Jose Saramago: The Double

It seems the higher one goes on the scale of Literature, the more irrelevant the customary means of analysis become.  We are trained to look for things like meaning, intention, message and the like, both in book and in other forms of media.  At a certain level, however, writers move beyond these things, just as painters and composers do.  One expects the answer to the question "What is it about?" to be answered in terms of meaning rather than plot.  I am hard pressed to answer for this book in other other way than, "It is about two men who look exactly alike, and take that scenario to its logical conclusion."

Given that setup, one would assume that it would be "about" concepts of identity and self, fate, determinism, and the like.Perhaps there is a possible existentialist reading of this book, but it seems at times that Saramago is going out of his way to event it.  He, in the voice of the narrator, often interjects and waxes philosophical, but pointedly avoids those ideas.  Instead, his digressions are about things that seem more universal: the nature of language, communication, and thought itself.  Where one would expect a book on this topic to be Cartesian, it is Chomskian.

The book is not "about" these things, however.  It simply reflects on them , almost wistfully, and then continues as a mere description of a singular occurrence, which is all it purports to be.  The singular occurrence in question, however, is not the eponymous doubling.  It is rather the observation of this doubling, and of the interior lives of those doubles, by a slyly witty narrator.  The narrator is no mere pronoun distributor, either.  They have a personality, and a certain reflective way of looking at things, pointedly disregarding conventions of punctuation and dialogue, as if to say, "Isn't this all interesting?"

Saramago's greatest trick, however, is that the narrator is not merely observing and describing.  They are actively discussing with the reader, apostrophising and rhetoricising with us, even going so far as to refer to themself as "we", which in context includes the reader her or himself.  The effect is one of a salon, a gathering of witty, reflective individuals, into which the reader is conscripted, at which one has proposed a little thought experiment.  "What if," one of us has mused, "It was possible that . . ." and the rest of us have chimed in with our own thoughts on the subject, ending in the wry comment over aperitifs, "Human minds certainly are capable of some interesting things."

Will Hobbs: Bearstone

 It is difficult to write at length about so short a book, and especially so insofar as young adult novellas seem to take care not to offer too many gaps for analysis to seep into.  This one in particular seems designed as a needlepoint sampler of freshman English concepts: imagery, symbolism, character development, etc., and will serve reliably in that capacity.  All of this is to say that it was a nice book, but not literature.

One way, however in which I can picture this book standing out to students is the author's level of comfort with discomfort.  It would be to much to ask that such a novella blow itself apart in a blaze of deconstructionist  glory--it must satisfy, after all--but it comes very close several times.  It goes deeper and more unforgivingly into the rage of a young man, and offers a theme that is both uncommon and useful: redemption.

Christopher Emdin: For White Folks Who Teach in the Hood

 I dislike teaching movies in general, and especially those of the "inspiring teacher reaches ghetto students" variety.  For one thing, they universally fail to represent teaching even close to accurately.  I wonder if nurses and police feel the same way about the many shows and movies that attempt to reflect their realities.  What is more egregious, however, is how frequently and unabashedly they play into the White Savior trope.  For one thing, the assumption that poor students who happen to have some melanin need saved is insulting and arrogant.  More to the point, it has been my experience that teachers in general, and white teachers in particular, wouldn't have the tools to do so even if it were needed. 

Which is probably why I approached this book with a great deal of skepticism, leaving it in my "To Read" stack for at least a year before I grew tired of looking at its accusatory title. It certainly didn't help that it was given to me, unprompted, by my brother, who has a sizable white savior complex himself.  As it turns out, however, I was looking at this book wrongly.  It was not analogous to a "feel-good-unless-you're-an-actual-teacher" movie.  It was more like attending a teaching conference, in which not everything was useful or relevant, but enough was that I came away with a bit of juice for the coming year.

My favorite thing about this book was how it successfully distilled something I feel very strongly into words: "The ideology of the Carlisle School [an infamous school founded 'to tame the wild Indian'] is alive and well in contemporary urban school policies" (6).  As he goes on to iterate the characteristics of the administration, teachers, and students of that indigenous reeducation program, he scarcely needs to mention that the exact same descriptions apply to modern urban public schools.  I was reminded of an announcement that our students are subjected to every morning: "No hoods, hats, do-rags, or bonnets."  Could it be more of a racially coded dog-whistle?  This policy and others like it are designed with a specific vision of black student success: to join the middle class and become "respectable".  This paradigm, which originates with white perspectives, but is reinforced by administrators with melanin, devalues and denigrates the students' lived experience in their communities, assuming that a more "civilized" life is preferable.  Emdin's coinage of the term "neoindigenous" to highlight these parallels irks me semantically, but cannot be faulted.

Which is not to say that all of his suggestions are practical or possible in my classroom.  Such is always the case at teaching seminars; one takes away what one can reasonably apply, and endures the rest for the complimentary breakfast.  The ratio of useful--inspiring even--to forgettable in Emdin's "seminar", however, is far better than what could be hoped for and I, for one, came away from it determined not only to share it with my coworkers, but to live in the knowledge that ultimately the paradigm a teacher adopts "boils down to whether one chooses to do damage to the system or to the students" (206).

David Lehman and Paisely Rekdal (eds.): The Best American Poetry 2020

 I'm not sure what I hoped to gain by reading this, other than moving it out of my "to read" stack, or indeed why I should be concerned with gain when it comes to the activity of reading.  I read so rarely for pleasure, and it is not my first time to mention that I should probably do more of it.  Nonetheless, I did gain some things, and I am grateful that it found its way into my stack.

