I often say--only halfway jokingly--that those who pretend to know everything make it difficult on those of us who really do. As manifestly as Goldstein would like to be listed in the latter category, he could not more clearly be in the former. I have never read a more despicable namedropper, nor anyone more desperate to seem credible on another's coattails. It really is ludicrous. Let me cite you a few of my favorite examples:
"Ethics and love, hate and hope, transcend not just the periodic table of elements but all 112 other facets of reality that the table represents. Np, Am, Ar, Kr, Xe, Os, Re, Tc, Cs, Ba, Si, and the 101 rest--no matter how microscopically finely tuned and balanced the proportions--can't fully explain heroism, art, fear, generosity, altruism, hate, hope, and passion. To pretend that they can is to equate Luciano Pavarotti singing Il Barbiere di Siviglia with Belching." (26)
Even this small passage yields a treasury of pretense, one which it is a pleasure to dissect. A quick list of insults to the reader: listing eleven elements so make the topic clear, listing them only by their symbol, even the choice of elements is condescending, and of course Goldstein feels compelled to do the arithmetic for the reader and observe that there are 101 others. Then there is the mention of Pavarotti--I feel condescended to even by the fact that Goldstein uses his first name. Is there more than one Pavarotti?--and the use of the Italian name for The Barber of Seville. Anybody who doesn't know opera will have no idea what he's talking about, while anybody who does know opera will quickly recognize that Pavarotti was not even top billing in Il Barbiere. Why not choose a role for which he was really famous? So execrable is Goldstein's disingenuous allusion here that it takes longer to dissect it than it probably did to write.
These are minor sins on paper, but they accumulate so rapidly that the reader is jaundiced by the end of the first chapter. It is no exaggeration to say that there are multiple examples on every last page. Goldstein invokes everyone from Kant and Wittgenstein (favorite reinforcements for those who hope to overwhelm their critics with citations) to Dostoevsky and Tolstoy. I was both offended and nauseous by the end of the book.
Which was disappointing. My friend Fran pushed this item on me, perceiving, I think, the spiritual quest I am on. She said it was brilliant, but is less skeptical than I am by nature and may have been taken in by Goldstein's namedropping. It is all the more tragic because I am in agreement with Goldstein on many key points. For instance, I have often said that I don't know whether there is anything bigger than I am out there for sure, but that I choose to act as if. After all, if there is not, I don't want to play this game anymore. That is to say that if I (man) am the biggest, most sophisticated mind out there, what fun is that? This is in fundamental agreement with Goldstein's conclusion that "Belief in God [is] about as reasonable as belief in other minds" (94), and I like the way he puts it. He even builds a sound argument leading up to it, and I also appreciate his supposition that "the moral components of the universe [are] just as precise, just as fundamental as the physical ones" (82). The way he lays it out, such a suggestion seems rather reasonable, I hate to admit.
But that's as far as Goldstein really can take his argument. He tries vainly to connect it to ransom theology, but even he seems to recognize the vanity of it. That spire is unreachable on steps of logic, and requires a submission to that dogma. He is reduced toward the end of the book to such embarassing pleas as "He will, he has promised to, and if we can't trust his promises--then whose?" (110). This is not to say that I blame him. Such feeble arguments are the only way one can really arrive at his predetermined goal. What is sad is not that his ultimate conclusions are insupportable; it is that he wants so desperately for everyone to agree with him. He thinks he is organizing the sum total of Western thought into a grand unified field theory, when he is unable to, in his own words, "step outside the epistemological box stapled together from the empirical, cultural and happenstance scraps scavenged from [his] own intellectual turf" (56).
Friday, April 30, 2010
Monday, April 19, 2010
KSCPP: Admiral Yi Sun-Sin
The Korean Social and Cultural Promotion Project is one of the best propaganda machines I have ever witnessed. I was convinced after reading this little booklet that Admiral Yi is the best human being who ever lived, and want to join the navy. Of course, the hyperbole quickly wears off, and one recognizes that he or she has been brainwashed in a small way, but nonetheless, the book is incredibly effective.
