! Single motherhood! And the same team! Go w(h)in(e) together!
Did she balance? Could she be the next Justice of the Supreme Meat Lovers Court? I think they deliver to my place.
Burn. No way, nohow no McCain. Was that what was said in the Wizard of OZ?
Can't wait for the no ad days. The future? I want to live in Kubrick's 2001.
Old dog and new tricks taught, whaddaya know.
Fight for healthcare! Do it from the SENATE!Do it from the SENATE!Do it from the SENATE!
Apparently Puerto Rico has children and more left behind. And something to do with the Bush Admin. and therefore McCain. I don't get it.
You die right before the convention, and the politicos will misuse your name to say why YOUR GUY should be elected. Wait, that mean Clinton lost a superdelagate by her death. Yikes.
Geoerosive forces have gone to work on our American Reputation AND Promise.
Save for College? and a Home? Hrm, my parents missed the boat.
Yay rights! I want rights.
Shift in tone for Terrorism! Get grave.
I just noticed that the UNITY signs, cleverly hidden before, just waited to appear til time came to say: Barack!
Toughest challenges (met and unmet): cracking open a beer with teeth, have orgy involving any of the Arquettes, cut taxes for big bad big oil, get elected to NY Senate seat.
Elect Obama and you too can become a stuffy elitist. He'll teach you!
I want to see how Obama signs his name, good point Hill.
Repair our alliances and the White House toilets? Is there anything this man cannot do?
And Michelle O. has the pursed lip-look when mentioned for her heartfelt speech that NPR indicated showed a different kind of political wymyn. One who can be smart, have judgement, and show her sensitive feminine intuitive side.
Twin cities, McCan't is twin of W, what a connection. Man, Woman, Child. Don't forget that Colorado's 1908 Convention hosted the first female delegates. Honor the shrine of our Constitution!
More cleverly hidden signs. OBAMA!
Let's phase out those Clinton signs! Yep, GONE! Now the signs indicate our unity. The show's almost over, kids. The take home: O&B*A$M@A! U!N(I/T^Y!!!
GOD SAVE THE QUEEN.
I don't feel vindicated. I'm still skeptical.
Liveblogging Hillary
Before we get to Her Royal Craziness, we have had the honour [sic] of listening to the governour [sic] of Montana. I am struggling to refrain from waving my Stetson in the air and yelling "Yee-haw!" A few key transliterations:
Mawntaana
inergee indupeyndeyns
a draaaah well
Amayricuh
Burawk Obawma
fahv miiilyun greyn collur jawbs
fooowr moowr yeyars
And now:
"Hillary's for families!"
"Hillary Clinton is inspirational"
"Hillary!"
"Hill-a-ry!"
An alternatingly maudlin and inspirational video montage, narrated by Chelsea, and including a tribute to Hillary's bray. To sum up, "Look little girls! A woman can lose a primary too!"
mentions of 18,000,000 cracks in the glass ceiling so far: 2
Chelsea: "I'm proud to introduce my hero and my mother!"
Michelle, mentally: "That's two people, right?"
outfit: coral
lips: pursed
Me, me , me! Aren't I awesome?
Biden, mentally: "Don'tbeabitchdon'tbeabitch"
Another mention of the Hillary bray.
I will always remember . . . that bald single mom who adopts retarded kids and painted my name on her head, some kid whose loser mom got her hours cut at the hamburger stand, some gimp soldier, and, you know, a bunch of eager old biddies and little cherubs. Whatever.
But enough about me. Some people you've never heard of died this year. Howsabout that?
Green-collar jobs again? I believe we'vefound the epicenter of a mind-virus.
Gay rights? What? Gosh, thanks Hillary! Too bad you don't want us to get married.
Michelle: "Huh? What? I heard my name . . ."
Biden: "It's the home stretch, Clinton. Don'tbeabitchdon'tbeabitch . . ."
Wait a minute, what was that? A valid intellectual inquiry: Were you in it for me, or for kids/moms/broads/veterans?
I thought at first that I was imagining it, but she definitely hesitates every time she says Barack Obama.
"President . . . Obama!"
"It is time for us all to unite around . . . Barack Obama"
As if the words burn her Demon Lips.
To sum up, green-collar jobs, aww poor veterans, aww poor kiddies, vote for b, buh, Barack! I even might! America! Fuck Yeah! Glass ceiling! Oh wait: Harriet Tubman! She was black! Goodnight everybody!
And now, everybody, here's Methodist minister Chinky Kong with a benediction It's a prayer, just don't tell the atheists. They're total dicks about this shit.
Mawntaana
inergee indupeyndeyns
a draaaah well
Amayricuh
Burawk Obawma
fahv miiilyun greyn collur jawbs
fooowr moowr yeyars
And now:
"Hillary's for families!"
"Hillary Clinton is inspirational"
"Hillary!"
"Hill-a-ry!"
An alternatingly maudlin and inspirational video montage, narrated by Chelsea, and including a tribute to Hillary's bray. To sum up, "Look little girls! A woman can lose a primary too!"
mentions of 18,000,000 cracks in the glass ceiling so far: 2
Chelsea: "I'm proud to introduce my hero and my mother!"
Michelle, mentally: "That's two people, right?"
outfit: coral
lips: pursed
Me, me , me! Aren't I awesome?
Biden, mentally: "Don'tbeabitchdon'tbeabitch"
Another mention of the Hillary bray.
I will always remember . . . that bald single mom who adopts retarded kids and painted my name on her head, some kid whose loser mom got her hours cut at the hamburger stand, some gimp soldier, and, you know, a bunch of eager old biddies and little cherubs. Whatever.
But enough about me. Some people you've never heard of died this year. Howsabout that?
Green-collar jobs again? I believe we'vefound the epicenter of a mind-virus.
Gay rights? What? Gosh, thanks Hillary! Too bad you don't want us to get married.
Michelle: "Huh? What? I heard my name . . ."
Biden: "It's the home stretch, Clinton. Don'tbeabitchdon'tbeabitch . . ."
Wait a minute, what was that? A valid intellectual inquiry: Were you in it for me, or for kids/moms/broads/veterans?
I thought at first that I was imagining it, but she definitely hesitates every time she says Barack Obama.
"President . . . Obama!"
"It is time for us all to unite around . . . Barack Obama"
As if the words burn her Demon Lips.
To sum up, green-collar jobs, aww poor veterans, aww poor kiddies, vote for b, buh, Barack! I even might! America! Fuck Yeah! Glass ceiling! Oh wait: Harriet Tubman! She was black! Goodnight everybody!
