This daunting epistolary turned out to be far better than expected. Although Van Gogh 's detailed descriptions of the paintings he was working on are not of particular interest to me, his thoughts on the books he read are quite enjoyable. As it happens, Van Gogh was quite a scholar, reading French and English authors, as well as his native Dutch, untranslated.
Among his favorites are my favorite author (although her hegemony is not as concrete as it once was), George Eliot, and Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress. Eliot makes perfect sense. She fits right in with his favorite painters Millet and Delacroix, a portrayer of unassuming provincial life. But Bunyan is a more interesting choice. It is tempting, if Van Gogh had a taste for allegory, to look for allegory in his own work. This is especially true given the symbolic importance he gave to certain objects: sunflowers represented gratitude to Van Gogh, for instance. But if the paintings are to viewed as a "Pilgrim's Progress" of corts, as an allegorical journey, where is the pilgrim? It is Van Gogh himself. the vast majority of his paintings have the feeling of being visual snapshots, glances from the eye of a real person, and not artificial contsructs. These are things he saw and painted, his room, his bed, his chair, his boots, and they are loaded with allegorical symbolism. In fact, Van Gogh himself identified one of his chair still lifes as an allegorical portrait of Gaugin.
It is often mistakenly said that Van Gogh's last painting was "Wheat Field With Crows", an understandable mistake given the ominous tone of that painting. The truth is that many paintings were completed at the same time that final month of his life, and I prefer to think that the final--or at least the most relevant--of that group is "The Reaper". On his path, Van Gogh met many people, but it is this character whom he met last.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
The Best American Short Stories of 2006
I think Ann Patchett put her finger on something here when she writes that "the short story is in need of a scandal." What she means, of course, is that it is in need of a publicist. The short story is treated as the ugly stepsister of the novel, but totally without cause. As Patchett observes, the quality of published short stories is generally stronger than that of novels, simply because it is less painful to abandon an unsuccessful short story than it is to give up on a novel you've been writing for years. Nonetheless, short stories are looked upon with a condescending eye, and I feel like subscribing to at least one short story/literary journal to make up for my haughtiness.
As for this particular collection, Patchett has made some nice shoices as editor. I don't feel like writing about each one, but here are the ones worth particular note:
Mark Slouka: "Dominion"
Benjamin Percy: "Refresh, Refresh" (My favorite of the volume)
Alice Munro: "The View From Castle Rock"
Kevin Moffett: "Tattooizm"
Robert Coover: "Grandmother's Nose" (worth teaching to my students)
As for this particular collection, Patchett has made some nice shoices as editor. I don't feel like writing about each one, but here are the ones worth particular note:
Mark Slouka: "Dominion"
Benjamin Percy: "Refresh, Refresh" (My favorite of the volume)
Alice Munro: "The View From Castle Rock"
Kevin Moffett: "Tattooizm"
Robert Coover: "Grandmother's Nose" (worth teaching to my students)
Adventures in Bible-reading
Judges
Whoa, did this book take a wrong turn around chapter 17. For the first two thirds, the book is as I remembered. Israel starts worshipping foreign gods. JEHOVAH gets irritated and sells them into captivity. Then he changes his mind and brings them a deliverer, a Judge. After Samson, however, they seem to have run out of heroes. The last section feels like another book entirely, as explained in the last verse: "In those days, there was no king in Israel; all the people did what was right in their own eyes" (21:25). And oy gevalt, "what was right in their own eyes" tuns out to have been bizarre indeed!
As it turns out, a certain Levite's concubine "became angry with him, and she went away from him to her father's house" (19:2). He fetched her from Dad's house and they headed back home. On the way, they stopped in Gibeah, and a resident there offered to take them in. In the middle of the night, the residents of Gibeah banged on the door and demanded that the Levite come out so they could rape him. "Hell to the no!" he says. "Take my concubine instead. She was becoming a pain anyway."