And I'm sure there is some truth to the sentiment. Admiral Yi is as renowned in naval circles as he is unknown in other circles. Reading the excerpts from his War Diaries impressed me with how utterly selfish and dedicated he was. As unjustly treated he was, he never complained, or blamed. He took accountability for his own actions, namely the salvation of all Korea.
I want to mention that I took a sick pleasure in the one typo I found in the text of the book. I can picture the horror of the KSCPP when they discovered it, and the sacking of the entire editorial department. Admiral Yi Sun-Sin did not, after all, have a War Dairy, as amusing as the idea of vicious battle cows is.
And I'm sure there is some truth to the sentiment. Admiral Yi is as renowned in naval circles as he is unknown in other circles. Reading the excerpts from his War Diaries impressed me with how utterly selfish and dedicated he was. As unjustly treated he was, he never complained, or blamed. He took accountability for his own actions, namely the salvation of all Korea.
I want to mention that I took a sick pleasure in the one typo I found in the text of the book. I can picture the horror of the KSCPP when they discovered it, and the sacking of the entire editorial department. Admiral Yi Sun-Sin did not, after all, have a War Dairy, as amusing as the idea of vicious battle cows is.
Saturday, April 17, 2010
G.K. Chesterton: Favorite Father Brown Stories
Having recently read the entire Sherlock Holmes canon at Philip Ward's suggestion, I give him credit for placing this item after it in the Lifetime of Reading. The two bear comparison, and in that comparison the charms of Chesterton's work are apparent in a way that they might not be on their own.
Conan Doyle is clearly the better detective writer. Not only is Holmes a more polished character, his partnership with Watson makes more sense than Father Brown's odd-couple pairing with the criminal Flambeau. It is tempting to look at Chesterton as a member of the same species as Conan Doyle, but of an inferior genus. It even feels at times like he is copying that more famous writer, a contemporary of his.
Doyle often makes the mistake of seemingly putting the cart before the horse--that is to say thinking of a gimmick first and constructing a story around it. Chesterton seems to be guilty of a similar crime, pulling an empty cart. Unlike Doyle, it is Chesterton's mysteries that seem incidental and after-the-fact. One good example is in "The Blue Cross". The mysteries of the spilled apples, the thrown soup etc. detract from the fascinating story of a Priest and an Arch-Criminal discussing ontology. What seems to merit the most focus and possess the most interest is given the least time.
If one acts on the assumption that the writer is a good one (and why not do so?), the question is why make such an odd choice? Why bother to write a mystery when one's real intent is to write philosophy? This is again the case in "The Sign of the Broken Sword". Chesterton is almost didactic in his philosophy, and one wonders why he bothers. It doesn't help that the potentially vivid character of Father Brown himself never quite takes off the ground.
These two flaws point in a rather unflawed direction, however. Chesterton's philosophy is clearly the real point of the writing, and Brown is never more than a vehicle for it. His intention is obvious: to piggyback on the popularity of his contemporary Conan Doyle, and the interest in the detective genre that he generated. In such a vehicle, Chesterton could reach the masses with something far beyond their normal scope of thought.
That something is an almost mystical approach to ontology. A good reader looks for repeated words or ideas that seem out of place, and Chesterton's favorite is "Fairyland". Each of the mysteries takes on a surreal quality, and Brown often wonders if any of it is really happening. " . . . we here are on the wrong side of the tapestry," he remarks in "The Sins of Prince Saradine". "The things that happen here do not seem to mean anything; they mean something somewhere else." Chesterton's persistent underlying question is "What does it mean?", something that Conan Doyle would not bother asking. Holmes' comparative solidity as a character serves him: the mysteries almost seem to have taken place in our reality, and a subculture has developed to embrace the "gentle fiction", as Leslie Klinger puts it, of Holmes actual existence. In the same way, Brown's haziness serves Chesterton's themes. Conan Doyle seems to ask "What if this happened?"; Chesterton's question is, "What if none of this happened?"
Conan Doyle is clearly the better detective writer. Not only is Holmes a more polished character, his partnership with Watson makes more sense than Father Brown's odd-couple pairing with the criminal Flambeau. It is tempting to look at Chesterton as a member of the same species as Conan Doyle, but of an inferior genus. It even feels at times like he is copying that more famous writer, a contemporary of his.