And now, everybody, here's Methodist minister Chinky Kong with a benediction It's a prayer, just don't tell the atheists. They're total dicks about this shit.
Sunday, July 06, 2008
BTD: 20ish
Kurt Vonnegut: Breakfast of Champions
Kilgore Trout, the fictional and vicarious author of Breakfast of Champions, also wrote another book. In Now It Can Be Told, the hero is the only real man on Earth; everybody else is a machine that participates in the great experiment of the one real man's free will. The one real man is eventually told by The Creator of the nasty trick andis transported to a new experiment, a paradise where he can jump into an icy mountain stream. While getting out of the stream, he would yell something crazy, a chilled ejaculation that The Creator found fascinating. "The Creator Never knew what he was going to yell . . . after a dip one day, for instance, The Man yelled this: 'Cheese!' Another time he yelled, 'Wouldn't you really rather own a Buick?'" (179).
Just as Kilgore Trout is a thinly veiled caricature of Vonnegut himself, Now It Can Be Told is a caricature of Breakfast of Champions. In both books, The Man yells random things, unpredictable, even by himself. "Asshole!" Vonnegut, says occasionally in the middle of the story, "Gilgongo! Drano!". Vonnegut, in Trout's voice, "let[s] others bring order to chaos. I would bring chaos to order instead, which I think I have done" (215).
In doing so, Vonnegut has slyly revealed a beautiful truth. Now it Can Be Told is written in the second person; the reader, whomsoever he or she may be, is The Man, the one person who is not a machine. An ill-balanced man reads it; antics ensue. But Breakfast of Champions holds the same message. "At the core of each person who reads this book is a band of unwavering light" (231). That unwavering band of light is responsible for all our nonsensical ejaculations, all of our childishness and loves and battles, and is the most beautiful thing in existence.
Arrian: Anabasis (The Campaigns of Alexander)
I think of myself on occasion as the advance literary guard, a reconnaissance unit that reads everything and tells people whether there is anything worth finding there. Having now read four ancient historians, I take some pride in telling people to read Suetonius and Plutarch and to skip Tacitus and Arrian. The book had great moments, and I enjoy the intellectual security of having a reputable grasp of Alexander's life. The battles of Issus and Gaugamela, Peucestas' bravery, Porus' nobility and Alexander's love for Hephaestion all make nice flourishes on the decorative platter of my consciousness. I especially intend to remember what Arrian says about Alexander: "To think was to act: without further hesitation, he made his leap" (6:10). I have often said the same of my Father, whose middle name happens to be Alexander.
But for all of that, Plutarch gives nearly as much pleasure in his account of Alexander's life, but only takes 40 pages to do so, as compared to Arrian's 400. I liked Arrian's account, but I don't know that I 400 pages liked it. Unless you are a complete book nerd, read Plutarch instead.
William Trevor: The Children of Dynmouth
Of the three books by Trevor I have now read this year, this is narrowly my favorite. I can see why Philip Ward recommends it in his Lifetime of Reading (http://www.interleaves.org/~rteeter/grtward.html which, in case I have neglected to mention, is something I will be doing for the next fifty years), as opposed to the less inventive Death in Summer. Trevor returns to the familiar theme of the destructive individual who stands outside of and ungoverned by society. Unlike Septimus Tuam of The Love Department, however, Timothy Gedge starts as a thoroughly sympathetic character. The reader cannot help but feel for him. this is partly accomplished through Trevor's remarkable facility with dialogue. as in Death in Summer ("How was he spelling that, then?", for example), Timothy's diction, tone, introductory "only" and other verbal traits give him a flavor that enables the reader to actually hear his voice, as though it were an audio recording; Trevor's gift is that magical.
As with the other books, however, I was so intoxicated with Trevor's inventiveness that I braced myself for an equally inventive ending. No such luck. Perhaps I am too fond of perfect, tidy endings. I have a similar complaint with Toni Morrison--in fact, I have a lot of the same praises for Trevor that I do for her. But the ending always feels like that of Breakfast of Champions: a simple and literal "etc." For Vonnegut, it works and ties his book into a mind-blowing literary package. For Trevor, as for Morrison, not so much.
Kilgore Trout, the fictional and vicarious author of Breakfast of Champions, also wrote another book. In Now It Can Be Told, the hero is the only real man on Earth; everybody else is a machine that participates in the great experiment of the one real man's free will. The one real man is eventually told by The Creator of the nasty trick andis transported to a new experiment, a paradise where he can jump into an icy mountain stream. While getting out of the stream, he would yell something crazy, a chilled ejaculation that The Creator found fascinating. "The Creator Never knew what he was going to yell . . . after a dip one day, for instance, The Man yelled this: 'Cheese!' Another time he yelled, 'Wouldn't you really rather own a Buick?'" (179).
Just as Kilgore Trout is a thinly veiled caricature of Vonnegut himself, Now It Can Be Told is a caricature of Breakfast of Champions. In both books, The Man yells random things, unpredictable, even by himself. "Asshole!" Vonnegut, says occasionally in the middle of the story, "Gilgongo! Drano!". Vonnegut, in Trout's voice, "let[s] others bring order to chaos. I would bring chaos to order instead, which I think I have done" (215).
In doing so, Vonnegut has slyly revealed a beautiful truth. Now it Can Be Told is written in the second person; the reader, whomsoever he or she may be, is The Man, the one person who is not a machine. An ill-balanced man reads it; antics ensue. But Breakfast of Champions holds the same message. "At the core of each person who reads this book is a band of unwavering light" (231). That unwavering band of light is responsible for all our nonsensical ejaculations, all of our childishness and loves and battles, and is the most beautiful thing in existence.
Arrian: Anabasis (The Campaigns of Alexander)
I think of myself on occasion as the advance literary guard, a reconnaissance unit that reads everything and tells people whether there is anything worth finding there. Having now read four ancient historians, I take some pride in telling people to read Suetonius and Plutarch and to skip Tacitus and Arrian. The book had great moments, and I enjoy the intellectual security of having a reputable grasp of Alexander's life. The battles of Issus and Gaugamela, Peucestas' bravery, Porus' nobility and Alexander's love for Hephaestion all make nice flourishes on the decorative platter of my consciousness. I especially intend to remember what Arrian says about Alexander: "To think was to act: without further hesitation, he made his leap" (6:10). I have often said the same of my Father, whose middle name happens to be Alexander.