"In the morning her master got up, opened the doors of the house, and when he wentout to go on his way, there was his concubine lying on the door of the house, with her hands on the threshold. "[Oh. You. I almost forgot.] Get up," he said to her, 'we are going." But there was no answer" (19:27-28).
This little scenario sounds familiar, but I'll get back to that. This was clearly an asshole thing to do. But what does he do? He cuts her up into 12 pieces and sends one to each of the tribal heads, whining, "Look what Gibeah did! Those jerks. Let's do something about it! What, my fault? Nonsense." So the other eleven tribes go down to Gibeah and fight against the Benjaminites, who defend their own. They lure the men out of the city, double back and kill all the women and children. To finalize everything, they all swear a curse upon anyone who gives a daughter in marriage to the tribe of Benjamin.
Of course, then Israel feels guilty because their little patriarchal society has been messed up by the elimination of a whole tribe. What to do? Repopulate it. After all, the men were not killed, just the women. Oh, wait. There is that little oath we took. Is there anyone who didn't take it? Aha! Jabesh-Gilead. There wasn't anybody here from Jabesh-Gilead. We can get wives for the Benjaminites from them!
So Israel goes to Jabesh-Gilead to get wives for the men whose wives they killed. They kill everyone in the city except all the young virgins, about 400 of them. Keep in mind that Jabesh-Gilead is one of their own cities. And 400 virgins is not enough for a whole tribe. So they go and steal the women of Shechem. And they all lived happily ever after.
That is about the most disgusting, bloodthirsty, misogynist thing I ever read. And the whole thing evidently happened "because the LORD had made a breach in the tribes of Israel" (21:15). I feel more strongly than ever that I cannot worship this LORD of whom they write. But from a literary perspective, I find it interesting the flavor of mythology that surrounds the whole book. It feels like the Israelites had a tough time and made up a narrative about it afterward. It almost like a Robert Louis Stevenson story. The elephant's nose is long, because an alligator pulled on it. The Leopard is spotted because he wrestled with the painted man. The Israelites were always in trouble because of the LORD's doing, not because they were assholes and shit happens. Related to this is the fact that at least part of this story overlaps with/cannibalizes the other story I hate, that of Lot. A pre-existing, well-known story nestled within a story is a sure sign of myth-making in my book.
Ruth
By way of contrast, this little book is a real delight. Ruth's song to Naomi is touching, and I may add it to my marriage ceremony if I ever go that route again. And the love admiration of Boaz for Ruth seems as genuine as any other in literature.
Whoa, did this book take a wrong turn around chapter 17. For the first two thirds, the book is as I remembered. Israel starts worshipping foreign gods. JEHOVAH gets irritated and sells them into captivity. Then he changes his mind and brings them a deliverer, a Judge. After Samson, however, they seem to have run out of heroes. The last section feels like another book entirely, as explained in the last verse: "In those days, there was no king in Israel; all the people did what was right in their own eyes" (21:25). And oy gevalt, "what was right in their own eyes" tuns out to have been bizarre indeed!
As it turns out, a certain Levite's concubine "became angry with him, and she went away from him to her father's house" (19:2). He fetched her from Dad's house and they headed back home. On the way, they stopped in Gibeah, and a resident there offered to take them in. In the middle of the night, the residents of Gibeah banged on the door and demanded that the Levite come out so they could rape him. "Hell to the no!" he says. "Take my concubine instead. She was becoming a pain anyway."
"In the morning her master got up, opened the doors of the house, and when he wentout to go on his way, there was his concubine lying on the door of the house, with her hands on the threshold. "[Oh. You. I almost forgot.] Get up," he said to her, 'we are going." But there was no answer" (19:27-28).
This little scenario sounds familiar, but I'll get back to that. This was clearly an asshole thing to do. But what does he do? He cuts her up into 12 pieces and sends one to each of the tribal heads, whining, "Look what Gibeah did! Those jerks. Let's do something about it! What, my fault? Nonsense." So the other eleven tribes go down to Gibeah and fight against the Benjaminites, who defend their own. They lure the men out of the city, double back and kill all the women and children. To finalize everything, they all swear a curse upon anyone who gives a daughter in marriage to the tribe of Benjamin.