 Among my gains were the awareness of some astonishingly good works by modern authors, which is always a blessing to an English teacher.  In teaching poetry to high school students, there is no particular need to adhere to a canon, especially insofar as I myself don't enjoy much of it.  It is rather more important to find works of import that make clear what poetry is, and why one writes or reads it.  The reason, as I spend an entire semester reiterating every year, is that there are things poetry can do that prose cannot, just as the obverse is true.  Prose writing is meat, and poetry is dessert--a parfait to be precise: a richly layered treat, where each little element is present in every individual bite.  Among the works that I will consider including in the curriculum this coming year: "A Refusal to Mourn the Deaths, by Gunfire, of Three Men in Brooklyn" by John Murillo, "When I feel a Whoop Comin' On" by Steven Leyva, and "Good Mother" by Rachel Eliza Griffiths.  Among those that were marvelous, but either inaccessible to or inappropriate for my students and I keep for myself: "Big Gay Ass Poem" by BC Griffith and "The Seeds" by Cecily Parks.

But in addition to these jewels, I gained something else in the reading.  I became aware of a trend that, not being a huge consumer of contemporary poetry, perhaps predates my notice, but was, at least, alive and well in 2020.  In keeping with the way I teach poetry, which is naturally the way I think about poetry, I always look for the layers.  Each element of a parfait must contribute to, and align with, the other parts, combining in a way that is one lovely thing, and in which each bite is a microcosm of the whole.  That is the entire point of poetry, and the extent to which something does that is the extent to which it may be called "poetic".  The form, texture, imagery, language, and meaning of a good poem all have a reason for being the way they are, and in the best poems it is the same reason for each of them.  

I am reminded of a lesson given by Professor Susan Taylor in my undergraduate literary criticism class.  In it, she challenged us to find a piece of prose writing and transform it into poetry by simply altering the form. I took the assignment with a grain of absurdity, as remains my wont,  and chose an article from the Weekly World News entitled "Fish With Human Head Discovered".  I don't think she was amused, but she made her point: form itself does not make poetry.  It is this point that seems to have been en vogue to ignore during 2020.  More of the selections in this volume than I care to remember, perhaps even the majority, would have been quite lovely as essays, but were instead chopped into symmetrical bits for no reason whatsoever. Was it enough, in 2020 to be set in stanzas to be considered poetry?  In most of them, even in some by truly iconic poets whom I am ashamed to name here, the form has no purpose whatsoever, let alone any connection to a greater meaning.  Whether this represents a contemporary poetic trend, the biases of the editor, or a blind spot on my own part, I cannot say.  But I did not enjoy it in the least, and will do my best to teach against it.

Gary Paulsen: Woodsong

I read this with the intent of offering it to students for a reading assignment, but I am left with mixed feelings.  On the one hand, it is accessible and engaging.  On the other, it is upsetting and unsatisfying--especially structurally.  I can absolutely picture a student getting to the part where the dogs greedily devour the author's vomit, and refusing to read any further.  

 Aside from this and similar thematic issues, I am offput  by the way the theme is developed.  It feels like two separate, though related, books.  The first is a meditation on our place in nature, and the effect it can have on us--a solid and well-developed theme.  The second is a sport narrative, hitting all the customary beats along the way.  I could wish that the two ran in parallel, rather than in sequence, or at least that there was a return to the former at the end.  Instead of supporting and reinforcing each other, however, the two ideas are competing for attention, and by the end one has forgotten what the author was saying in the first place.  

Frankenstein (1931)

 It's hard to imagine a better example of an adaptation hijacking and replacing the source material.  There are examples, of course, of the adaptation being more popular.  I can't however, think of anything close to this phenomenon: of a movie adaptation not only altering the source material to such an extent as to make it unrecognizable, but then replacing it in the public consciousness.  Society's idea of the monster is undeniably this version--hulking, incoherent, childish--and not the philosophical, erudite original with which it shares nothing more than a father.  It is as if people lined up to see L.H.O.O.Q. instead of the Mona Lisa.  

Which is not to say that the movie doesn't deserve its place in the cinematic canon.  It is solid, filled with strong performances and directorial choices, and occasionally brilliant.   My favorite touch is that Karloff is uncredited, his name replaced with question marks in the opening titles.  And neither do I feel that one version is superior to the other; they are fully divergent works, and to compare them would be to compare Pando to Aspirin.

RV Alister: Blue Lights

 It's always lovely to read something written by one whom I know personally.  I wonder if it doesn't do something to salve the three body problem of author-reader-work.  For me, this book and the author are not two bodies, or perhaps they are simply orbiting each other so closely that they functionally operate as one. The calculations, to abuse the metaphor, are correspondingly simple.  

I know this author well enough that nothing in the book is surprising.  It is all part of one system, but it is one that is far more intricate and fascinating than would be visible from a distance.  She is a binary system, or perhaps more.  Perhaps, in fact, it is more correct to say that this book is not a body in her orbit, but it is the expression of the force exerted by the binary system.  

I'm sure I could go on with this, but I am already sick of my pedantry.  It's a good book.  Read it. 

Ra'd

Well, this bodes . . . something.  Hulusi doesn't even agree with any other version of the Quran on the title of this book.  My mouth waters anticipating the bizarre tangents he might take.

Sadly he has yet to offer an explanation of his obsession with the letter بٖ

 1: . . .or of the meaning behind these cryptic beginnings.  One would assume that if anyone was unsatisfied with the "It is known to Allah alone" explanation, it would be the Sufi.  My digging often leads back to Al-Imran 7, which says that some of the signs are clear and some are not, and that only those who have reached the essence can perceive them.  This will never be enough for me, and I expect not for hulusi either.

2: which makes the assurance here, that the signs are clear, a bit amusing.

3: It would be tempting to say that the interpretation of the earth here as a metaphor for the body and its organs is a Sufi stretch, except for the word  زَوۡجَيۡنِ, which is translated in the other three version I'm consulting as mates, kinds, and pairs,  but which Hulusi renders "pairs", and to which he ascribes something very like the Hermetic concept "As above, so below".  It makes one want to investigate the connections between Sufism and Hermetecism.