But for all of that, Plutarch gives nearly as much pleasure in his account of Alexander's life, but only takes 40 pages to do so, as compared to Arrian's 400. I liked Arrian's account, but I don't know that I 400 pages liked it. Unless you are a complete book nerd, read Plutarch instead.
William Trevor: The Children of Dynmouth
Of the three books by Trevor I have now read this year, this is narrowly my favorite. I can see why Philip Ward recommends it in his Lifetime of Reading (http://www.interleaves.org/~rteeter/grtward.html which, in case I have neglected to mention, is something I will be doing for the next fifty years), as opposed to the less inventive Death in Summer. Trevor returns to the familiar theme of the destructive individual who stands outside of and ungoverned by society. Unlike Septimus Tuam of The Love Department, however, Timothy Gedge starts as a thoroughly sympathetic character. The reader cannot help but feel for him. this is partly accomplished through Trevor's remarkable facility with dialogue. as in Death in Summer ("How was he spelling that, then?", for example), Timothy's diction, tone, introductory "only" and other verbal traits give him a flavor that enables the reader to actually hear his voice, as though it were an audio recording; Trevor's gift is that magical.
As with the other books, however, I was so intoxicated with Trevor's inventiveness that I braced myself for an equally inventive ending. No such luck. Perhaps I am too fond of perfect, tidy endings. I have a similar complaint with Toni Morrison--in fact, I have a lot of the same praises for Trevor that I do for her. But the ending always feels like that of Breakfast of Champions: a simple and literal "etc." For Vonnegut, it works and ties his book into a mind-blowing literary package. For Trevor, as for Morrison, not so much.
Monday, June 23, 2008
Two -Fisting It
Dzongsar Jamyang Khyentse: What Makes You Not a Buddhist
The sayings of the Buddha are among the most succinct, meaningful things ever said by a man. Silly me, thinking that things said about the Buddha would approach that profundity, simply by virtue of content. Khyentse tries, of course, but his aim is to make the ideas of Buddhism accessible. While he manages to capture the basics and convey them acceptably, he misses the spirit of the matter, and it's that which makes the Buddha's sayings worthwhile in the first place.
Nassim Nicholas Taleb: The Black Swan
I have no problem with the central idea of this book. The idea that we can't prove anything, that one observation (such as that of a single black swan) can invalidate everything we believe (such as that all swans are white). Of course, the idea is not Taleb's. Karl Popper has been credited with the theory, although it could be argued that Taleb puts it more succinctly and accessibly.
The problem with The Black Swan is that Taleb is such an insufferable pig that I could scarcely stomach the book. He says it himself, even, describing a verbal harangue by "a prominent member of the mathematical establishment" who "started hurling insults at me for having desecrated the institution,saying I lacked pudheur (modesty)". Of course, neither is modesty one of my own key descriptors; I cannot fault a writer for lacking modesty. What is nauseating is when an author views his lack of modesty as a credential, and writes about it in a book that nothing to do with modesty, and should have nothing to do with the author at all. Taleb drops names, recounts irrelevant personal anecdotes, and masturbates for pages upon pages before he gets to the point.
The biggest flaw with the book is, however, that itis one big, tedious example of the very thing against which the author cautions, namely constructing a narrative to fit and confirm our paradigm. The idea of the black swan and the story of Yevgenia's book are only a few of the imaginary metaphors Taleb uses to confirm and support his meme. The problem is, as Popper realized, you cannot confirm anything in this life, especially not your own ego.
The sayings of the Buddha are among the most succinct, meaningful things ever said by a man. Silly me, thinking that things said about the Buddha would approach that profundity, simply by virtue of content. Khyentse tries, of course, but his aim is to make the ideas of Buddhism accessible. While he manages to capture the basics and convey them acceptably, he misses the spirit of the matter, and it's that which makes the Buddha's sayings worthwhile in the first place.
Nassim Nicholas Taleb: The Black Swan
I have no problem with the central idea of this book. The idea that we can't prove anything, that one observation (such as that of a single black swan) can invalidate everything we believe (such as that all swans are white). Of course, the idea is not Taleb's. Karl Popper has been credited with the theory, although it could be argued that Taleb puts it more succinctly and accessibly.
The problem with The Black Swan is that Taleb is such an insufferable pig that I could scarcely stomach the book. He says it himself, even, describing a verbal harangue by "a prominent member of the mathematical establishment" who "started hurling insults at me for having desecrated the institution,saying I lacked pudheur (modesty)". Of course, neither is modesty one of my own key descriptors; I cannot fault a writer for lacking modesty. What is nauseating is when an author views his lack of modesty as a credential, and writes about it in a book that nothing to do with modesty, and should have nothing to do with the author at all. Taleb drops names, recounts irrelevant personal anecdotes, and masturbates for pages upon pages before he gets to the point.
The biggest flaw with the book is, however, that itis one big, tedious example of the very thing against which the author cautions, namely constructing a narrative to fit and confirm our paradigm. The idea of the black swan and the story of Yevgenia's book are only a few of the imaginary metaphors Taleb uses to confirm and support his meme. The problem is, as Popper realized, you cannot confirm anything in this life, especially not your own ego.
Saturday, May 31, 2008
Some of Solomon
What do three points make? A tri-something. I was an English major, dammit. What do three books make? In this case, a chronicle of the changes a young, intelligent, dashing ruler goes through before he dies.
In Proverbs, one I cannot help but see the hand of the clever politician. Two things conspire to create the impression:
As he matured, however, Solomon seems to have developed a different opinion. "Wisdom? Meh." He appears to say in Ecclesiastes. "What advantage have the wise over fools?" he asks, and rightly so (6:7). His advice? "Do not be too righteous, and do not act too wise. Why should you destroy yourself?" (7:16). What a change from the author who wrote in Proverbs, "Happy are those who find wisdom, and those who get understanding, for her income is better than silver" (3:13).
If wisdom is overrated, what then should be pursued? As a Witness, I would immediately have drawn attention to the closing verse: "The end of the matter, all has been heard. Fear God,and keep his commandments; for that is the whole duty of everyone" (12:13). As a free thinker, however, I take this as a liberation, not a constraint. Do no harm, he seems to say. As for everything else, hey! There's a time for it. A time to laugh, a time to seek, a time to fart, and a time to fuck. Take it easy, already! (3:1-8 . . . kinda).
