The power of stichomancy is real. I add this book to the list of times when what I read was exactly what I am meant to have read at the moment. I'm sure that it's no different from tarot, in that it has no particular power other than to clarify those things that we already know, but like tarot it is occasionally uncanny in its accuracy.
If my life were to have a theme, and such a thing seems vanishingly unlikely at this point, it would be that of "starting over". The maximum I have ever been able to stay in one house, at one job, or with one person, has always been three years. At that point, I invariably throw a grenade into my life, jettison as much as possible, and hoist my petard to a new situation. One could easily spin a version of events wherein this habit is a symptom of cowardice and laziness, but no amount of judgement has been able to stop me from doing it. And with one exception (you know who you are), I do not regret having done it, though I often regret not having done it sooner.
And as I sit here at a desk in my very own version of Buzzati's Fort Bastiani, the thought occurs to me that perhaps it's better to stay this time, even though the pin has already been pulled. What would happen if I stuck around this place for another few years? What could be the harm in at least trying something different, in the ironic situation that not trying something different is the only something different left to me?
And whether Buzati's answer is his own, or invented by this reader to fit the circumstance, is irrelevant. If one stays on the edge of the Tartar steppe, willingly surrendering to the communal delusion that things will get better at any moment, one is invariably disappointed. And that disappointment infects the spirit, until nothing is left but a jaundiced shadow, hoping at least to meet death bravely.
Thursday, December 29, 2016
Vaclav Havel: To the Castle and Back
I fell in love with Havel the writer before I fell in love with the man. His plays combine all the virtues of Camus, Kafka, and Beckett, but where they despaired at the idiocy of existence, Havel laughed and danced and blew raspberries--the only healthy approach.
On a recent trip to the Czech Republic, I decided it would be appropriate to visit his grave and lay a rose, and took the chance to read this post-modernist memoir while lingering in coffee shops around the city. I quickly went from appreciative reader to gobsmacked fanboy.
The book itself would have been worthy of the time invested. No formulaic memoir, this. Havel juggles fragments of terse, frustrated emails; diurnal musings; and carefully polished interviews in a perfectly timed dance of seven travails. It's a rare memoir that would stand up as a work of fiction.
But it was not fiction. This remarkable life, and the remarkable way he faced it, were all real. The protagonist of this Kafkaesque, Camusian, Becketty story existed. It was not only in his plays that Havel gave the finger to the existential void. Somehow, he saw what any perceptive human sees, refused to look away, and didn't go insane.
And then he wrote it down. And so it is not just because he was an amazing writer, thoughtful politician, and hero of his country that Havel is now one of my heroes. It is rather because he knew what I know, felt what I feel, and somehow made it worthwhile in a way that perhaps I could be capable of someday.
On a recent trip to the Czech Republic, I decided it would be appropriate to visit his grave and lay a rose, and took the chance to read this post-modernist memoir while lingering in coffee shops around the city. I quickly went from appreciative reader to gobsmacked fanboy.
The book itself would have been worthy of the time invested. No formulaic memoir, this. Havel juggles fragments of terse, frustrated emails; diurnal musings; and carefully polished interviews in a perfectly timed dance of seven travails. It's a rare memoir that would stand up as a work of fiction.
But it was not fiction. This remarkable life, and the remarkable way he faced it, were all real. The protagonist of this Kafkaesque, Camusian, Becketty story existed. It was not only in his plays that Havel gave the finger to the existential void. Somehow, he saw what any perceptive human sees, refused to look away, and didn't go insane.
And then he wrote it down. And so it is not just because he was an amazing writer, thoughtful politician, and hero of his country that Havel is now one of my heroes. It is rather because he knew what I know, felt what I feel, and somehow made it worthwhile in a way that perhaps I could be capable of someday.
Friday, October 07, 2016
All Quiet on the Western Front
The more things change . . .
This film is guilty of two things that regularly annoy me today.