Doyle often makes the mistake of seemingly putting the cart before the horse--that is to say thinking of a gimmick first and constructing a story around it. Chesterton seems to be guilty of a similar crime, pulling an empty cart. Unlike Doyle, it is Chesterton's mysteries that seem incidental and after-the-fact. One good example is in "The Blue Cross". The mysteries of the spilled apples, the thrown soup etc. detract from the fascinating story of a Priest and an Arch-Criminal discussing ontology. What seems to merit the most focus and possess the most interest is given the least time.
If one acts on the assumption that the writer is a good one (and why not do so?), the question is why make such an odd choice? Why bother to write a mystery when one's real intent is to write philosophy? This is again the case in "The Sign of the Broken Sword". Chesterton is almost didactic in his philosophy, and one wonders why he bothers. It doesn't help that the potentially vivid character of Father Brown himself never quite takes off the ground.
These two flaws point in a rather unflawed direction, however. Chesterton's philosophy is clearly the real point of the writing, and Brown is never more than a vehicle for it. His intention is obvious: to piggyback on the popularity of his contemporary Conan Doyle, and the interest in the detective genre that he generated. In such a vehicle, Chesterton could reach the masses with something far beyond their normal scope of thought.
That something is an almost mystical approach to ontology. A good reader looks for repeated words or ideas that seem out of place, and Chesterton's favorite is "Fairyland". Each of the mysteries takes on a surreal quality, and Brown often wonders if any of it is really happening. " . . . we here are on the wrong side of the tapestry," he remarks in "The Sins of Prince Saradine". "The things that happen here do not seem to mean anything; they mean something somewhere else." Chesterton's persistent underlying question is "What does it mean?", something that Conan Doyle would not bother asking. Holmes' comparative solidity as a character serves him: the mysteries almost seem to have taken place in our reality, and a subculture has developed to embrace the "gentle fiction", as Leslie Klinger puts it, of Holmes actual existence. In the same way, Brown's haziness serves Chesterton's themes. Conan Doyle seems to ask "What if this happened?"; Chesterton's question is, "What if none of this happened?"
Thursday, April 15, 2010
The Pantastic Mr. Pox
Is it racist to make fun of the way Koreans write names of movies? Anyway, normally this inconsequential little movie would not merit an entry, but I have a lot of thoughts that are vaguely connected to it, so here goes:
When I was 12, my family up and moved to Central America. Why? Well, that's a different story, but let's summarize by saying that my Mom was avoiding stuff in the States, and they thought it would be good for us kids. On that account, my parents were completely most formative event of our youth.
In Belize, we neglected to bring much with us of American culture. We had one cassette tape, with The Beach Boys on one side and Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons on the other. Even now, when we hear one of those songs, it transports us back to our little cinder block house, the delicious bread, the little colored pencil drawings of fish that I would draw.
As for books, I remember 3 that I had. One was a Shakespeare Complete Works that I have still today. It was ancient, and in my youth I was convinced it was hundreds of years old--perhaps a first edition! The other two were Little House in the Big Woods and a collection of short stories by Road Dahl, including The Fantastic Mr. Fox. I read all three over and over, due to the absence of anything else.
It is rather obvious that the movie did not live up to the tender regard in which I hold "The Fantastic Mr. Fox" It would have been an impressive feat to live up to my childhood memories. I should have thereby known that it would be a disappointment; it could not have been otherwise. Nonetheless, the depth of disappointment was surprising. The additions made to the story were not unnecessary; they were poisonous. The charm of the story lay primarily in an appeal to the most basic human comforts: enormous amounts of delicious food. It was this same comfort that I remember in "Little House in the Big Woods" The storehouses filled with smoked meat made my mouth water, and that simple pleasure was enough. It was not necessary to add silliness, or worse to complicate the theme from one of simple pleasure to an analysis of human nature and filial dynamics. It would be turning "Little House" from a story about the joys of childhood into a Telenovela.
There remains one story from the collection that is untainted, however. "The Story of Henry Sugar" was even more formative to me, and I think that I shall go find an online text of it and reread it. Perhaps some of my childhood pleasure remains in that text, and I could certainly use some of it now.