With the understanding that the books may or may not have been written in this order, it is nonetheless telling that the final step of Solomon's evolution is pure poetry. The Song of Solomon is hard to follow, and, I suspect, open to critical dissection and multiple versions. Something about a girl and her channel, a boy and his jewels, and a king and his spear. "His speech is most sweet," One of them says, "and he is altogether desirable. this is my beloved, and this is my friend" (5:16) This is the most beautiful verse I have ever read (that I can think of now), and Oh, Robert, I love you, and I have loved you, and I can think of nothing else. It looks as though poor Solomon and I have come to the same pass at the same time. And what he says is true: "Do not stir up or awaken love until it is ready!" (2:7).
In Proverbs, one I cannot help but see the hand of the clever politician. Two things conspire to create the impression:
- A peripatetic inconsistency to take one example, compare 16:28 "a whisperer separates close friends" with 18:8 "the words of a whisperer are delicious morsels." Or my favorite example, 26:4 "Do not answer fools according to their folly, or you will be a fool yourself" with the very next verse, 26:5 "Answer fools according to their folly, or they will be wise in their own eyes." If I were still a witness, I would be inclined to make excuses, to come to some literary reconciliation of these and many other inconsistencies, but as a free thinker, I am inclined to see Solomon as one who says whatever sounds right at the time. This is especially so in light of item number dos:
- Solomon can't keep his tongue quiet about the virtues of kings. "The mind of kings is unsearchable" (25:3). "Loyalty and faithfulness preserve the king, and his throne is upheld by righteousness" (20:28). "In the light of a king';s face, there is life" (16:15). One needn't look far to find more examples. Every page has one (literary license), and some of them are downright nauseating bits of demagoguery.
As he matured, however, Solomon seems to have developed a different opinion. "Wisdom? Meh." He appears to say in Ecclesiastes. "What advantage have the wise over fools?" he asks, and rightly so (6:7). His advice? "Do not be too righteous, and do not act too wise. Why should you destroy yourself?" (7:16). What a change from the author who wrote in Proverbs, "Happy are those who find wisdom, and those who get understanding, for her income is better than silver" (3:13).
If wisdom is overrated, what then should be pursued? As a Witness, I would immediately have drawn attention to the closing verse: "The end of the matter, all has been heard. Fear God,and keep his commandments; for that is the whole duty of everyone" (12:13). As a free thinker, however, I take this as a liberation, not a constraint. Do no harm, he seems to say. As for everything else, hey! There's a time for it. A time to laugh, a time to seek, a time to fart, and a time to fuck. Take it easy, already! (3:1-8 . . . kinda).
With the understanding that the books may or may not have been written in this order, it is nonetheless telling that the final step of Solomon's evolution is pure poetry. The Song of Solomon is hard to follow, and, I suspect, open to critical dissection and multiple versions. Something about a girl and her channel, a boy and his jewels, and a king and his spear. "His speech is most sweet," One of them says, "and he is altogether desirable. this is my beloved, and this is my friend" (5:16) This is the most beautiful verse I have ever read (that I can think of now), and Oh, Robert, I love you, and I have loved you, and I can think of nothing else. It looks as though poor Solomon and I have come to the same pass at the same time. And what he says is true: "Do not stir up or awaken love until it is ready!" (2:7).
Friday, May 30, 2008
The Book of Psalms
Among the many childish religious misconceptions that have been dissolved by an honest reading of the Bible is the idea that the Book of Psalms makes any sense.
That is to say, it is not really one book. Of course, David is the most notable--and enjoyable; more on that later--author, but there is also more than a peppering of unattributed or unremarkable Psalms, the whole of which does not come close to congealing.
When David speaks, however, my heart listens. At his worst, which is to say, his whiniest, he is reminiscent of Job, and there is a fraternity between the two protagonists that bears further analysis. Like Job, David wonders, "My God, why have you forsaken me?" The relatively righteous David and the thoroughly righteous Job both wonder why they suffer. "What have we done?" they wail to the heavens. Of course, David ceases to ask that question later in his career, knowing full well what he has done, but the first section of Psalms, especially Psalms 18-25ish, might well have come from Job's own mouth.
This is especially revealing, as I mentioned in my discussion of Job, when David resolves the question. He comes to the same conclusion as Job--that the heavens, the whirlwind, so to speak, are giving the answer. "Ascribe to JEHOVAH the glory of his name . . . The voice of JEHOVAH is over the waters; the God of glory thunders . . . the voice of JEHOVAH . . . the voice of JEHOVAH" etc. etc. (Psl 29).
But at his best, David passes Job. He becomes more relaxed, Zen even. You desire truth in the inward being;" he sings, "therefore teach me wisdom in my secret heart" (51:6). When David stops whining, He displays an almost Buddhist perspective. In fact, when David speaks of the the swallow who finds "a nest for herself, where she may lay her young," he echoes the Buddha's description of sati, present-moment awareness in the samyuttanikayo 5.47 (84:3,4). In this light, David's constant craving for "steadfastness", "the rock", "the mountain","the bulwark" and permanence of every type becomes a search for that which never changes, a description that could easily be applied to the Buddha. "I have calmed and quieted my soul," he finally realizes, "my soul is like the weaned child within me" (131:2). How I envy him.
Saturday, May 10, 2008
Three Little Maids
The Best American Essays: 2007
I like to pick at least one of the Best American series each year, and every year I mistakenly believe from the title that I will be delighted. Everybody, including the editors and guest editors of the series, has his or her own definition of "best", and in most cases I disagree.
This is one of those cases. I found only two or three truly interesting essays in this collection of twenty or so, and most of them were not only uninteresting but also irritatingly written. Guest editor David Foster Wallace gives a clue to the reason when he writes of himself in the introduction, "As someone who has a lot of trouble being clear, concise and/or cogent, I tend to be allergic to academic writing . . ." This lack of clarity, concision and cogency, despite his professed efforts in the other direction, are reflected everywhere in his selections. It is as though he is not only incapable of writing clearly, but also of recognizing clarity in others and confusing it for lumpy rambling. This was compounded by his promise in the intro of a "brutal little treat" of an essay, hidden somewhere among the selections. That turn of phrase lulled me into an excited search for its referent, and up to the last essay, I hoped, "Maybe this is it . . ." It turned out to be either a sly editorial trick, or another misjudgment on Wallace's part.
The two exceptions to my irritation touched on confluent themes: Phillip Robertson's "In the Mosque of Imam Ali" and "Rules of Engagement" by Elaine Scarry. The former is a first-hand, though journalistic, account of the author's experience in and around Najaf during a siege by American troops and Moqtada Al Sadr's rather effective demagoguery. The latter is a riveting, though academic, iteration of the treachery of the United States government and military, even by its own standards. A pity that these were the main bright, though dark, spots in an otherwise unremarkable collection.