Annoyance the first: Labeling something "good" (or even "great") because some individual part of it meets those standards. There were a few things about this film that were well done--the cinematography, certain technical elements, the production design--and there were individual scenes that were either well done, or good ideas on paper. But, and my bonnet admittedly still has a bee in it from trying to convince a coworker this very day that Gower and Middleton, while they succeed marvelously on some levels, do not deserve to be mentioned alongside Chaucer and Shakespeare, who succeed on every level, moments of brilliance do not justify overarching mediocrity. Modern offenders: David Lynch, Ryan Murphy, Drake.
Annoyance the second: richly layered and highly talented ensembles being spoiled by the bland, wooden, inoffensively attractive lead actor. Lew Ayres gives every last one of his lines, even those few that are not already dangerously top-heavy, with the same earnestly mild reading that one would give to a detergent commercial. At no point does his character change, react, or express anything that could not have been given perhaps better in a telegram. More's the pity, as Slim Summerville and Louis Wolheim give depth and texture to even the maudlin, didactic teletype that serves as a script. I am positively disgusted by the troops of vaguely pretty boys in leading roles who clearly are there because they dampened a casting director's panties, and remain there because of the flooded undergarments of their fans. My frustration is only sharpened by the often vibrant ensembles that are forced to prop them up. Modern offenders: Stephen Amell, Henry Cavill, Kit Harington, Dominic Cooper, et al ad infinitum. Taking the movie in question here as evidence, it would seem that the trend is nearly a hundred years old in film, likely even longer in other media, and potentially immortal.
This film is guilty of two things that regularly annoy me today.
Annoyance the first: Labeling something "good" (or even "great") because some individual part of it meets those standards. There were a few things about this film that were well done--the cinematography, certain technical elements, the production design--and there were individual scenes that were either well done, or good ideas on paper. But, and my bonnet admittedly still has a bee in it from trying to convince a coworker this very day that Gower and Middleton, while they succeed marvelously on some levels, do not deserve to be mentioned alongside Chaucer and Shakespeare, who succeed on every level, moments of brilliance do not justify overarching mediocrity. Modern offenders: David Lynch, Ryan Murphy, Drake.
Annoyance the second: richly layered and highly talented ensembles being spoiled by the bland, wooden, inoffensively attractive lead actor. Lew Ayres gives every last one of his lines, even those few that are not already dangerously top-heavy, with the same earnestly mild reading that one would give to a detergent commercial. At no point does his character change, react, or express anything that could not have been given perhaps better in a telegram. More's the pity, as Slim Summerville and Louis Wolheim give depth and texture to even the maudlin, didactic teletype that serves as a script. I am positively disgusted by the troops of vaguely pretty boys in leading roles who clearly are there because they dampened a casting director's panties, and remain there because of the flooded undergarments of their fans. My frustration is only sharpened by the often vibrant ensembles that are forced to prop them up. Modern offenders: Stephen Amell, Henry Cavill, Kit Harington, Dominic Cooper, et al ad infinitum. Taking the movie in question here as evidence, it would seem that the trend is nearly a hundred years old in film, likely even longer in other media, and potentially immortal.
Monday, October 03, 2016
Julia Kristeva: Revolution in Poetic Language
Until I started this book, I would have said that Kant's Critique of Pure Reason was the most obtuse and inaccessible book I've ever read. Congratulations, Kristeva, for writing something to which I have no access, and saying something that my ears are unwilling or unable to hear. I could not say with any certainty what she wrote here, what she meant by it, or whether it has any validity (although her indebtedness to Freud and Marx argue "not"). I am nearly certain that my coworker recommended it to me as a joke, in fact, and muttered to himself as he handed it over, "Let's see this pompous ass pretend to understand it."
Many, faced with the challenge of a similarly inscrutable text, would approach it with a microscope, a dictionary, and a pair of tweezers, trying to pull apart the threads of meaning, the entangled and knotted definitions of coined words, the off-handedly knowing allusions to other works, so irrelevant or alien that they may as well be apocryphal. But not I. I know that what Kristeva wrote and what I read may or may not have anything to do with each other; the courtship between writer and reader always takes place on opposite sides of a glass panel--a literary conjugal visit that can only frustrate those who desire to touch solid flesh.