When I was 12, my family up and moved to Central America. Why? Well, that's a different story, but let's summarize by saying that my Mom was avoiding stuff in the States, and they thought it would be good for us kids. On that account, my parents were completely most formative event of our youth.
In Belize, we neglected to bring much with us of American culture. We had one cassette tape, with The Beach Boys on one side and Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons on the other. Even now, when we hear one of those songs, it transports us back to our little cinder block house, the delicious bread, the little colored pencil drawings of fish that I would draw.
As for books, I remember 3 that I had. One was a Shakespeare Complete Works that I have still today. It was ancient, and in my youth I was convinced it was hundreds of years old--perhaps a first edition! The other two were Little House in the Big Woods and a collection of short stories by Road Dahl, including The Fantastic Mr. Fox. I read all three over and over, due to the absence of anything else.
It is rather obvious that the movie did not live up to the tender regard in which I hold "The Fantastic Mr. Fox" It would have been an impressive feat to live up to my childhood memories. I should have thereby known that it would be a disappointment; it could not have been otherwise. Nonetheless, the depth of disappointment was surprising. The additions made to the story were not unnecessary; they were poisonous. The charm of the story lay primarily in an appeal to the most basic human comforts: enormous amounts of delicious food. It was this same comfort that I remember in "Little House in the Big Woods" The storehouses filled with smoked meat made my mouth water, and that simple pleasure was enough. It was not necessary to add silliness, or worse to complicate the theme from one of simple pleasure to an analysis of human nature and filial dynamics. It would be turning "Little House" from a story about the joys of childhood into a Telenovela.
There remains one story from the collection that is untainted, however. "The Story of Henry Sugar" was even more formative to me, and I think that I shall go find an online text of it and reread it. Perhaps some of my childhood pleasure remains in that text, and I could certainly use some of it now.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
AFI: 100 years 100 films
Although this blog has been primarily devoted to the written word, its ostensible mission is to chart the effect of ALL media on my thinking, and I have therefore decided to strengthen the attention paid to film. To that end, I am starting with the AFI's list of the 100 best American films, and working my way down.
Having already seen #s 1 and 2 on that list, I feel I should mention my impressions of them. It is clear from both items that enjoyability is nowhere on AFI's list of criteria (a fact easily confirmed). Citizen Kane's place on the list clearly comes from its significance, both in terms of cultural impact (I knew the meaning of "Rosebud" decades before it occurred to me to watch the movie) and cinematic innovation. Fritz Lang was doing similar things with the camera decades earlier, but never so popularly. Of course, Welles' performance is the real point of the movie, and it adds a layer of enjoyability to the layer of significance. Casablanca is clearly more enjoyable than Kane, but also significant in its own way. The catchphrases and romantic tropes are irrevocably woven into American cultural fabric, and all romantic dramas (and comedies) since owe it a great debt.
The Godfather
A riveting example of film making, both from the director and the cast. Scorsese's little touches grace the movie at all points, though never heavily. My favorite example is the bugle in the background as Don Vito is gunned down, a move inspired by Kurt Weill. Brando is brilliant, as always, and possibly my favorite actor at this point in my life, but the real standout is Al Pacino, whose Michael goes through the most believably and seamlessly drastic character arc that readily come to mind. The transformation to Don Michael is visible in every point of his performance, and it makes perfect sense--as though the script was merely an afterthought.
Gone With the Wind
I was not expecting to enjoy this nearly as much as I did, though like The Godfather it could have used a little trim. Both films were epic, not only for their ambition, but also for the amount of story they tried to tackle. Each of the acts in GWTW could easily have been a movie in itself, and still have come across as overly dramatic. The film lost me for a bit with the dozenth tragic death, but claimed my heart in the end with Clark Gable's performance. He managed to make the cad Rhett Butler completely sympathetic, and maybe the only real person in the whole movie. How has this not yet been made into an opera?
Stay tuned: I'm downloading Lawrence of Arabia even now . . .