William Trevor: The Love Department
"'All this wretched love thing,' said Edward, 'Is it the cause of everything?'"(158). So questions Trevor throughout this remarkable novel. This early work of his accomplishes its goal far more effectively than his later, Death in Summer, a fact which leads me to prefer reading the similarly early The Children of Dynmouth for my next selection. In The Love Department, Trevor finds that Holy Grail of novelists, an inventive and curious conceit strong enough to carry an entire novel. The eponymous department is a Dear Abby-style service that takes the additional step of hunting down and thwarting the enemies of marital--and only marital--love. The chief offender is one Septimus Tuam, an itinerant gigolo who is responsible, not so much for the destruction of marriages, but for the wives' unhappinesses. The protagonist Edward, unhappy in his own right, is set upon this offender as a hapless agent of the department.
Through a series of well-constructed plot developments and whilst in the company of many memorable and believable characters, Edward comes to the realization that, as his boss had said, "We all set up a department of a kind". Indeed, the department develops into more than a literary device; it becomes an allegory of love itself. Everyone comes to his or her own amorous epiphanies, with the possible exception of Edward himself, a reminder that the messengers of love may not be meant for it themselves.
Apuleius: The Golden Ass
By means of Ward's Lifetime of Reading ( http://www.interleaves.org/~rteeter/grtward.html ) I have stumbled upon some lovable, profound works that I would never have read on my own. Never mind that Ward managed to get my to buckle down and read the Bible for real, or to chew my way through Tacitus, things about which I am less than humble. I am more grateful that he introduced me to the likes of Vaclav Havel, Maxim Gorky and Ondra Lysohorsky--none of which I would have been likely to read unsupervised. I add Apuleius to this list.
I expected something more along the lines of Ovid when I picked The Golden Ass (or Metamorphoses). I grinned heartily to find that it is a closer to a second century Harlequin Romance. Apuleius works his way progressively through the sexual vices, starting with normal--if animalistic--straight vaginal sex, through straight anal sex, gay anal sex, and ending with nothing short of bestiality. Along the way, he does that which I always say distinguishes mind-blowing literature from merely good books: he writes in such a way that the form of the book reflects the content. The "Back-and-forth fretwork of Fate", as the narrator puts it, is reflected in the back-and-forth narrative. It is no real trick that Apuleius takes the reader--roundaboutly--through stories within tales within narratives, including an account of Cupid and Psyche that is clearly the foundation for the story of Cinderella--the real one, not the Disney one. The translator does an admirable job of preserving Apuleius tricks of alliteration, cute word couplings, and other sly references to his meaning. I can't quite bring myself to label The Golden Ass MBL, but I give Apuleius just due for writing something trashy that still has wink of literariness.
I like to pick at least one of the Best American series each year, and every year I mistakenly believe from the title that I will be delighted. Everybody, including the editors and guest editors of the series, has his or her own definition of "best", and in most cases I disagree.
This is one of those cases. I found only two or three truly interesting essays in this collection of twenty or so, and most of them were not only uninteresting but also irritatingly written. Guest editor David Foster Wallace gives a clue to the reason when he writes of himself in the introduction, "As someone who has a lot of trouble being clear, concise and/or cogent, I tend to be allergic to academic writing . . ." This lack of clarity, concision and cogency, despite his professed efforts in the other direction, are reflected everywhere in his selections. It is as though he is not only incapable of writing clearly, but also of recognizing clarity in others and confusing it for lumpy rambling. This was compounded by his promise in the intro of a "brutal little treat" of an essay, hidden somewhere among the selections. That turn of phrase lulled me into an excited search for its referent, and up to the last essay, I hoped, "Maybe this is it . . ." It turned out to be either a sly editorial trick, or another misjudgment on Wallace's part.
The two exceptions to my irritation touched on confluent themes: Phillip Robertson's "In the Mosque of Imam Ali" and "Rules of Engagement" by Elaine Scarry. The former is a first-hand, though journalistic, account of the author's experience in and around Najaf during a siege by American troops and Moqtada Al Sadr's rather effective demagoguery. The latter is a riveting, though academic, iteration of the treachery of the United States government and military, even by its own standards. A pity that these were the main bright, though dark, spots in an otherwise unremarkable collection.
William Trevor: The Love Department
"'All this wretched love thing,' said Edward, 'Is it the cause of everything?'"(158). So questions Trevor throughout this remarkable novel. This early work of his accomplishes its goal far more effectively than his later, Death in Summer, a fact which leads me to prefer reading the similarly early The Children of Dynmouth for my next selection. In The Love Department, Trevor finds that Holy Grail of novelists, an inventive and curious conceit strong enough to carry an entire novel. The eponymous department is a Dear Abby-style service that takes the additional step of hunting down and thwarting the enemies of marital--and only marital--love. The chief offender is one Septimus Tuam, an itinerant gigolo who is responsible, not so much for the destruction of marriages, but for the wives' unhappinesses. The protagonist Edward, unhappy in his own right, is set upon this offender as a hapless agent of the department.
Through a series of well-constructed plot developments and whilst in the company of many memorable and believable characters, Edward comes to the realization that, as his boss had said, "We all set up a department of a kind". Indeed, the department develops into more than a literary device; it becomes an allegory of love itself. Everyone comes to his or her own amorous epiphanies, with the possible exception of Edward himself, a reminder that the messengers of love may not be meant for it themselves.
Apuleius: The Golden Ass
By means of Ward's Lifetime of Reading ( http://www.interleaves.org/~rteeter/grtward.html ) I have stumbled upon some lovable, profound works that I would never have read on my own. Never mind that Ward managed to get my to buckle down and read the Bible for real, or to chew my way through Tacitus, things about which I am less than humble. I am more grateful that he introduced me to the likes of Vaclav Havel, Maxim Gorky and Ondra Lysohorsky--none of which I would have been likely to read unsupervised. I add Apuleius to this list.
I expected something more along the lines of Ovid when I picked The Golden Ass (or Metamorphoses). I grinned heartily to find that it is a closer to a second century Harlequin Romance. Apuleius works his way progressively through the sexual vices, starting with normal--if animalistic--straight vaginal sex, through straight anal sex, gay anal sex, and ending with nothing short of bestiality. Along the way, he does that which I always say distinguishes mind-blowing literature from merely good books: he writes in such a way that the form of the book reflects the content. The "Back-and-forth fretwork of Fate", as the narrator puts it, is reflected in the back-and-forth narrative. It is no real trick that Apuleius takes the reader--roundaboutly--through stories within tales within narratives, including an account of Cupid and Psyche that is clearly the foundation for the story of Cinderella--the real one, not the Disney one. The translator does an admirable job of preserving Apuleius tricks of alliteration, cute word couplings, and other sly references to his meaning. I can't quite bring myself to label The Golden Ass MBL, but I give Apuleius just due for writing something trashy that still has wink of literariness.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
I finished four books in one weekend.