I do not lament this barrier. Like all realities, it is only frustrating to the extent that one expects it to be other than it is, to the extent that one expects to ask the author, "What do you mean?" and to have her answer you in no uncertain terms. But in Kristeva, as in anything worth reading, uncertain terms are an indispensable part of the texture. There do exist those authors, writers of pop psychology, self-help, and how-to, who do all of the thinking for you. But there is more arousal in concealing than in revealing, and more pleasure in tmesis than in thesis.
Many, faced with the challenge of a similarly inscrutable text, would approach it with a microscope, a dictionary, and a pair of tweezers, trying to pull apart the threads of meaning, the entangled and knotted definitions of coined words, the off-handedly knowing allusions to other works, so irrelevant or alien that they may as well be apocryphal. But not I. I know that what Kristeva wrote and what I read may or may not have anything to do with each other; the courtship between writer and reader always takes place on opposite sides of a glass panel--a literary conjugal visit that can only frustrate those who desire to touch solid flesh.
I do not lament this barrier. Like all realities, it is only frustrating to the extent that one expects it to be other than it is, to the extent that one expects to ask the author, "What do you mean?" and to have her answer you in no uncertain terms. But in Kristeva, as in anything worth reading, uncertain terms are an indispensable part of the texture. There do exist those authors, writers of pop psychology, self-help, and how-to, who do all of the thinking for you. But there is more arousal in concealing than in revealing, and more pleasure in tmesis than in thesis.
And so the inaccessibility of a text, the opacity of that window between prisoner and visitor, is not a hindrance, but a liberty. The more distant the author is from the reader, the freer this latter is to look at the text, not as a communique, but as a spilt deck of tarot cards: a collage of symbols that hold only the meaning one carries to them. Insofar as Kristeva could not possibly be more distant from me, I was entirely liberated to, as Roland Barthes suggests,
". . .skim or to skip certain passages (anticipated as "boring") in order to get more quickly to the warmer parts of the anecdote (which are always its articulations: whatever furthers the solution of the riddle, the revelation of fate): we boldly skip (no one is watching) descriptions, explanations, analyses, conversations; doing so, we resemble a spectator in a nightclub who climbs onto the stage and speeds up the dancer's striptease, tearing off her clothing . . ." (The Pleasure of the Text, 11).
And so I did. I went entire pages without worrying what was being said, waiting for some swath of flesh to peek through the layers of fabric, my wandering brain detached from my attentive eyes. And when the author turned around too quickly, revealing something succulent in the folds between sentences, my brain snapped back to attention for a while, piecing together meanings that may or may not have actually been there.
It is not surprising that I came away from this exercise rather emboldened than enlightened. Whether she wanted to or not, Kristeva added her semiotic chora and her semantothetic rupture to the list of dichotomies that currently propel my deeper moments. The semiotic and the semantic, the personal self and the public self, the biological drives and the social drives, the genotext and the phenotext, all of the polarities that she isolates only fed the Taoist monster that is incubating in me. And, whether she meant to or not, she offered a new way of resolving it.
The object (in a nearly grammatical sense) that is formed by the thetic mistakes itself for the subject that lives in the chora. As the semantic and symbolic systems become more and more complex, the subject who originally thought them--driven by social, sexual, logical, and other drives--cannot help but become enveloped by them, and mistake itself for the object of which it speaks. For Kristeva, this results in negativity, nothingness, and an assortment of other processes drawn heavily from discredited psychoanalytical instincts. For me, however, it results in a different type of nothingness: an anomie, a loss of identity, a morass of sentences of which I am the object, the desired, the valued, the appreciated, the loved. Entangled in this accusative skein, I realize I have lost track of the nominative. I have become Me. Where, and whom, am I, so smothered by m-commanding case assignors that the subject now isn't even sure if he exists?