Having already seen #s 1 and 2 on that list, I feel I should mention my impressions of them. It is clear from both items that enjoyability is nowhere on AFI's list of criteria (a fact easily confirmed). Citizen Kane's place on the list clearly comes from its significance, both in terms of cultural impact (I knew the meaning of "Rosebud" decades before it occurred to me to watch the movie) and cinematic innovation. Fritz Lang was doing similar things with the camera decades earlier, but never so popularly. Of course, Welles' performance is the real point of the movie, and it adds a layer of enjoyability to the layer of significance. Casablanca is clearly more enjoyable than Kane, but also significant in its own way. The catchphrases and romantic tropes are irrevocably woven into American cultural fabric, and all romantic dramas (and comedies) since owe it a great debt.
The Godfather
A riveting example of film making, both from the director and the cast. Scorsese's little touches grace the movie at all points, though never heavily. My favorite example is the bugle in the background as Don Vito is gunned down, a move inspired by Kurt Weill. Brando is brilliant, as always, and possibly my favorite actor at this point in my life, but the real standout is Al Pacino, whose Michael goes through the most believably and seamlessly drastic character arc that readily come to mind. The transformation to Don Michael is visible in every point of his performance, and it makes perfect sense--as though the script was merely an afterthought.
Gone With the Wind
I was not expecting to enjoy this nearly as much as I did, though like The Godfather it could have used a little trim. Both films were epic, not only for their ambition, but also for the amount of story they tried to tackle. Each of the acts in GWTW could easily have been a movie in itself, and still have come across as overly dramatic. The film lost me for a bit with the dozenth tragic death, but claimed my heart in the end with Clark Gable's performance. He managed to make the cad Rhett Butler completely sympathetic, and maybe the only real person in the whole movie. How has this not yet been made into an opera?
Stay tuned: I'm downloading Lawrence of Arabia even now . . .
Acts IV
22:1 This shapes up to be less of a defense, and more of a testimony. Paul's tacit admission of the need for a defense is very shrewd on his part, as is his address of the crowd as "brothers and fathers".
22:12 A very nice spin of Ananias' role in all this: to portray him as a devout Jew, rather than a Christian.
22:21 His only misstep seems to be bringing the Gentiles into it; they were no doubt eating out of his hand up until that point. The Jews' misplaced racial pride trumps their reason again.
22:29 This opens an interesting question. I never really questioned the idea of Paul's Roman citizenship before, but having read a little bit more Tacitus and Plutarch since I last visited the Bible, I remember that actual citizenship was far more rare than one would think of, given the word's modern usage. To be a Roman citizen was something that not even all the residents of Rome were granted, let alone those in the outer provinces. What is it about Paul's background that allows him to make this claim?
23:3 Paul seems emboldened by intimations of his impending death
23:5 So, obviously Paul knew who Ananias was. This lends credence to theories that his eyesight was not the best
23:6 I never noticed this rather brilliant maneuver before. Paul is not going down without a fight!
23:12 Which Jews? The lack of specificity is a bit maddening at times.
23:16 Paul's sister? Never heard of her before this.
23:35 I wonder if the would be assassins are still fasting at this point . . .
24:2 Tertullus' flattery is clearly going to be no match for Paul's superior powers of rhetoric
24:9 I suppose which Jews are meant is clear enough here.
24:21 Paul does not even seem to be making an effort here. He just blandly recounts the facts--although he does make a smooth semantic cover-up in v. 23.
24:27 Is this two years that Paul was in prison, or two years that Felix was governor?
25:6 prudent to delay, in this case. It gives the Jews time to cool down and reflect on their hotheaded plan.
25:8 I'm not sure this was strictly true. Paul, with his semantic skill, could have argued the case, but it would have been disingenuous to do so.
25:12 and of course Paul's motives were more complex than he lets on. He seems resigned to his death at this point, and determined, not to live, but to go out with a bang.
26:2 This is not the first time that Paul begins with something resembling flattery
26:10 I question the translation of the word "saints" here. It seems a bit revisionist. What is the etymology of that word anyway? Was Paul really taking the liberty of calling his peers consecrated before their bodies were even cold?