You wouldna unnerstand. Itza Gemini thing.
Philip K. Dick: I Hope I Shall Arrive Soon
This was a book of many virtues. As always, Dick proves epigrammatic and quirky, and here gives rise to our new expression, "That really animates my shoes," which is to say that we find something very irritating. By we, I of course mean Robert. I only mention this because his complete lack of participation in the blog might lead you to wonder about my pronoun referent. Maybe snide digs such as this one will motivate him.
Dick is far more than another skillful, original writer, however. The best story in the book, "Holy Quarrel", is a perfect example of Dick's specialty, the prismatic metaphor. "What does it mean?" The reader asks in such situations, and Dick wryly answers, "Yes." The Genux-B computer is one such creation. In rapid succession, it becomes a symbol of five or six different philosophical paradigms, and each time the reader is tricked into thinking he or she has discovered Dick's meaning. Of course, the reader is always wrong, and Dick spills all your deep, ponderous wondering on the floor at the end, while coyly protesting, "What? It's just a cute little science fiction story."
Even the introduction to the collection is an insight-laden masterpiece. I found it most useful, considering I am about to embark on teaching Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep. As obscure and opaque as he can be in his fiction, this essay--not really an introduction at all--lays his thinking bare. I think. "The two basic topics which fascinate me are "What is reality?" and "What constitutes the authentic human being?". Bingo. Instant literary analysis. Of course, I don't trust him for an instant, but that gives my Seniors and Juniors something to wrap their minds around.
But the greatest pleasure the book gave me--and that any book could give for that matter--is that of reading me back. The last two stories in the book deal with a similar topic, that of constructed realities in a person's mind. This brings to mind Dick's semi-serious hypothesis in the introduction that there is only one time: 50 A.D.. all we have been doing since then is reliving and reinterpreting events. He uses as evidence his observation that many of the things he writes end up happened or proving to have happened. I found his arguments along this line rather specious and tiresome, and discarded them. Until I read "Rautavaara's Case" and the title story, pointedly reserved for the last word, no doubt, even though not, as I've said, the most enjoyable in the collection. As I put the book down, I found myself in it. I kid not, I was in the story, I was that character who was trapped in a world of his own mental creation, reliving versions of past events. In the space of an hour or so, I reenacted an entire month of my life, down to frighteningly small detail. I still unnerved and wonder how Dick did it.
Speaking of books that read back,
A Course in Miracles
If I had finished this on schedule, which is to say, last year, I would have had very different things to say about it. I would, in fact, have used the fact that it, as I say, reads me back to give it a place as a holy text on my bookshelf. The daily exercises, the insistence on release and forgiveness, all very appealing. It seems like a non-fiction version of The Celestine Prophecy, or perhaps the eponymous prophecy itself.
But Now I have read the smallest fraction of the Buddha's sayings. A Course in Miracles seems unnecessary by comparison. And was it necessary to write all 1300 pages in a caricature of iambic pentameter? Was that meant to give it artistic verisimilitude? 'Cause it was just ponderous and drowsy.
John Kennedy Toole: A Confederacy of Dunces.
This may be a first. My brother, not exactly a literary person, swore to me that, although "it will be terrible if you ever get my hands on this book," It was the best book he had ever read, andI simply had to read it.
Having read it, I see why he thought I would like it. The egoistic, blustering, obese, lazy, stagnant hero of the book is probably close to the version of me he knows. I even could put items from his fictional journal side by side with passages from this very blog and challenge you to say which was which. And I would, except that I have to go now to demonstrate my mental and moral superiority at the local Pub Trivia night, and must finish up here.
Suffice it to say that, although it was not the best book I ever read, I have no doubt that it was the best he has ever read, and I am glad for him.
update 3-18-08
The following passage--from this very blog, in fact--may give the educated reader an idea of the extent to which my own writing parallels Ignatius':
"I like to think that Isaiah is either two different people, or else suffering from multiple personality disorder. He seems to have two diametrically opposed viewpoints on every topic. For instance, there is the subject of prophecy, central to the gravitas of the book. At one point, Isaiah seems to agree with Boethius that God's power of prophecy stems from his perception of time as simultaneous, instead of linear. It is thus that he is able to reveal the future to his prophet, as though withdrawing a curtain."
Vladimir Nabokov: Invitation to a Beheading
What can I say except that this novel shows, as Lolita did not, why Nabokov is considered the best author of the last century. I must read it more before I am fit to write about it. And I have to go play drunk trivia.
Philip K. Dick: I Hope I Shall Arrive Soon
This was a book of many virtues. As always, Dick proves epigrammatic and quirky, and here gives rise to our new expression, "That really animates my shoes," which is to say that we find something very irritating. By we, I of course mean Robert. I only mention this because his complete lack of participation in the blog might lead you to wonder about my pronoun referent. Maybe snide digs such as this one will motivate him.
Dick is far more than another skillful, original writer, however. The best story in the book, "Holy Quarrel", is a perfect example of Dick's specialty, the prismatic metaphor. "What does it mean?" The reader asks in such situations, and Dick wryly answers, "Yes." The Genux-B computer is one such creation. In rapid succession, it becomes a symbol of five or six different philosophical paradigms, and each time the reader is tricked into thinking he or she has discovered Dick's meaning. Of course, the reader is always wrong, and Dick spills all your deep, ponderous wondering on the floor at the end, while coyly protesting, "What? It's just a cute little science fiction story."
Even the introduction to the collection is an insight-laden masterpiece. I found it most useful, considering I am about to embark on teaching Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep. As obscure and opaque as he can be in his fiction, this essay--not really an introduction at all--lays his thinking bare. I think. "The two basic topics which fascinate me are "What is reality?" and "What constitutes the authentic human being?". Bingo. Instant literary analysis. Of course, I don't trust him for an instant, but that gives my Seniors and Juniors something to wrap their minds around.