Of course, then Israel feels guilty because their little patriarchal society has been messed up by the elimination of a whole tribe. What to do? Repopulate it. After all, the men were not killed, just the women. Oh, wait. There is that little oath we took. Is there anyone who didn't take it? Aha! Jabesh-Gilead. There wasn't anybody here from Jabesh-Gilead. We can get wives for the Benjaminites from them!
So Israel goes to Jabesh-Gilead to get wives for the men whose wives they killed. They kill everyone in the city except all the young virgins, about 400 of them. Keep in mind that Jabesh-Gilead is one of their own cities. And 400 virgins is not enough for a whole tribe. So they go and steal the women of Shechem. And they all lived happily ever after.
That is about the most disgusting, bloodthirsty, misogynist thing I ever read. And the whole thing evidently happened "because the LORD had made a breach in the tribes of Israel" (21:15). I feel more strongly than ever that I cannot worship this LORD of whom they write. But from a literary perspective, I find it interesting the flavor of mythology that surrounds the whole book. It feels like the Israelites had a tough time and made up a narrative about it afterward. It almost like a Robert Louis Stevenson story. The elephant's nose is long, because an alligator pulled on it. The Leopard is spotted because he wrestled with the painted man. The Israelites were always in trouble because of the LORD's doing, not because they were assholes and shit happens. Related to this is the fact that at least part of this story overlaps with/cannibalizes the other story I hate, that of Lot. A pre-existing, well-known story nestled within a story is a sure sign of myth-making in my book.
Ruth
By way of contrast, this little book is a real delight. Ruth's song to Naomi is touching, and I may add it to my marriage ceremony if I ever go that route again. And the love admiration of Boaz for Ruth seems as genuine as any other in literature.
Discount Grab Bag Assortment
The following were read in preparation for teaching a Science Fiction Literature course next semester.
Jules Verne: "Master Zacharius"
Seminal and engaging, but difficult to follow at points. This would be a good text to introduce the idea of "playing God" as it appears in sci-fi lit.
H.G. Wells: "The Crystal Egg"
The "incredible device" genre is one that seems to pop up frequently, and this is a quick and easy example. One approach to sci-fi is to look it as a way of questioning society's assumptions and asking "What if?" This would be a good choice for that aproach.
Arthur Conan Doyle, "The Disintegration Machine"
Another "incredible device," this would be nice to teach side by side with "The Crystal Egg" to show how sci-fi was changed by WWI. All of a sudden, knowledge is dangerous, another recurring theme. Just wait until Hiroshima, bitches.
Jack Williamson: "The Metal Man" I wouldn't teach this. It's interesting, but not clear. These are high school students, after all.
Jules Verne: "Master Zacharius"
Seminal and engaging, but difficult to follow at points. This would be a good text to introduce the idea of "playing God" as it appears in sci-fi lit.
H.G. Wells: "The Crystal Egg"
The "incredible device" genre is one that seems to pop up frequently, and this is a quick and easy example. One approach to sci-fi is to look it as a way of questioning society's assumptions and asking "What if?" This would be a good choice for that aproach.
Arthur Conan Doyle, "The Disintegration Machine"
Another "incredible device," this would be nice to teach side by side with "The Crystal Egg" to show how sci-fi was changed by WWI. All of a sudden, knowledge is dangerous, another recurring theme. Just wait until Hiroshima, bitches.
Jack Williamson: "The Metal Man" I wouldn't teach this. It's interesting, but not clear. These are high school students, after all.
Monday, May 07, 2007
For my next trick . . .
I shall try something I have not done since College: try to tie three completely different books together thematically: Joshua, Mark Doty: My Alexandria, and John Coetzee: Waiting for the Barbarians.
***
Resistance is futile. You will be assimilated. Not only you, but your relationship, your nation, each worldly possession and whatever you're feeling at this very moment will melt, thaw and resolve itself into a dew. All flesh is grass. This too shall pass.