4: Without drowning in the allegory here, I wish to point out the difference between this sort of parable, and the ones found in the Christianist Bible: the latter explains what it means.  Here, they are simply given and  IYKYK.  It certainly is more satisfying to a modern reader than "Lightning is the whip of an angel".

5: Now this is fascinating on so many levels.  Without a Sufi perspective, this verse is inscrutable.  in the frame of the aforementioned allegory, however, it tracks perfectly.

6: Hulusi loses me again here with his liberties.  It makes me want to find a better Sufi.

7: Is this to mean that each civilization has had its prophet, even as the Muslims, Hebrews, and Christians have?  What a fun idea to explore.  Who was the guide of the Aztec?  The Hmong?  The Maori?

8-10: One wonders if any Islamic scholars wrestle with this sort of verse as much as I do?  Predetermination and spiritual transparency, especially when combined with the Muslim version of "salvation" seem absolutely incompatible.

11:This might be the first hint of an answer to the above dilemma I've seen so far.  The idea that a people is given the ability to change what is in themselves, and therefor their condition in Allah's eyes, may well be the key.  And it is even a point of translation upon which all four versions more or less agree (Hulusi being the more or less).

12-13: If one is to adhere to the Sufi allegory, even verbs like بِحَمۡدِهِۦ take on allegorical significance.

14-15:For all his obsession with orthography and semiotics, it is astonishing the there is no mention by Hulusi of the symbol ۩, supposedly meant to indicate prostration.  One wonders what the Sufi interpretation of this symbol is.

16: A fascinating extension of the idea of رَّبُّ as something like a personal genius, rather than a divine ruler, is missed here.  If one's own رَّبُّ is the higher self, then the idea that Allah is the رَّبُّ of a larger system, that of the entire heavens and Earth, opens up lovely lines of reasoning.   

17: And it is only natural that rain and rivers are expression of unseen truths, both above and within, even as thunder and lightning are. 

18-19: Interesting that is is not only necessary to listen to the voice of the higher self (or Allah, depending on how Sufi you want to get), but also to respond to it. 

20-24: The response being relatively straightforward:  surrender, submit, prostrate yourself to the ultimate truth of unity.  This is the divine contract that must be joined, fulfilled, and followed.  The only way to enter into Paradise, whether the Sufi or the more mainstream, literal version, is together.

25: And to exist in a world of division is its own punishment.

27: The will of Allah, of the divine, can not possibly be this whimsical.

28-30: It is much more palatable to say "You either get it or you don't" than to say "Allah either guides you or he doesn't".

31: The question remains, why did Allah not do as posited here: simply reveal the absolute reality to everyone?

32-33: Setting aside that larger conundrum, however, one is left with the perfectly clear and reasonable foundation: all is one, and don't you forget it.

34-35: One is tempted to dig into the theology that has arisen from verses like this, an whether it has translated into a belief in an immortal soul

36-39: A more succinct and poetic phrasing of the truth in 33, and it is worth memorizing.

40-43: And nothing more need be said, let alone done or expected.  Though plenty has been and will be. 

Ramón Gómez de la Serna: Las Proximas Greguerías hasta 1100

 
1001.Alcohol puro es un agua que se emborrachó demasiado.
Pure alcohol is a water that gets you too drunk.

1002.La más elegante del baile se había hecho el traje de esos encajes que tejen sobre el suelo la sombra de los árboles.
The most elegant dance has made a suit of those laces that weave the shadows of trees over the floor. 

1003.El búho es la lámpara de la mesilla de noche del bosque.
The owl is the lamp on the forest’s nightstand.

1004.Me inquietan las escaleras mecanizadas, porque revelan cómo nos conduce siempre la fatalidad, aunque creamos estar inmóviles.
Escalators make me nervous because they show how fate moves us forward, even though we think we are standing still.

1005.Nadie ha pesquisado ese descuartizamiento de estatuas que se verifica en las clases de dibujo.
Nobody has investigated this dismemberment of statues that is verified in drawing classes.

1006.El sueño nos conduce detenidos a su calabozo.
Dreams take us in chains into their dungeon.

1007.El elefante es la enorme tetera del bosque.
The elephant is the enormous teapot of the forest.

1008.La luna china gasta coleta.
The Chinese moon hangs her hat up. (removes her ponytail, retires)

1009.Lo único que le falta a la colmena para ser una verdadera fábrica es tener envases para vender su miel.
The only thing stopping a beehive from becoming a true factory is the lack of packages to sell their honey.

1010.El que se pone la mano en la oreja para oir parece que querer cazar la mosca de lo que se dice.
He who cups his ear to hear better seems to be trying to catch the fly of what is said.

1011.Al abrirse sobre el balcón el armario de luna da una bofetada de luz a los vecinos.
When the closet of the moon opens  its doors over the balcony, it give the neighbors a slap of light in the face.

1012.El amor es como una manía, pero la más terrible de todos.
Love is an obsession, but the most terrible of all.

1013.La rosa convierte en lágrimas las gotas de agua.
The rose turns drops of water into tears.

1014.Las hojas secas parecen papeletas de una rifa de pájaros.
Dry leaves seem like the lottery tickets of birds.

1015.La mandolina con su barriguita musical.
The mandolin with its musical tummy.

1016.El beso nunca es singular.
There is no such thing as just one kiss.

1017.El viento es el correo amoroso de las flores.
The wind is the love letter of the flowers.

1018.Sobre la ñ revolotea la lombriz caligráfica.
There is a written worm wriggling over the ñ.

1019.Hay quien se pone a comer cacahuetes como si rezase el más largo de los rosarios y se comiese las cuentas.
There are those who eat peanuts as if reciting the longest of rosaries, and then eating the tally.

1020.Caballo: multiplicación de las venas de la cara por la intensidad de los ojos.
Horse: multiplication of the veins in the face to make the eyes more intense.