26:14 This is not what the voice said, according to the earlier account. Which account is correct? One of two things seems likely: that Paul engaged in a rhetorical liberty here, or that Luke's source of this story was something other than first hand.
26:23 By no stretch of the imagination was Jesus the first to rise from the dead.
26:29, 32 Two things here give support to the idea that Paul has resigned himself to his death. He entreats Agrippa, not for his life, but for his belief. Secondly, his appeal to the Emperor is counter to the goal of escaping death.
27:1 Back to first person, indicating Luke's presence on this part of the journey. Was he with Paul under arrest in Judea? Or did he join the party just in time to travel to Rome, and the final curtain?
27:3 In what way did Paul need to be cared for? Is his health also failing as the end draws close? That would explain some of his resignation. Or are they caring for him in the sense of ministering to him?
27:6 So they even have a Roman escort after this point?
27:23 This verse is downright weird. Firstly, Paul says that he belongs to a particular angel. The metaphysical implications of this are significant, somewhat along the lines of a Guardian Angel--for one person, at least. Elsewhere, certain nations are also said to have particular angels. What is the arrangement here? Also, Paul says that he worships the angel. The implications here are even more profound. Is worhip really offered to individual angels? If so, that's a pretty Catholic theology.
27:34 Did the crew refrain from eating because of anxiety, or nausea, or some other reason? Clearly there was food available.
27:42 I guess this answers the question of Paul's escort.
28:6 Paul clearly possesses some power of his own at this point--it is no longer necessary to pray or concentrate for miracles to be performed.
28:8 In some cases, that is.
28:28 Except that they have proven no better.
28:30 what funds did Paul have that allowed him to live thus?
22:12 A very nice spin of Ananias' role in all this: to portray him as a devout Jew, rather than a Christian.
22:21 His only misstep seems to be bringing the Gentiles into it; they were no doubt eating out of his hand up until that point. The Jews' misplaced racial pride trumps their reason again.
22:29 This opens an interesting question. I never really questioned the idea of Paul's Roman citizenship before, but having read a little bit more Tacitus and Plutarch since I last visited the Bible, I remember that actual citizenship was far more rare than one would think of, given the word's modern usage. To be a Roman citizen was something that not even all the residents of Rome were granted, let alone those in the outer provinces. What is it about Paul's background that allows him to make this claim?
23:3 Paul seems emboldened by intimations of his impending death
23:5 So, obviously Paul knew who Ananias was. This lends credence to theories that his eyesight was not the best
23:6 I never noticed this rather brilliant maneuver before. Paul is not going down without a fight!
23:12 Which Jews? The lack of specificity is a bit maddening at times.
23:16 Paul's sister? Never heard of her before this.
23:35 I wonder if the would be assassins are still fasting at this point . . .
24:2 Tertullus' flattery is clearly going to be no match for Paul's superior powers of rhetoric
24:9 I suppose which Jews are meant is clear enough here.
24:21 Paul does not even seem to be making an effort here. He just blandly recounts the facts--although he does make a smooth semantic cover-up in v. 23.
24:27 Is this two years that Paul was in prison, or two years that Felix was governor?
25:6 prudent to delay, in this case. It gives the Jews time to cool down and reflect on their hotheaded plan.
25:8 I'm not sure this was strictly true. Paul, with his semantic skill, could have argued the case, but it would have been disingenuous to do so.
25:12 and of course Paul's motives were more complex than he lets on. He seems resigned to his death at this point, and determined, not to live, but to go out with a bang.
26:2 This is not the first time that Paul begins with something resembling flattery
26:10 I question the translation of the word "saints" here. It seems a bit revisionist. What is the etymology of that word anyway? Was Paul really taking the liberty of calling his peers consecrated before their bodies were even cold?
26:14 This is not what the voice said, according to the earlier account. Which account is correct? One of two things seems likely: that Paul engaged in a rhetorical liberty here, or that Luke's source of this story was something other than first hand.
26:23 By no stretch of the imagination was Jesus the first to rise from the dead.
26:29, 32 Two things here give support to the idea that Paul has resigned himself to his death. He entreats Agrippa, not for his life, but for his belief. Secondly, his appeal to the Emperor is counter to the goal of escaping death.