But the greatest pleasure the book gave me--and that any book could give for that matter--is that of reading me back. The last two stories in the book deal with a similar topic, that of constructed realities in a person's mind. This brings to mind Dick's semi-serious hypothesis in the introduction that there is only one time: 50 A.D.. all we have been doing since then is reliving and reinterpreting events. He uses as evidence his observation that many of the things he writes end up happened or proving to have happened. I found his arguments along this line rather specious and tiresome, and discarded them. Until I read "Rautavaara's Case" and the title story, pointedly reserved for the last word, no doubt, even though not, as I've said, the most enjoyable in the collection. As I put the book down, I found myself in it. I kid not, I was in the story, I was that character who was trapped in a world of his own mental creation, reliving versions of past events. In the space of an hour or so, I reenacted an entire month of my life, down to frighteningly small detail. I still unnerved and wonder how Dick did it.
Speaking of books that read back,
A Course in Miracles
If I had finished this on schedule, which is to say, last year, I would have had very different things to say about it. I would, in fact, have used the fact that it, as I say, reads me back to give it a place as a holy text on my bookshelf. The daily exercises, the insistence on release and forgiveness, all very appealing. It seems like a non-fiction version of The Celestine Prophecy, or perhaps the eponymous prophecy itself.
But Now I have read the smallest fraction of the Buddha's sayings. A Course in Miracles seems unnecessary by comparison. And was it necessary to write all 1300 pages in a caricature of iambic pentameter? Was that meant to give it artistic verisimilitude? 'Cause it was just ponderous and drowsy.
John Kennedy Toole: A Confederacy of Dunces.
This may be a first. My brother, not exactly a literary person, swore to me that, although "it will be terrible if you ever get my hands on this book," It was the best book he had ever read, andI simply had to read it.
Having read it, I see why he thought I would like it. The egoistic, blustering, obese, lazy, stagnant hero of the book is probably close to the version of me he knows. I even could put items from his fictional journal side by side with passages from this very blog and challenge you to say which was which. And I would, except that I have to go now to demonstrate my mental and moral superiority at the local Pub Trivia night, and must finish up here.
Suffice it to say that, although it was not the best book I ever read, I have no doubt that it was the best he has ever read, and I am glad for him.
update 3-18-08
The following passage--from this very blog, in fact--may give the educated reader an idea of the extent to which my own writing parallels Ignatius':
"I like to think that Isaiah is either two different people, or else suffering from multiple personality disorder. He seems to have two diametrically opposed viewpoints on every topic. For instance, there is the subject of prophecy, central to the gravitas of the book. At one point, Isaiah seems to agree with Boethius that God's power of prophecy stems from his perception of time as simultaneous, instead of linear. It is thus that he is able to reveal the future to his prophet, as though withdrawing a curtain."
Vladimir Nabokov: Invitation to a Beheading
What can I say except that this novel shows, as Lolita did not, why Nabokov is considered the best author of the last century. I must read it more before I am fit to write about it. And I have to go play drunk trivia.
Sunday, February 17, 2008
It's been a month since I read these; I'm not sure I even remember them
William Trevor: Death in Summer
Part of my frustration with the modern novel is that so many of them feel like first drafts. I don't mean to say that they are packed with any sort of glaring errors or annoying inconsistencies. When I draft a paper, I often don't realize what I want to say until I've written it. I then cheerfully delete the entire thing and start over, main point now clearly in mind. For all you know, I've rewritten this four times by the time you get a hold of it. I haven't, but if I expected you to pay for it, I would have.
Which is the only thing I have against Death in Summer. It's delightfully well-written, and lays out a Newton's cradle of desire that nicely outlays a world where everybody wants something "with a passion that will not be stilled (133). Mrs. Biddle wants Albert wants Pettie wants Thaddeus--who is also wanted by Mrs. Ferry. Thaddeus wants none of the other characters, not even his charming wife. He has none of the book's urgent passion, except for passion itself; he wants nothing more than to be able to want something.
But in the last chapter, the book takes a philosophical turn that I am unable to relate believably to the rest of the book. At the very end, Thaddeus begins to look at time like Boethius--simultaneous, instead of linear. If only this were somewhere earlier in the book, if only it related somehow, I would find the book irresistible. Unless Trevor is trying to make a statement about freedom from desire being the way to nirvana. But that would require going back and rewriting this analysis, a task up to which I am not.
Joseph Campbell: The Power of Myth
This book feel like Chinese water torture: a steady drip of wisdom, when I know there's a torrent, an aquifer waiting to burst. The book isn't a book; it's a transcript of a wonderful conversation, and therefore never really goes anywhere. It's just Campbell dropping cold, clear drops of water on your forehead without ever opening the floodgates. Campbell refers at one point to being ravenously consumed with an author in a way that Lin Yutang calls a love affair. I wonder if, were I to read his actual books, whether Campbell and I would fall in love as well.
Basic Teachings of the Buddha: edited by Glenn Wallis
What is there to say about the Buddha, other than I should have read this thirty years ago. Next to it, The Bible seems whiny, and A Course in Miracles seems obfuscatory. And serious props to the editor, whose simultaneously scholarly and epigrammatic commentary are responsible for a percentage of my delight.
Part of my frustration with the modern novel is that so many of them feel like first drafts. I don't mean to say that they are packed with any sort of glaring errors or annoying inconsistencies. When I draft a paper, I often don't realize what I want to say until I've written it. I then cheerfully delete the entire thing and start over, main point now clearly in mind. For all you know, I've rewritten this four times by the time you get a hold of it. I haven't, but if I expected you to pay for it, I would have.
Which is the only thing I have against Death in Summer. It's delightfully well-written, and lays out a Newton's cradle of desire that nicely outlays a world where everybody wants something "with a passion that will not be stilled (133). Mrs. Biddle wants Albert wants Pettie wants Thaddeus--who is also wanted by Mrs. Ferry. Thaddeus wants none of the other characters, not even his charming wife. He has none of the book's urgent passion, except for passion itself; he wants nothing more than to be able to want something.
But in the last chapter, the book takes a philosophical turn that I am unable to relate believably to the rest of the book. At the very end, Thaddeus begins to look at time like Boethius--simultaneous, instead of linear. If only this were somewhere earlier in the book, if only it related somehow, I would find the book irresistible. Unless Trevor is trying to make a statement about freedom from desire being the way to nirvana. But that would require going back and rewriting this analysis, a task up to which I am not.