1021.Grosella de besos.
Currant berry kisses.

1022.Los fantasmas salen por un espejo y se meten por otro.
Ghosts come out of one mirror, and go back in through another.

1023.Cada estornudo apaga una velita de nuestros futuros cumpleaños.
Every sneeze blows out a candle on our future birthdays.

1024.En realidad, los seguros de vida son seguros de muerte.
In reality, life insurance is death insurance.

1025.La Bolsa es manicomio de los locos gritones del dinero.
The Stock Exchange is an asylum for money-shouting crazies.

1026.La muy chula llevaba en la frente una S de pelo.
The very pretty carry a S of hair on their forehead.

1027.El oráculo era un mentiroso cuya originalidad consistía en decir las mentiras con anticipación.
The fortuneteller is a liar whose originality consists of telling lies with anticipation.

1028.La luna va fijando pasquines en blanco por los sitios que pasa.
The moon goes posting blank pamphlets everywhere it passes.

1029.Una libélula es como un tornillo que vuela.
The dragonfly is like a flying screw.

1030.Los números son los mejores equilibristas de mundo: se suben unos encima de otros y no se caen.
Numbers are the best balancing act in the world: e cliimbs atop another, and never falls.

1031.Los jazmines son recortes de luna al pasar por entre las tijeras de los altos árboles.
Jasmines are clippings of the moon as it passes through the scissors of the tall trees.

1032.Es tan inédita la muerte, que el que va a morir inaugura la muerte como el primer muerto.
Death is so unpublished that each one who dies inaugurates it as the first death ever.

1033.Aquella mujer me miró como a un taxi ocupado.
That woman looks at me like an occupied taxi.

1034.Algo se juega uno al echar los dados de hielo en el vaso.
Something is wagered when throwing the ice cubes in a glass.

1035.No hablamos mal de viento, porque el viento siempre está parado a nuestro lado.
We don’t speak ill of the wind, for it is always stationed at our side.

1036.La sandía está llena por dentro de borrones de tinta.
Watermelons are full of inkblots.

1037.Adán no se divorció de Eva porque no encontró abogado.
Adam didn’t divorce Eve because he couldn’t find a lawyer.

1038.Cuando nos pierden el sobre en que estaban las señas nos dejan mudos para contestar esa carta.
When we lose the envelope that had the address on it, we are left mute to reply to the letter.

1039.Los románticos siempre llevaban la mano en el pecho para vigilar los latidos de su corazón.
Romantics always hold their hand on their chests to guard their heartbeats.

1040.La fatalidad arrastra por los cabellos a la luna.
Fate runs its fingers through the hair of the moon.

1041.El mar es mucha espuma de brocha y mucho filo de ola para afeitar las algas de la playa.
The sea is a bunch of foaming brushes and edged waves to shave the seaweed from the beach.

1042.La crítica suele se un impuesto que falsos agentes de la autoridad imponen al libro.
Criticism is usually a tax that false authorities put on a book.

1043.Los helechos tienen hojas de ciempiés.
Ferns have leaves made out of centipedes.

1044.La luna es el huevo con que se desayuna el sol todos los días.
The moon is the egg that the sun eats for breakfast every morning.

1045.El dinero sabe guardar el más absoluto silencio para que no se note quién lo tiene.
Money knows how to keep absolutely silent because it doesn;t know who is holding it.

1046.Los espárragos son los palillos con los que toca a tambor batiente la Primavera que llega.
Asparagus are the drumsticks with which Spring beats its drum as it comes.

1047.El gusano de luz busca el cigarillo que encender y no lo encuentra.
The glow worm searches for a cigarette to light, in vain.

1048.«Sólo el hombre posee la idea de la muerte.» ¡Pero el aullido malagorero del perro quiere decir que la ha visto antes que le hombre!
“Only man has an idea of death.” But the ominous howl of a dog lets us know that he has seen it before man!

1049.«Matar el tiempo» es una fanfarronada de bravucón.
“Killing time” is the fanfare of a braggart.

1050.La palmera es un árbol acuático que logró llegar a la orilla.
Palms are trees from the sea that have managed to make it to shore.

1051.Repasamos el almanaque con indiferencia, sin dar importancia a tal fecha, sin saber que será el señalado día de nuestro aniversario.
We flip through the almanac indifferently, without giving importance to a certain date, without knowing that it has been appointed to be our anniversary.

1052.El coliseo en ruina es como una taza rota del desayuno de los siglos.
The ruins of the coliseum are like a broken coffee cup of the ages.

1053.La M siempre se sentirá superior a la N.
The M always thinks itself superior to the N.

1054.Cuando cae el sol en el buzón del ocaso no nos importa, porque sabemos que tiene la contestación pagada.
When the sun sets in its mailbox, we aren’t worried because we know it holds return postage.

1055.El as de copas queda como el trofeo de la noche perdida.
The ace of cups waits like the trophy of a lost night.

1056.Ningún espacio mejor aprovechado arquitectónicamente que una lata de sardinas.
Nos space is better used architecturally than a can of sardines.

1057.¡Lo que tarda la mariposa en hacerse la toilette dentro de su capullo!
What takes the butterfly so long to do its toilette in its cocoon!

1058.La sota de oros es como un galán afortunado de la baraja. ¡Joven, apuesto y con dinero!
The page of coins is like the heartthrob of the deck.  Young, handsome, and rich!

1059.Hay noches en que nos damos cuenta de que la luna ha sido guillotinada.
There are nights in which we tell ourselves stories of how the moon has been guillotined.

1060.Es tan violenta el mar en las costas porque pleitea para que le devuelva la tierra lo que le robó.
The sea is so violent because it is suing the earth to get back that which has been stolen.