27:1 Back to first person, indicating Luke's presence on this part of the journey. Was he with Paul under arrest in Judea? Or did he join the party just in time to travel to Rome, and the final curtain?
27:3 In what way did Paul need to be cared for? Is his health also failing as the end draws close? That would explain some of his resignation. Or are they caring for him in the sense of ministering to him?
27:6 So they even have a Roman escort after this point?
27:23 This verse is downright weird. Firstly, Paul says that he belongs to a particular angel. The metaphysical implications of this are significant, somewhat along the lines of a Guardian Angel--for one person, at least. Elsewhere, certain nations are also said to have particular angels. What is the arrangement here? Also, Paul says that he worships the angel. The implications here are even more profound. Is worhip really offered to individual angels? If so, that's a pretty Catholic theology.
27:34 Did the crew refrain from eating because of anxiety, or nausea, or some other reason? Clearly there was food available.
27:42 I guess this answers the question of Paul's escort.
28:6 Paul clearly possesses some power of his own at this point--it is no longer necessary to pray or concentrate for miracles to be performed.
28:8 In some cases, that is.
28:28 Except that they have proven no better.
28:30 what funds did Paul have that allowed him to live thus?
Bruce Cumings: Korea's Place in the Sun
I tend not to remember anything from non-fiction books that I read, let alone have anything to say about them, but this might be the exception. Cumings' book is on the surface an objective history, but his extensive personal experience has seemingly kept him too close to the facts for that to be strictly true. While the book gives the facts of the matters considered, the level of editorializing is heavy and undisguised. He includes personal opinions and even personal experiences liberally, something that would lessen the book's value in some eyes, as the value of a historical account seems to be tied to its objectivity.
In my eyes, however, strict objectivity is no measure of a book's value. Never mind the arguable opinion that there is no such thing; if it did exist, it would bore me. See my earlier post on Michael J. Seth's comparable Korean history to see just how little I can retain of books that prize their impartiality. In that very post, I complain of my own ability to follow a non-fiction book, but it is apparent that the real culprit is not the lack of fiction, but the lack of a narrative. Cumings' version of Korean history rectifies that situation nicely, making throughout a convincing case that the traditional way of looking at Korea is misguided, or at least that "What all men speak well of, look critically into; what all men condemn, examine first before you decide" (Confucius, epigraph to chapter 8).
Among the counter intuitive stances Cumings takes are that Japan's occupation of Korea in the early 20th century had certain benefits, that the ROK's early years were just as fascist as the DPRK's were communist, and that the United States intervention after WWII is to blame for the current standoff between the two Koreas. For each of these he makes a convincing argument, though I probably will not be repeating such things in conversation on this side of the DMZ. At any rate, I find that I like my history with a little personal investment. It makes it more memorable, even if nothing else. Such a thing might be frowned upon, especially if one was not expecting an addenda, but I shall take a note from Confucius and "examine first before [I] decide".
In my eyes, however, strict objectivity is no measure of a book's value. Never mind the arguable opinion that there is no such thing; if it did exist, it would bore me. See my earlier post on Michael J. Seth's comparable Korean history to see just how little I can retain of books that prize their impartiality. In that very post, I complain of my own ability to follow a non-fiction book, but it is apparent that the real culprit is not the lack of fiction, but the lack of a narrative. Cumings' version of Korean history rectifies that situation nicely, making throughout a convincing case that the traditional way of looking at Korea is misguided, or at least that "What all men speak well of, look critically into; what all men condemn, examine first before you decide" (Confucius, epigraph to chapter 8).
Among the counter intuitive stances Cumings takes are that Japan's occupation of Korea in the early 20th century had certain benefits, that the ROK's early years were just as fascist as the DPRK's were communist, and that the United States intervention after WWII is to blame for the current standoff between the two Koreas. For each of these he makes a convincing argument, though I probably will not be repeating such things in conversation on this side of the DMZ. At any rate, I find that I like my history with a little personal investment. It makes it more memorable, even if nothing else. Such a thing might be frowned upon, especially if one was not expecting an addenda, but I shall take a note from Confucius and "examine first before [I] decide".
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