". . .skim or to skip certain passages (anticipated as "boring") in order to get more quickly to the warmer parts of the anecdote (which are always its articulations: whatever furthers the solution of the riddle, the revelation of fate): we boldly skip (no one is watching) descriptions, explanations, analyses, conversations; doing so, we resemble a spectator in a nightclub who climbs onto the stage and speeds up the dancer's striptease, tearing off her clothing . . ." (The Pleasure of the Text, 11).
And so I did. I went entire pages without worrying what was being said, waiting for some swath of flesh to peek through the layers of fabric, my wandering brain detached from my attentive eyes. And when the author turned around too quickly, revealing something succulent in the folds between sentences, my brain snapped back to attention for a while, piecing together meanings that may or may not have actually been there.
It is not surprising that I came away from this exercise rather emboldened than enlightened. Whether she wanted to or not, Kristeva added her semiotic chora and her semantothetic rupture to the list of dichotomies that currently propel my deeper moments. The semiotic and the semantic, the personal self and the public self, the biological drives and the social drives, the genotext and the phenotext, all of the polarities that she isolates only fed the Taoist monster that is incubating in me. And, whether she meant to or not, she offered a new way of resolving it.
The object (in a nearly grammatical sense) that is formed by the thetic mistakes itself for the subject that lives in the chora. As the semantic and symbolic systems become more and more complex, the subject who originally thought them--driven by social, sexual, logical, and other drives--cannot help but become enveloped by them, and mistake itself for the object of which it speaks. For Kristeva, this results in negativity, nothingness, and an assortment of other processes drawn heavily from discredited psychoanalytical instincts. For me, however, it results in a different type of nothingness: an anomie, a loss of identity, a morass of sentences of which I am the object, the desired, the valued, the appreciated, the loved. Entangled in this accusative skein, I realize I have lost track of the nominative. I have become Me. Where, and whom, am I, so smothered by m-commanding case assignors that the subject now isn't even sure if he exists?
Thursday, September 29, 2016
한강: 채식주의자
난 경치에 흥미가 없다. 뛰어나게 아름다운 산기슭, 협곡, 건물 앞에서는 난 십 분후 성급하게 시계를 보고 다음 어디로갈까 생각하는 편이다. 경치보다 박물관, 연국장, 축제, 전시회와 같은 좌뇌를 자극하는 걸 좋아한다. 개념, 착상, 발상이 나한테 중요해서 그런가 가만히 앉아서 감상할 인내력이 없는가 나도 모른다. 어쨌든 좌뇌를 활성하게 하는 서양식 문학 나한테 큰 매력이 있다.
동양식 문학이 완전 다르다. 高行健,村上 春樹, 등과 같은 동양 작가의 작품을 읽었을 때도 이런 생각이 든다: 나무를 보고 숲을 보지 못했네. 동양 책을 읽을 때 또는 동양 영화를 볼 때 의미를 찾느라 감상을 못하곤 한다.
그래서 이 요즘 인기와 칭송을 많이 받아온 책을 원어로 읽는 게 다행이다. 같은 단어를 두번 사용하기 싫어하는 작가의 어희 나니도가 한국어 원어민한테도 어려울 것 같다. 심지어 들어본 적이없는 음절도 있는 책이다. 좌뇌가 미칠듯이 다룰 수 없었던 것이다. 이렇게 좌뇌에 단어가 넘쳐나는 책을 읽는 것에 좌뇌를 꺼버리고 사전을 닫고 우뇌를 켜기밖에 없었다.
이책은 무슨 의미를 갖고 있는지에 할말이 없다. 그러나 기억에서 지울 수 없을 장면, 느낌, 흥분, 감상에 대한 말이 입에서 물구나무 자라있다.
동양식 문학이 완전 다르다. 高行健,村上 春樹, 등과 같은 동양 작가의 작품을 읽었을 때도 이런 생각이 든다: 나무를 보고 숲을 보지 못했네. 동양 책을 읽을 때 또는 동양 영화를 볼 때 의미를 찾느라 감상을 못하곤 한다.