1061.Eco de Jorge Manrique: «¿Dónde fueron a parar las cacerolas, de las que sólo queda la tapadera?»
Echo of Jorge Manrique: Where do the casserole dishes go to rest, of which on ly the lid remains?

1062.Las tijeras caídas suenan a espuelas.
Falling scissors sound like spurs

1063.Al reloj parado le queda el orgullo de que dos veces al día señala la hora que es.
The stopped clock retains the pride of being right twice a day.

1064.La luna sobre el mar es aviador y buzo.
The moon over the sea is both a pilot and a diver.

1065.Lo primero que hacen en las peluquerías es poner camisa de fuerza al cliente.  ¡Por si acaso!
The first thing they do in the cinema is to put a straightjacket on the guest.  Just in case!

1066.El viento no sabe mover las páginas de un libro; o mueve una sola o las mueve todas con brusquedad de lector enloquecido.
The wind doesn’t know how to turn the pages of a book; it either moves one or moves all the pages at once for the speaker in the midst of his speech.

1067.Nada se desmaya sobre el camino como una rueda.
Nothing faints on the road like a wheel.

1068.El chimpancé es el pensador que no revela nunca su pensamiento.
The chimpanzee is a thinker that never reveals his thought.

1069.La guitarra es la maja desnuda y sonora.
The guitar is a fashionable woman, naked and vocal. (It is unclear whether this might refer to a Goya painting)

1070.Todo el mar quiere salvarse en el tablón que flota.
The entire sea tries to save itself on a floating plank.

1071.A la luna sólo le falta tener marco.
The only thing missing from the moon is a frame.

1072.Sifón: pistola contra la sed.
Siphon: A gun for thirst.

1073.El lápiz escribe sombras de palabras.
The pencil writes the shadows of words.

1074.Conejo a la portuguesa: poco conejo y mucho tomate.
Portugeuse Rabbit: a little rabbit and a lot of tomato. (referring to a specific dish)

1075.Lo malo del bello atardecer en el jardín es que tiene calcetines de mosquitos.
The bad thing about a beautiful evening in the garden is having socks made of mosquitoes.

1076.La cebra es un modelo de caligrafía.
The zebra is a handwriting example sheet.

1077.La bicicleta es el único vehículo que tiene tratamiento de señorita.
The bicycle is the only mode of transport that is treated like a lady.

1078.Las estrellas están indignadas con la luna porque las deslumbra con su faro, cuando ellas, teniendo más potencia, lo llevan a media luz.
The stars are indignant at the moon because it blinds them with its headlights, while they, even though they have more power, only use it at half strength.

1079.Los billetes del Banco son el papel secante del sudor del mundo.
Banknotes drying from the sweat of the world.

1080.El pavo real fue que inventó el arte decorativo.
It was the peacock who invented decorative art.

1081.Las columnas salomónicas danzan la danza del vientre.
The solomonic (helical) columns are bellydancing.

1082.Los trenes debían salir al mismo tiempo, pues no hay nada que maree más que ver por la inmóvil ventanilla que se mueve el vagón de al lado.
Since the trains should  leave at the same time, there’s nothing that causes motion sickness worse than seeing the car next to you pull away.

1083.Lo antipoético es que el cisne tiene el cuello torcido de tanto buscarse las pulgas.
There’s nothing so antipoetic as the fact that swams have such lovely necks for picking out fleas.

1084.El placer de las viejas es cuando dicen: «Se vuelve a usar.»
The greatest pleasure of old women is to say, “reused.”

1085.Hay unos murciélagos que subieron a la luna y que ya son murciélagos blancos.
There are bats that fly up to the moon and become ghost bats. (though unlikely De la Serna knew of the existence of this Honduran species)

1086.Antes el convidador se ponía las gafas para ver la clase de los vinos; ahora se pone para ver los precios.
Before the guest puts his glasses on to see the type of wine, he puts them on to see the price.

1087.Ya sé por qué Francia tiene un gallo como símbolo: por lo bien que sabe comérselo.
I now know why the French use a rooster as a symbol: because of how wel they cook it.

1088.Justas medievales: dos picadores y ningún toro.
Jousts: two picadors and no bull.

1089.La tortícolis del ahorcado es incurable.
The hangman’s stiff neck is incurable.

1090.El elefante está sostenido sobre cuatro bandoneones.
The elephant is supported by four concertinas.

1091.Al que se enreda el pie en un alga parece que se le han soltado las cintas de los zapatos.
When you get your foot caught in seaweed, it seems like your shoes are untied.

1092.Nos pasamos la vida haciendo una miniatura del cosmos, y al final se nos cae y se nos rompe.
We spend our lives making a model of the universe, and at the end it falls and breaks.

1093.Monomaníaco: mono con manías.
Monomaniac: a manic monkey. 

1094.En el arpa siempre está lloviendo música.
Musical rain falls from the harp.

1095.Si el honor pierde su hache, está perdido.
If honor loses its H, it is lost. (possibly a play on the homonymy of H and axe)

1096.Alicates: cangrejo incomestible.
Pliers: an inedible crab.

1097.La luna es la mujer que gasta tacones mas altos.
The moon is a woman who wears the highest of heels.

1098.Oreja: embudo de lo que se oye.
The ear: a funnel for what is heard.

1099.La hélice es el trébol de la velocidad.
The propeller is the clover of speed.

1100.A, e, i, o, u: las cinco notas del piano humano.
The vowels are the five notes of the human piano.

Fernando Pessoa: A Little Larger than the Entire Universe (Selected Poems)

 I suppose one can trace the evolution of my thinking about literature by observing the trajectory of my favorite poet.  When she was Elizabeth Barrett Browning, I was clearly obsessed with perfection of form.  When I moved on to Shelley, it was a result of my focus on Truth.  Now I have moved on again, my tastes somewhat lagging behind my perspective.  I desire in what I read and otherwise consume not only perfection of craft, not even meaningful expression of human truths.  I desire, before it is too late, to see the expression of the craft and the art used to tell me something about myself. How narcissistic to desire my own visage in what I read.