Joseph Campbell: The Power of Myth
This book feel like Chinese water torture: a steady drip of wisdom, when I know there's a torrent, an aquifer waiting to burst. The book isn't a book; it's a transcript of a wonderful conversation, and therefore never really goes anywhere. It's just Campbell dropping cold, clear drops of water on your forehead without ever opening the floodgates. Campbell refers at one point to being ravenously consumed with an author in a way that Lin Yutang calls a love affair. I wonder if, were I to read his actual books, whether Campbell and I would fall in love as well.
Basic Teachings of the Buddha: edited by Glenn Wallis
What is there to say about the Buddha, other than I should have read this thirty years ago. Next to it, The Bible seems whiny, and A Course in Miracles seems obfuscatory. And serious props to the editor, whose simultaneously scholarly and epigrammatic commentary are responsible for a percentage of my delight.
Saturday, January 05, 2008
Harold Pinter: The Homecoming
In The Power of Myth, Bill Moyers makes a comment that I paraphrase to the effect that I often walk onto life's stage under the impression that I have been cast in a Gilbert Sullivan operetta and find myself in the middle of a Pinter play. I had a notion what he meant, having read The Dumb Waiter in college, but this cements my impression. Pinteresque is a dramatic version of Kafkaesque, meaning, not only morbid but also inscrutable. Pinter and Kafka both create worlds that are caricatures of our own, with rules that are beyond the comprehension of not only the characters, but also of the reader. Pinter gets specific in The Homecoming, creating a caricature of family dynamics that seems to have little resemblance to reality, but is nonetheless upsetting because, subconsciously, we know that there but for the grace of whatever go we and our loved ones. The effect is wildly unsettling, and I, for one, am reminded that we are only pretending that it all makes sense.
Tuesday, January 01, 2008
Charles Dickens: A Child's History of England
Dickens, in his characteristic manner, doesn't bother to disguise the fact that this is neither intended for children nor a history at all, being rather a commentary. As such, the book holds little in the way of objectivity, and Dickens is comfortable referring to himself in the first person, saying such things as "in my opinion" and "or so I think" and going to some effort to disagree with the conventional wisdom whenever possible.
And in his opinion, admiration is due to very few of the monarchs indeed. Alfred the Great, Edward III and Henry V (also my favorite) are among the only ones for whom he has actual reverence, although he tolerates some of the others--chiefly those who died before given the chance to exhibit any bad qualities. His chief goal seems to be correcting the general public opinion of the other monarchs. For instance, of Elizabeth I he says:
"She was well-educated, but a roundabout writer [something of which Dickens himself could be accused, I might point out], and rather a hard swearer and coarse talker. She was clever, but cunning and deceitful, and inherited much of her father's violent temper I mention this now because she has been so over-praised by one party, and so over-abused by the another, that it is hardly possible to understand the greater part of her reign without first understanding what kind of a woman she really was."
He seems especially interested in abusing the popular nicknames of certain of the kings. "We now come to King Henry the Eighth," He writes in the appropriate chapter, "whom it has been much the fashion to all 'Bluff King Hal' and 'Burly King Henry,' and other fine names; but whom I shall take the liberty to c all, plainly, one of the most detestable villains who ever drew breath." This critique is at it's most effective when applied to "The Merry Monarch," Charles II. Dickens sets out "to give you a general idea of some of the merry things that were done, in the merry days when this merry gentleman sat upon his merry throne, in merry England." Certain executions, he observes sarcastically, "were so extremely merry that every horrible circumstance which Cromwell had abandoned was revived with appalling cruelty, The hearts of sufferers were torn out of their living bodies; their bowels were burned before their faces" etc.. Merry indeed.
Which brings us to the ruler of whom Dickens' opinion I find quite unaccountable: Oliver Cromwell. Now everyone to whom I have ever spoken and every book I have ever read on the topic has painted Cromwell as a perfect tyrant. Dickens has another opinion. "There was not at that time, in England or anywhere else, a man so able to govern the country as Oliver Cromwell" nicely sums up Dickens' analysis of the Protectorate. Both of the subsequent kings are on the short end of his comparisons to Cromwell. I wonder if Dickens was ill-informed, or simply was of a more Puritanical nature than I had previously supposed.
The overall effect of Dickens' approach is a combination of the best of Suetonius' insightful and epigrammatic analysis with the worst of Tacitus' wearisome detail. A Child's History of England is a mixed bag literarily, but I can think of no more entertaining way to brush up on British history.
And in his opinion, admiration is due to very few of the monarchs indeed. Alfred the Great, Edward III and Henry V (also my favorite) are among the only ones for whom he has actual reverence, although he tolerates some of the others--chiefly those who died before given the chance to exhibit any bad qualities. His chief goal seems to be correcting the general public opinion of the other monarchs. For instance, of Elizabeth I he says:
"She was well-educated, but a roundabout writer [something of which Dickens himself could be accused, I might point out], and rather a hard swearer and coarse talker. She was clever, but cunning and deceitful, and inherited much of her father's violent temper I mention this now because she has been so over-praised by one party, and so over-abused by the another, that it is hardly possible to understand the greater part of her reign without first understanding what kind of a woman she really was."
He seems especially interested in abusing the popular nicknames of certain of the kings. "We now come to King Henry the Eighth," He writes in the appropriate chapter, "whom it has been much the fashion to all 'Bluff King Hal' and 'Burly King Henry,' and other fine names; but whom I shall take the liberty to c all, plainly, one of the most detestable villains who ever drew breath." This critique is at it's most effective when applied to "The Merry Monarch," Charles II. Dickens sets out "to give you a general idea of some of the merry things that were done, in the merry days when this merry gentleman sat upon his merry throne, in merry England." Certain executions, he observes sarcastically, "were so extremely merry that every horrible circumstance which Cromwell had abandoned was revived with appalling cruelty, The hearts of sufferers were torn out of their living bodies; their bowels were burned before their faces" etc.. Merry indeed.
Which brings us to the ruler of whom Dickens' opinion I find quite unaccountable: Oliver Cromwell. Now everyone to whom I have ever spoken and every book I have ever read on the topic has painted Cromwell as a perfect tyrant. Dickens has another opinion. "There was not at that time, in England or anywhere else, a man so able to govern the country as Oliver Cromwell" nicely sums up Dickens' analysis of the Protectorate. Both of the subsequent kings are on the short end of his comparisons to Cromwell. I wonder if Dickens was ill-informed, or simply was of a more Puritanical nature than I had previously supposed.
The overall effect of Dickens' approach is a combination of the best of Suetonius' insightful and epigrammatic analysis with the worst of Tacitus' wearisome detail. A Child's History of England is a mixed bag literarily, but I can think of no more entertaining way to brush up on British history.
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