그래서 이 요즘 인기와 칭송을 많이 받아온 책을 원어로 읽는 게 다행이다. 같은 단어를 두번 사용하기 싫어하는 작가의 어희 나니도가 한국어 원어민한테도 어려울 것 같다. 심지어 들어본 적이없는 음절도 있는 책이다. 좌뇌가 미칠듯이 다룰 수 없었던 것이다. 이렇게 좌뇌에 단어가 넘쳐나는 책을 읽는 것에 좌뇌를 꺼버리고 사전을 닫고 우뇌를 켜기밖에 없었다.
이책은 무슨 의미를 갖고 있는지에 할말이 없다. 그러나 기억에서 지울 수 없을 장면, 느낌, 흥분, 감상에 대한 말이 입에서 물구나무 자라있다.
Monday, September 19, 2016
Nicholas Kralev: America's Other Army
After teaching for 10+ years, I find myself considering a career shift. This is not at all surprising, to those who know me. What is surprising is that I have stuck with it for this long. I am a great teacher, I find it stimulating and rewarding, and I suppose I could picture myself doing this until I retire.
But I have what is called in Korean 역말살 (station horse flesh), or in English "hot feet". I have never been able to stay in the same place for more than three years. I'm fortunate that the nature of teaching in general, and of teaching English in particular, is such that I have been able to indulge this side of myself without having to actually change fields. All that's been required has been to change my location, friends, coworkers, curriculum, living arrangements . . . everything else. I simply require the stimulation of starting over in a new environment and finding my way.
The down side of this, of course, is that of always being the new guy. Starting over every three or so years doesn't exactly lend itself to career advancement, and my resume is an admitted casserole. If only there were a career where my particular idiosyncrasy was not such a hindrance to my general welfare. Perhaps, even, one in which ability and eagerness to start over every three years was a virtue, rather than a land mine.
Which is where the idea of the foreign service comes in. Originally turned on to the idea by my friend Karen, who has been serving now for some years and is thriving, I have been doing some due diligence on the subject, rather than jumping in and hoping for the best. The general consensus among those who know me best is that it would be a marvelous fit, so I picked up this book to dig further.
Anything further I would have to say on the topic would likely be on the Foreign Service itself, rather than on the book, so I will limit myself to observing that Kralev's unflinching and thorough treatment of the subject has reinforced my perception: that many of what he views as drawbacks of a Foreign Service career are to me seductive, and many of the things that one might view as drawbacks about me as a person actually would be virtues in that environment. And so it is that I'm scheduled to take the first exam in a few weeks. One could expect to see more books of this type here in the future, I suppose.
But I have what is called in Korean 역말살 (station horse flesh), or in English "hot feet". I have never been able to stay in the same place for more than three years. I'm fortunate that the nature of teaching in general, and of teaching English in particular, is such that I have been able to indulge this side of myself without having to actually change fields. All that's been required has been to change my location, friends, coworkers, curriculum, living arrangements . . . everything else. I simply require the stimulation of starting over in a new environment and finding my way.
The down side of this, of course, is that of always being the new guy. Starting over every three or so years doesn't exactly lend itself to career advancement, and my resume is an admitted casserole. If only there were a career where my particular idiosyncrasy was not such a hindrance to my general welfare. Perhaps, even, one in which ability and eagerness to start over every three years was a virtue, rather than a land mine.
Which is where the idea of the foreign service comes in. Originally turned on to the idea by my friend Karen, who has been serving now for some years and is thriving, I have been doing some due diligence on the subject, rather than jumping in and hoping for the best. The general consensus among those who know me best is that it would be a marvelous fit, so I picked up this book to dig further.
Anything further I would have to say on the topic would likely be on the Foreign Service itself, rather than on the book, so I will limit myself to observing that Kralev's unflinching and thorough treatment of the subject has reinforced my perception: that many of what he views as drawbacks of a Foreign Service career are to me seductive, and many of the things that one might view as drawbacks about me as a person actually would be virtues in that environment. And so it is that I'm scheduled to take the first exam in a few weeks. One could expect to see more books of this type here in the future, I suppose.