And now I have.  Not only does Pessoa's conceit of multiplicity accurately reflect my own internal omnilectic (proud of coining that word), but each of his personae captures one of my faces and pins it to the page.  Alberto Caeiro knows, as I do, that all of this is an illusion, that what is simply is, and nothing more.  But Ricardo Reis fights back, as I do, that there must be more, there must be gods and worlds and lives beyond this, and it is our job to find them.  Alvaro de Campos wails annoyingly, as I do, longing for something that is beyond grasp.  And Pessoa himself, in his own voice, returns to the only voice that can quiet the others: the simple joys of form, symmetry, and rhythm.   

It is this last voice that I relate with the least.  It is no surprise that Pessoa in his own voice is merely a mask, and a relatively unconvincing one,  over the multitudes he contains.  Perhaps I would have related more to him if I were still a Browningite.  What is surprising is how the truth peeks out from behind that mask when,in the name of Alexander Search, he writes in English instead of his native language.  Language is, after all, a veil over our reality, and sometimes relocating to a new lexicon jars the soul enough to give up its secrets.  It is only here that he reveals the core of himself, especially in "King of the Gaps".  Pessoa himself is this eponymous king, "[the] lord of what is twixt thing and thing. / Of interbeings . . ." No matter then name, the voice, that he uses, Pessoa seeks to bridge gaps: "Between our waking and our sleep, / Between our silence and our speech, between / Us and the consciousness of us." Perhaps he even succeeded, for a bridge has definitely been built: one between the poet and this reader.

Alexander Pushkin: The Captain's Daughter and Other Stories

 The problem for me with this type of book (by which I mean creative, vivid, and flawlessly crafted) is that I can't remember what I thought, felt, and remembered during it, other than that I enjoyed reading it.  If it doesn't spark something within me, doesn't leave the germ of a thought of experience behind it, I am left wondering what the point of reading it was. 

Which, as all things, is a metaphor for the larger reality.  Is it enough that something--whether it be book, other experience, or existence itself--be enjoyable?  Is that really all there is?  Is the insistence on something deeper, some meaning, a lost cause?  Or worse yet, a disorder?   I have a feeling that I won't be able to answer this question with regard to literature until I answer it for my entire reality.

Imi Lo: Emotional Sensitivity and Instensity

If, like me, you have a void within you that will not be calmed; if you have had to create your own world just so you had somewhere to exist; if you experience every relationship under an impenetrable fog of difference; and especially if you have accepted the lie that all of this makes you sick, bad, and wrong; read this book.  

I can't say that it captured the truth of my experience with impeccable precision, but it has come closer than any prose I have ever read.  Poets have touched it, but therapists, scholars, and novelists never have.  Perhaps it is because a certain type of individual--intense, porous, and gifted--would have nothing but poetry or music to express it.  

As clearly as it reflects my reality, however, the only help it can offer is the acknowledgement that it is not a disease or a disorder, but a heightened way of being to which few can relate.  This is some comfort,  of course, but one could hope that it offered a pathway forward other than rather general therapeutic exercises that I have tried already.  For now, it will be enough fuel for my engine that I am that I am that I am: the rage, the cruelty, and the emptiness as much as the beauty, the kindness, and the perceptiveness.  It is all a part of one imperfect but stunning work of art. 

Lousie Glück: Poems 1962-2012

 When I was an undergrad, I thought I was pretty hot shit--as many such English majors do.  I presented what I thought was a work of genius to one of my professors, even though it was not in her bailiwick, expecting to be hailed as a "new find" in all of the poetry journals, and awaited her feedback.  Obviously, my expectations were off base.  

"I feel like it's referencing something to which I don't have access," she offered.  I thought it was clear: the poem was about my feelings during my Grandmother's funeral.  I realized much later in life that she didn't mean the setting or the topic of the poem, but its point of view.  Whether it was because she didn't have access to the grief I was trying to express, or I had failed at capturing it, is irrelevant.  As an act of expression, in this case, it had simply failed, and I was appropriately cowed.

As I read this collection by Nobel Laureate Glück, I am reminded of that moment twenty years ago.  In my case, it could easily have been my failure as a poet that inspired the reaction it did.  In this case, I would say that the poet's credentials are sufficiently established, such that I have to look at my part as a reader.  

It would not be quite accurate to say that these poems "referencing something to which I don't have acccess" is a failure on my part as a reader.  It is a reflection of the two very different worlds and experiences the poet and I live in.  Glück is a poet of motherhood, sisterhood, daughterhood, wifehood, and many other things that are locked to my understanding on anything other than a surface level.  I can access them when the writer is clear in her intention, but such is not the poet's way--at least not this poet.  I'm sure she has succeeded in making these experiences bloom for some readers; not only the Nobel Committee, but my own sister testify as much.  Nonetheless, even when developing themes that I should know well, gardening for example, there is the ghost of a yonic truth that taunts me.  

The exception is when she writes of a certain phase of adulthood, one that I happen to  be in right now.  The fact that she would have been ten years older at the time of the publishing is an omen of the fact that this is a point of no return.  To me this period is turbulent, aggressive, but she speaks of how gentle it can be, which is a source of comfort.  She writes, for example in "The Muse of Happiness" of ". . . the insecurity of great hope / suddenly gone." As I approach 50, in fact as I am breathing down its neck, the train of my youth has not only left the station; I can no longer hear its whistle in the distance.  With it, it has taken all the lovers I might have had, all the paths I might have trod, and all the people I might have been.  People say it is never too late.  They lie.  

But she offers, instead, new hopes, new joys.  "Is it possible we have finally paid / bitterly enough?"  What a thought!  " . . . a solitude / not to be feared . . ." How necessary! Hopes that fade make room for new blossoms, and, as in "Mitosis", the mind can finally do more than want.  "Limitless world! The vistas clear, the clouds risen." 