This is why Empire is a terrible idea, as Coetzee observes: "What has made it impossible for us to live like fish in water, like birds in air, like children? It is the fault of Empire! . . . Empire has located its existence, not in the smooth recurrent spinning time of the cycle of the seasons but in the jagged time of rise and fall. Of beginning and end, of catastrophe" (131). In Waiting for the Barbarians, Coetzee creates an allegorical world where The Empire, as empires do, tries to strengthen its borders as proof against the foe of any empire, The Barbarians. But this Empire discovers exactly what America has: the more one attacks, the more one is attacked; the very action of attack is destructive to oneself. In fact, The Barbarians really have nothing to do with the fall of The Empire in Coetzee's book. Its demise is completely self-inflicted.
And one wonders if the same is not true of the nation of Israel--not just in modern times, but even at its heyday as a power. By Coetzee's reasoning, "Every place that the sole of your feet shall tread upon I have given to you. . . No one shall be able to stand against you." turns out to be pretty rotten advice (Joshua 1:3-4). For one thing, the prediction was false. Certain tribes resisted the Israelites; their conquest was not the blowout they had been promised. "They did not, however drive out the Canaanites who lived in Gezer: so the Canaanites have lived wihtin Ephraim to this day," a fact which is a pity for modern Israel; the Canaanites were the forerunners of modern Palsetinians (16:10). Neither did they drive out the Geshurites, the Maacathites or the Jebusites. And yet, the writer of Joshua claims that "The LORD gave them rest on every side, just as he had sworn to their ancestors; not one of all their enemies had withstood them for the LORD had given all their enemies into their hands" (21:44). If only. For the Judean Empire is a classic example of "the jagged time of rise and fall" Coetzee describes. As I prepare to reread Judges, I remember its contents: Israel is rescued by the LORD. Israel sins. Israel is reconquered (as punishment). Repeat ad infinitum. What Joshua takes for a tesimony to Israel's power, I take as a seal on their doom: "[The LORD] gave you a land on which you had not labored, and towns that you had not built, and you live in them; you eat the fruit of vineyards and oliveyards that you did not plant" (24:13). Such an empire can not only be expected to return tot he dust, it should be encouraged to do so.
And what is true for political empire is true for the little empires we build around ourselves as well. Mark Doty does an excellent job of describing this in My Alexandria, a delightfully cohesive volume that makes and destroys little cities on every page. I almost wrote an entire post on "Demolition," I found it so dense and layered. It took me actual research and rereading to extract its full efect, an effort to which I am not used. The poem describes a building that the author is watching fall, but is peppered with seemingly random episodes that I was at first unable to tie together. What do Oscar Wilde, Robert Lowell, and the monument to General Shaw (which I have actually seen) have to do with this building? The key, after the fourth or so reading, came in the seemingly out of place word, "we". "Waitaminnit," I realized, "Who's we?" As it turns out, the entire thing is about watching the last pieces of a failed relationship fall, and in retrosopect it is too obvious. If you read the poem, you may understand the difficulty of analysis and forgive me my thickheadedness. Most poems in this volume bear up under similar scrutiny, and I will take time out from my topic to just mention that "Difference" is one of the best poems I have ever read, but what it says cannot be communicated in words, at least not by me. Read it. In its way, though, it is also about the undulating pulse of the universe, against which it is futile, but more importantly desstructive, to resist. We are all slowly "becoming a meadow," ebbing and flowing through our existence, which doesn't belong to us at all (Becoming a Meadow). We are all music, " gather[ing] and tumbl[ing] / like water collecting in a fountain / all hesitation and sudden release" (Lament-Heaven). But nonetheless, we all--even those of us who know better--try to build empires. "If we are all continuous," Doty observes, "rippling from nothing into being / why can't we let ourselves go?" (Lament-Heaven).