Sunday, August 21, 2016
The Revelation of John: III
11:2,3 The precision of numbers here certainly tempts one to figure out exactly what it means. I recall the religion of my upbringing managing to make it all about them and how awesome they were to have the only possible interpretation of anything ever.
11:4-6 Again, far too specific to resist prying just a little. The whole vision has the flavour of a dream that one remembers in vivid detail. Just two nights ago I awoke with the lyrics and melody of an entirely original song still lingering in my mind. What did it mean? And what did it mean that a man named Iain rode toward me on a blue ATV, and wanted to take pictures of me on the beach while I did a headstand? The vibrancy, clarity, and specificity of this dream beg for interpretation . . . as do John's.
11:7-9 And as tempting as it is to leave it there, to assume that John's vision meant no more or less than my own, I can't resist sampling some modern interpretations of it--much as I would if I were reading Blake or Coleridge. No doubt the things these men saw were only preternaturally vivid altered states, and not divinely inspired visions of the future. Still, what if?
A trip down the rabbit hole reveals a lack of scholarly agreement on the topic of the 1260 days, as well as the identities of the two witnesses. Many seem to feel that the latter represents a time of papal rule, starting in the time of Justinian. But though the beginning of such a period can be supported, it seems a stretch to say that the time of papal authority ended, well, ever. Likewise, there is a general consensus that the most likely identities of these witnesses are Moses and Elijah, but such an interpretation seems meaningless. Are those two meant to return in some way, or is this a reflection of past events after all? I even went so far as to choke down the bile and review the propaganda with which I was raised. It remains as I remembered: "We are the two witnesses, cause we are awesome and right about everything."
I am reminded again about my particularly vivid dream from the other night. Taken as a whole, it is all fairly inscrutable. But the individual elements, the source of each of those is readily identified. I did indeed know a fellow named Iain. And the scene of the dream too, although unconnected with that fellow in reality, was also a real place that I remember. In fact, everything in the dream came from my real experience, or something close to it. It is merely the juxtaposition that muddles them. Is it such a stretch to suppose that John, in a dreaming or otherwise altered state, mashed the time period that he likely knew well from Daniel up with other, unrelated but similarly flavoured elements? This is very much how dreams work.
11:13 And John would have also had memories of Earthquakes in Jerusalem during his lifetime (33 AD).
11:15-18 This verse presents problems for all of the literal interpretations of the 1260 days (years, according to Daniel's rules). After the time period in question, the two witnesses are called to heaven and the Messiah takes possession of the "Kingdom of the world". At which point, the wrath of God comes, the time for judging begins, and rewards are doled out to all who fear His name. If this happened at the end of the 1260 days, either in 1798 or at some other time supposed by scholars, it is remarkable that the subsequent events went without notice.
12:5 This is perhaps the most significant event that John has recorded yet. The woman giving birth! Clearly of divine origin, she is an underscrutinized figure. I am reminded of interpretations that this woman (conflated with similar figures elsewhere in the Bible) is actually The Holy Spirit, or the Wisdom of God. The child she bears is irresistibly Christ-like. The problem with all of the interpretations that spring from that is one of timing. Is this divine birth after the second woe or Ch. 11? If so, whom could it possibly be? And what is meant by the period of exile for this woman and her child, also conveniently 1260 days?
A lot of these problems stem from the assumption that John is seeing these events unfold in linear time. Such a viewpoint is not only difficult here, but also in 8:4 and 9:11, to name just a few that have jumped out on this reading. But it is not by any means the only interpretation of time. Boethius, and all who drew from him, work from the assumption that time, when seen from divine eyes, is not linear, but simultaneous. If one adopts such a perspective, a Tralfamadorian reading of The Revelation so to speak, a lot of these difficulties fall away, and it's rather more easy to believe that John was not just dreaming.
12:13-18 Which reinvests the reader in the fate and identity of this woman. Her battles seem to be every bit as relevant as those of her son, even though they be unseen or metaphorical.
