The 3rd Letter of John

I took the liberty of reading this brief item through once before beginning on a verse by verse inspection. I find that it has very little in the way of theology to recommend it, and has very much the flavor of a brief email "keeping in touch", as one says.  One must wonder what John said to this fellow when and if they met in person.

1:1 In keeping with his opening in the previous epistle, the writer refers to himself merely as "the elder".  This sobriquet opens itself to multiple possibilities.

• This is an official title. If so, it's noteworthy that he is "the" elder, not "an" elder.  Would Peter object to this seeming demotion?
• This is merely a nickname.  The affectionate tone of the note is compatible with opening the book "from your old friend."
• This is a way of distinguishing himself from some other John, of which there are many.  Insofar as his name is nowhere mentioned, this seems unlikely.
• This is something of a code word, and truthfully, this is not the only place where the writer seems to be judicious in disclosing identities.
• I'm seriously overthinking it.

1:4 There is no mention, either the Bible or in church tradition, of John having literal sons--or even a wife.  It's a tempting reading, however, to look at this as a work of actual paternal care.  Indeed, there is nothing to prevent such.

1:5 In contrast to Paul's proscriptions, which are often doctrinal, this seems rather personal.  Diotrephes' offense lay in his lack of charity--both toward John and to others in the early church.

1:11 It is easy to see why John was seen as closer to Christ than the other disciples.  This admonition mirrors the work of his mentor both in its simplicity and its spirit.  Additionally, like much of what Christ is reported to have said, it is incompatible with much of modern Christian doctrine.

In short, not much here to comment upon, but nothing to give offense either.

Taxi Driver

Well, I suppose I have my answer.  Either by virtue of having found the perfect proof for my theorem, or of having become bored with the question, I feel like putting the idea of "greatness" in a movie to bed.

Everything about this movie was great.  The performances: iconic.  Aesthetic elements, cinematography, score (Scorsese's real gift, if you ask me), set design, costumes, everything: flawless.  And yet the movie itself was not great, in my mind.  It was good, flawlessly executed, even a masterpiece, but I can't bring myself to say that it was great.  What could possibly have been lacking? 

I have come to the conclusion that the sine qua non of a great movie is the script.  To be specific, the very idea of the movie must be great for the movie itself to achieve greatness.  If I were in a more mathematical frame of mind, I would write a formula wherein the potential quality of the movie lies in its central idea, and it can never rise above that, but can sink below it based on the quality of other factors.  But I am not in such a frame of mind.  I will simply say that Taxi Driver had a good idea, a good reason for existing, but not a great one, and although no one involved with the movie could have done zir job better, it was never going to be great.

Nagai Kafu: Life and Writings (Edward Seidensticker, ed.)

When we speak of something as an acquired taste, often it is a backhanded way of saying that its virtues are not obvious, or even readily found.  When I say here that the writing of Nagai Kafu in particular, and Japanese literature in general, is an acquired taste, however it is not in that sense.  Rather, it is to say that to appreciate it, one must step entirely out of everything one has learned from a lifetime of Western literature.

I recall a similar experience reading The Tale of Genji and Soul Mountain many years ago.  I failed to appreciate either of them because I kept expecting something that wasn't going to happen.  I'm used to good books having a narrative, a plot, and interesting structure, a resolution of some sort, lifelike characterization, and other things that Western literature does so well.  It was very much like missing the forest for the trees, failing to appreciate the journey due to an obsessive focus on the destination.  In Eastern literature, at least as far as I've experienced, the point is in the moment, not in the momentum.  The joy of reading Genji, or Li Po, or Tu Fu, etc. is the same joy as that of sitting in a park and watching the leaves blow.  This is a quiet, still joy, and one that Kafu exemplifies.

In his excellent editorial and biographical comments, Seidensticker well highlights these joys, found everywhere in Kafu's writings.  Narratively weak and filled with bald, unremarkable characters, his stories might well seem to be poorly written.  Indeed, if one reads them as stories, such a judgement is more than fair.  If, however, one reads them as poems, as insightful, touching descriptions of subtle moments in the life of a man growing weary with the world, but still determined to record its pleasures faithfully, one ceases to care about the plot, characters, structure, and everything else that a Western approach to writing has indoctrinated us to believe is important.  One is able to sit in the yard of this self-described scribbler, and watch the leaves.