BTD 16
***
Resistance is futile. You will be assimilated. Not only you, but your relationship, your nation, each worldly possession and whatever you're feeling at this very moment will melt, thaw and resolve itself into a dew. All flesh is grass. This too shall pass.
This is why Empire is a terrible idea, as Coetzee observes: "What has made it impossible for us to live like fish in water, like birds in air, like children? It is the fault of Empire! . . . Empire has located its existence, not in the smooth recurrent spinning time of the cycle of the seasons but in the jagged time of rise and fall. Of beginning and end, of catastrophe" (131). In Waiting for the Barbarians, Coetzee creates an allegorical world where The Empire, as empires do, tries to strengthen its borders as proof against the foe of any empire, The Barbarians. But this Empire discovers exactly what America has: the more one attacks, the more one is attacked; the very action of attack is destructive to oneself. In fact, The Barbarians really have nothing to do with the fall of The Empire in Coetzee's book. Its demise is completely self-inflicted.
And one wonders if the same is not true of the nation of Israel--not just in modern times, but even at its heyday as a power. By Coetzee's reasoning, "Every place that the sole of your feet shall tread upon I have given to you. . . No one shall be able to stand against you." turns out to be pretty rotten advice (Joshua 1:3-4). For one thing, the prediction was false. Certain tribes resisted the Israelites; their conquest was not the blowout they had been promised. "They did not, however drive out the Canaanites who lived in Gezer: so the Canaanites have lived wihtin Ephraim to this day," a fact which is a pity for modern Israel; the Canaanites were the forerunners of modern Palsetinians (16:10). Neither did they drive out the Geshurites, the Maacathites or the Jebusites. And yet, the writer of Joshua claims that "The LORD gave them rest on every side, just as he had sworn to their ancestors; not one of all their enemies had withstood them for the LORD had given all their enemies into their hands" (21:44). If only. For the Judean Empire is a classic example of "the jagged time of rise and fall" Coetzee describes. As I prepare to reread Judges, I remember its contents: Israel is rescued by the LORD. Israel sins. Israel is reconquered (as punishment). Repeat ad infinitum. What Joshua takes for a tesimony to Israel's power, I take as a seal on their doom: "[The LORD] gave you a land on which you had not labored, and towns that you had not built, and you live in them; you eat the fruit of vineyards and oliveyards that you did not plant" (24:13). Such an empire can not only be expected to return tot he dust, it should be encouraged to do so.
And what is true for political empire is true for the little empires we build around ourselves as well. Mark Doty does an excellent job of describing this in My Alexandria, a delightfully cohesive volume that makes and destroys little cities on every page. I almost wrote an entire post on "Demolition," I found it so dense and layered. It took me actual research and rereading to extract its full efect, an effort to which I am not used. The poem describes a building that the author is watching fall, but is peppered with seemingly random episodes that I was at first unable to tie together. What do Oscar Wilde, Robert Lowell, and the monument to General Shaw (which I have actually seen) have to do with this building? The key, after the fourth or so reading, came in the seemingly out of place word, "we". "Waitaminnit," I realized, "Who's we?" As it turns out, the entire thing is about watching the last pieces of a failed relationship fall, and in retrosopect it is too obvious. If you read the poem, you may understand the difficulty of analysis and forgive me my thickheadedness. Most poems in this volume bear up under similar scrutiny, and I will take time out from my topic to just mention that "Difference" is one of the best poems I have ever read, but what it says cannot be communicated in words, at least not by me. Read it. In its way, though, it is also about the undulating pulse of the universe, against which it is futile, but more importantly desstructive, to resist. We are all slowly "becoming a meadow," ebbing and flowing through our existence, which doesn't belong to us at all (Becoming a Meadow). We are all music, " gather[ing] and tumbl[ing] / like water collecting in a fountain / all hesitation and sudden release" (Lament-Heaven). But nonetheless, we all--even those of us who know better--try to build empires. "If we are all continuous," Doty observes, "rippling from nothing into being / why can't we let ourselves go?" (Lament-Heaven).
BTD 16
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