Thomas Mallon: Fellow Travelers

It is unclear whether certain patterns in attention are created and reinforced by the awareness of them, or exist independently--and are even real at all or imagined.  The standard example is thinking of a Volkswagen Beetle, and suddenly seeing them everywhere.  Surely the thought does not alter the number of such Beetles in existence.  What is not clear is whether one is noticing one's own thought and perception, or whether the thought stems from the fact that there do indeed happen to be more Beetles around at that particular moment.

Such is even more unclear when it comes to themes and ideas in culture.  Culture follows trends and comes in waves much more freely and apparently than does more concrete reality.   It is less of a stretch to suppose that there really are more disaster movies lately, for example, than it is to posit that there are more Volkswagens.  Is it something within or external to me that that is responsible for all the media in my path dealing with the despair of being gay in the 1950s?  If it was just the desperate, lonely, and painful truth of gay life in general, it would be obvious.  Surely I seek out such media from experience and fellow-feeling.  But the specificity of the 1950s version of that story, of which this is only the most recent specimen, feeds the larger question heartily.

 It would be entirely on brand for me to incline in the direction of media that reinforced my (baldly unhealthy) narrative or being cursed and doomed.  This particular book came my way through a friend, however, as I had no knowledge of its existence previously.  I worked its way up through the stack of books until reaching the top, and I dutifully worked through it.  Well written, even inspired at points, and filled with delicately nuanced imagery and symbolism, the book is obviously a gem.  But did I really need to reminded yet again what a trial it was to be gay in the 1950s, when it is a lived trial even today?  I did not.   

Robert A. Heinlein: Time for the Stars

 A very solid book, and definitely worthwhile, but there is something within me that wants more from my science fiction.  When I teach something like this, I always use the framework that science fiction is a way of tricking the reader into thinking about something they might not have otherwise.  Every work of science fiction is, at its heart, an allegory, and the strength of that work is tied to the strength of the allegory at its core.  Its quality is inextricably tied to the idea at its center, that which it is trying to get the reader to think about.  

The craftsmanship in this particular book is just stunning.  Perfectly paced and structured, vivid and engaging, set in a world that feels simultaneously fantastic and possible.  Every detail of the world Heinlein has created is carefully chosen, even if only mentioned in passing.  I wouldn't say that the characters were particularly memorable, or that they felt alive to the reader, and I wonder if that is a weakness or a choice on the author's part.

 Nevertheless, I would be hard pressed to say what the book was about, what the idea at the center of it was.  Perhaps something about the nature of humanity, or the danger of technology?  Very unclear.  I am left with the impression that Heinlein knew what he wanted to write without being entirely clear why he wanted to write it.  I enjoyed the book, but enjoyment is fleeting.  What I really look for in science fiction is to become obsessed, and even altered in some way by the reading, as I am when reading Vonnegut or Dick.  This book felt, like so many, enjoyable, but ultimately hollow: a world without a soul.  I'm glad I read it, but I am in no hurry to purchase another.

Paul Harrison: Elements of Pantheism

 I really wanted to get on board with this.  Something about me is tired of the search, and just wants a label to hang my hat on.  I've tried everything, as is clear, and will continue to.  But pantheism, at least as described here, just isn't it.  Perhaps Harrison's term "panentheism" is close, but still not right.  The word that occurs to me is "toothless".  This approach to the divine is almost meaningless, if technically accurate.  I don't want to give up and simply exist, although there are definite arguments to be made for that.  I want my interaction with whatever is bigger than me to be reciprocal.  I don't merely want to know about it, I want to interact with it in a meaningful way.  And so I continue to search for the path that leads me there.  Perhaps that search is the only meaningful interaticion that is possible.  Perhaps not. 

Eça de Queirós: The Relic

 My expectations were low for this book after reading the editor's less than glowing introduction.  According to her, this is a middling book in which the author's genius can be glimpsed, but not seen in full.  Expecting a disjointed, slapdash story, however, I was pleasantly surprised by both the concept and the style.  The idea of a religious triptych is charming, and the effect is successful. Combining the realist style with the supernatural vision was perfectly effective, and the rogueish narrator is more relatable than similar characters in Stendahl etc al.  His disdain for the church is no doubt reflective of the author's own, and possibly his carnal nature too. There is an underlying admission that there is something to it all, however, and it is that which takes the book to each of its interesting waypoints.  Perhaps most interesting--and eerily prescient--of these moments is a dialogue the narrator has with Lucifer in which he says, "Don't bemoan the holocausts of Moloch.  There will be holocausts of Jews someday" (87).  in 1887.  Brrr.

Yes, religion is a farce.  And yet what other account can be given of the visions that we receive, and the moments of fate that bring us to equilibirum?  As the devil says in response to the above description of religious rises and falls, "What do I can one way or the other, Raposo? They are transient.  I am not."

Davis, Jenkins, and Hunt: The Pact

 It's no wonder that my students' reaction to this book was overwhelmingly positive.  It has "accessible" written all over it: writing style, structure, content, and relevance.  I can think of dozens of young men in my classes this year alone who would benefit from reading the story of coming of age among economic and other difficulties, overcoming, and paying it forward.  Even those things that a critic might consider flaws--some narrative cohesion is lacking, and the gentlemen in question are not exactly poets--contribute to its teachability and charm.  No notes; would and will teach again.

 

Mutiny on the Bounty

It is no wonder that this story has multiple adaptations.  It has everything: epic scope, human drama, the  battle between good and evil, and the ultimate triumph of the former.  I would even go so far to say that it is not yet milked for all its value; the story of Pitcairn island only began with this story, and I would love to know more about what happened thereafter.  