13:2 Approaching these visions from a Boethian perspective ertainly opens up some possibilities. The assumption in most exegesis that I have found is that this beast is a different one than Daniel saw in his Ch 7. Surely, since John's vision is taking place centuries after Daniel's, and presumably after the fulfillment of the latter, we are seeing a separate, still future event. But time in visions and in spirit does not necessarily work that way. There is nothing to prevent us from wondering if this beast is the same as Daniel's fourth beast, and whether John's attention wasn't simply grabbed by different details than Daniel was. it's the same instinct that prompts us to wonder whether John's vision in Rev. 4 isn't simply Ezekiel 1 seen from above. The blind men all touch the elephant in differen tplaces. To one, it is much like a wall. To another, like a sword. And to a third, it is a beast with seven heads and ten horns.
13:5-9 And if we take the assumption that this beast is indeed the same as Daniel's, this is a pretty accurate description of what awaited the "saints" after John's death.
13:11-14 But here John is seeing something that Daniel did not seem to. What arose after, propped up, and gave breath to the Roman empire after its nearly mortal blow? Surely the papacy is a strong contender. Strictly speaking from chronology, the Byzantine empire is also a strong candidate.
13:17 Which interpretation would mean that the symbol in question is actually the cross . . . I can't imagine that interpretation getting much traction though.
13:18 The most interesting and underanalyzed aspect of this verse is the fact that the number of the beast is "the number of a person". What could this mean? Is it an ordinal number? The 666th of something? Or some play on words, a person named Sextus or some such? Among Eastern Emperors, there was a VI of Constantine, John, Leo, and Michael. None of them seem to have been particularly significant though. When I get to those rulers in Gibbon's Decline and Fall, maybe more will be clear. At any rate, the mark of the beast is not its number, as is commonly thought. The number is in some way tied to the name.
A lot of people, and most scholars, seem to get tied up in conflating the identity of this beast with the Antichrist, assigning the latter a prominence in the scriptures that is unearned. There is nothing to tie the two entities together, and nothing particularly identifies the Antichrist as a literal figure. Conversely, the Bible has a well-established pattern of using beasts to represent, not individuals, but entire empires. John's two-headed beast, if one is consistent, and the name/number/mark that goes with it, seem unlikely to be that of a single person.
14:1 A prime example of how John's visions operate very much like dreams.
14:4 If these 144,000 are to be taken as a literal group of people, with a literal number, then it seems inconsistent to suppose that they are anything other than literal virgins.
14:6 I had never before stopped to suppose exactly what "midheaven" means, assuming that it just meant "in midair". But the Greek here is literally in the middle of heaven, not air or sky, and occurs only in Revelation. Having no concept of atmosphere, outer space, or anything beyond the literal sky, one must wonder exactly what John saw here. An actual celestial realm, separate from full heaven? What did it look like? How did he know what he was seeing?
14:8 Here is our clearest argument yet for a Boethian approach to this vision (and others?). Babylon the Great has not even been introduced yet, let alone the scene of her demise described.
14:10 This torture by fire and sulphur is used, I would imagine, to support an idea of hellfire. But it is worth noting here that it is "in the presence of the holy angels and in the presence of the Lamb" that it seems to take place--in the same heaven as the rest of the chapter.
14:13 It's been a while since we heard from the Spirit in this book: not since chapter 3, and even then the words of the Spirit were second hand, conveyed by "one like the Son of Man". In that former passage, it would have been easy to interpret it as a metaphorical or impersonal force, perhaps one of the seven that he held in his hand. Here it is definitely given a persona, though, and agency.
14:14 Speaking of whom, here again is "one like a Son of Man". Is it his voice that we heard in the previous verse, and by extension, was he referring to his own words in 2-3?
14:18 It's tempting to take the definite article here as a doorway into some metaphysical explication of the duties of various angels. The idea that there is one angel in charge of fire certainly predicates some very polytheistic questions. But the Greek here has no definite article, even though such is common in Greek--merely a relative pronoun.