Silly me, I assumed that the better movie version would be the more modern, ambitious, and Brandoed of the two.  It is clear that his power and emotions ran away with him during filming, though.  Focusing so much on the romance, and the resulting blow to pacing and narrative, was clearly his fault.  And there are character choices that make his version of Fletcher Christian suffer in comparison to Gable's: a certain foppery and affectation that reduce the stakes of his choices among them.  

But overall I think the credit for the earlier version's ultimate superiority can be given to the editors, rather than the performers.  Even if Laughton's version of Bligh descends into caricature rather too often, the tight pacing and streamlined script of the 1930s version are what ultimately make it the better of the two.

But was it great?  I can't bring myself to go that far.  Surely the cinematography is a marvel (in both versions), and one struggles to imagine how the filming of either was even possible with existing techniques and technologies.  However, I maintain that a movie can only ever rise to the level of its concept, and in both cases the intention was just to tell a story, not to reflect a larger truth.  Good, but Great was never going to be in reach.

Ian Fleming: Casino Royale

 My brother-in-law's assertion that this book is better than the movies based upon it cannot be evaluated here, insofar as I have never seen the movies in question.  What seems certain, however, is that it is wildly different from any spy movie I have ever seen--the Bond movies included.  In the cinematic versions, the hero prevails through almost inhuman skill and cunning.  He is aware at all times of his surroundings, and knows from experience and instinct the best way to succeed.  He then applies his perfect marksmanship, well-honed body, and sexual prowess to ensure that outcome.  He is the alpha male ideal of mastery, in and out of bed.

The Bond in this book is nothing of the sort.  His only talent seems to be a high threshhold for pain, and he is consistently taken by surprise, caught flat-footed, and the victim of higher machinations.  In fact, were it not for consistent intervention by his more competent team and, ultimately, a deus ex machina, he would not have made  it past the first chapter.  This is, of course, a more realistic picture of life.  The only thing we can hope for is that our iron will can get us through the perils of existence.  It is not, however, edifying.  The endorphins released by the alpha male fantasy remain unreleased, and one is left only with the accurate, but unsatisfying realization that neither we nor any other man are golden, and ultimately all that awaits us is pain and betrayal.

Robert J. Sternberg, Ph. D.: Love is a Story

 This model of relationships, to the extent such things can be analyzed, is as good as any.  Humans are story machines; we exist to narrate, to make sense of things and find a map through what is in reality a cloud of atoms.  Sternberg's model acknowledges this humanity, and applies it first at the macro level, proposing a story about stories that one can use to illustrate and reflect one's own experiences.  Each of his proposed models is rather like a tarot card that one can turn up and see as an answer to the mystery of our connections.

His deck, however, the taxonomy of approaches to relationships, is flawed in its cisheteronormativity, but the approach is sound.  Begin by asking, "What have experience and society, combined with my won innate nature, led me to believe about--and seek from--relationships?"  There are certain of his models that come close to describing my own beliefs and experiences.  Even if I limit myself to what he offers, it is useful to notice that part of my own dissatisfaction and frustration with love comes from the conflict between what I believe (something adjacent to his "garden" story) and what I end  up with (something more like his "sacrifice" story).  But this realization is the booby prize, in a way.  Knowing that what I have found is not what I want is small solace.  Knowing why I have attracted or pursued stories that do not align with what would make me happy would be a much more useful bit of information.

And so I add my own version to his list.  Love is a Brotherhood.  It is a battle, but not between the parties.  Rather it is a combination of forces against the encroaching void for mutual protection and advancement.  Whether this story is healthy or not is open to debate (my therapist thinks not).  But it at least gives me a concrete framework to lay over my own choices, and reflect.

Ultiimately, however, Love is a Story is itself a story: another layer of narrative on top of reality that can be useful or not, depending on whether one sees it as a map or a mirror.

Joan Bauer: Rules of the Road

 What a charming and inspiring book.  I wish that I had read it as a teenager, finding my place in the world, and searching for the strength to do for myself what should have been done for me.  How sad for me that no mentor has yet appeared to lend me strength and wisdom, but such fairy godmothers only ever appear in stories.  

Nonetheless, perhaps teaching this book to my students will give them something of what I needed at their age.  And may I continue to be that person for them, to the best of my ability.

I Ching

 This book has long held a fascination for me, not so much for its power, but for its approach.  The natural cycle of things, observable in every aspect of existence, follows definite patterns.  To perceive these patterns, and move with them, is as close to virtue as I know.  It is, of course, not a book to be read, per se.  Rather I prefer to let it read me.  Accordingly, this written response is not a typical reaction.  I may never read the entire book, and do not intend to keep strict track of which hexagrams have come up for me as though it was a collection of baseball cards.  The commentary and explication in this edition by Hua-Ching Ni were invaluable, and offered a depth that will no doubt continue to yield insight.  But for now, I simply record the books response to my inquiry:

"What is the most important principle for me to apply at this point in my spiritual awakening?"

As ever, the answer does not disappoint:

Hexagram 21: Shih Ho, Biting through hardship.  The task ahead is difficult, and must be met with two forces, brought together to meet in the middle.  The task is, of course, that of existence and awakening.  The forces are that from above, the Yang, and that from below, the Yin.  As with the jaws, the above is resolute, immobile, unchanging; the below is fluid, adaptable.  Bringing them together will bring in order: pain, poison, gold, and finally success.

The challenge of facing my existence, ceasing to avoid it, and embracing the challenge of maintaining equilibrium--especially in the classroom--is no small task.  But it can be accomplished, and will bring about the result:

Hexagram 40: Hsieh, dissolution of the problem.  Ni here reference a story from Chuang Tzu that I have long held dear: the butcher's knife does not dull, because in his mind the joint are already separated.  My confidence in the eventual outcome, the true nature of reality as a whole and in my part individually, is justified.  All is unity, abundance, and perfection, and so shall it be revealed.