15:1 I've lost track. Which scroll, trumpet, and woe are we on? Is this the third woe? All of these marker seem a lot fuzzier than one could be led to believe by reading exegesis of them.
15:5 This is the only mention that I can remember of "The temple of the tent of witness". Traditional interpretation has heaven itself as being the prototypical temple of God, not merely its location. Is this a separate temple? One devoted to a special purpose? If so, for what is it the archetype?
16:1 An argument could be made based on this verse that it is the Most Holy of the tabernacle and subsequently of Solomon's Temple, the resting place of the Ark of the Covenant, and by extension of the Divine presence.
16:4 Is "The angel of the waters" merely the angel who poured the bowl into them, or is it a more managerial position? It would not be the first time that such positions have been hinted at in this book, on both sides of the divine rivalry.
16:7 Which altar? From back in 6:9? Or is this the actual voice of the altar, not merely of those sacrificed on it? What would that even mean?
16:8 All of these plagues so far seem terribly modern. The pollution, disease, rising temperatures, vanishing marine life . . . one prone to apocalyptic thinking might have a lot of fun with these verses.
16:10 But this verse is a little more specific and a lot more obscure. If one sees a nation suddenly plunged into darkness, not only will we have identified the "beast", but also the end chronology.
16:12 After which one would expect China to invade Iraq, I suppose.
16:16 One of my favorite misinterpretations of scripture. Armageddon is not an event; it is a place.
16:19 Referent failure! The last great city mentioned was heavenly Jerusalem. Surely it is not being referred to here. If one acts under the assumption that John meant for his vision to be understood, then his omission of identifying details means he expected his readers to be able to know what he meant by "the great city", arguing for either literal Jerusalem or Rome. But John clearly does not give a withered fig if his audience is as confused as he must be.
16:20 Another very modern, or near future, sign.
11:4-6 Again, far too specific to resist prying just a little. The whole vision has the flavour of a dream that one remembers in vivid detail. Just two nights ago I awoke with the lyrics and melody of an entirely original song still lingering in my mind. What did it mean? And what did it mean that a man named Iain rode toward me on a blue ATV, and wanted to take pictures of me on the beach while I did a headstand? The vibrancy, clarity, and specificity of this dream beg for interpretation . . . as do John's.
11:7-9 And as tempting as it is to leave it there, to assume that John's vision meant no more or less than my own, I can't resist sampling some modern interpretations of it--much as I would if I were reading Blake or Coleridge. No doubt the things these men saw were only preternaturally vivid altered states, and not divinely inspired visions of the future. Still, what if?
A trip down the rabbit hole reveals a lack of scholarly agreement on the topic of the 1260 days, as well as the identities of the two witnesses. Many seem to feel that the latter represents a time of papal rule, starting in the time of Justinian. But though the beginning of such a period can be supported, it seems a stretch to say that the time of papal authority ended, well, ever. Likewise, there is a general consensus that the most likely identities of these witnesses are Moses and Elijah, but such an interpretation seems meaningless. Are those two meant to return in some way, or is this a reflection of past events after all? I even went so far as to choke down the bile and review the propaganda with which I was raised. It remains as I remembered: "We are the two witnesses, cause we are awesome and right about everything."
I am reminded again about my particularly vivid dream from the other night. Taken as a whole, it is all fairly inscrutable. But the individual elements, the source of each of those is readily identified. I did indeed know a fellow named Iain. And the scene of the dream too, although unconnected with that fellow in reality, was also a real place that I remember. In fact, everything in the dream came from my real experience, or something close to it. It is merely the juxtaposition that muddles them. Is it such a stretch to suppose that John, in a dreaming or otherwise altered state, mashed the time period that he likely knew well from Daniel up with other, unrelated but similarly flavoured elements? This is very much how dreams work.
11:13 And John would have also had memories of Earthquakes in Jerusalem during his lifetime (33 AD).
11:15-18 This verse presents problems for all of the literal interpretations of the 1260 days (years, according to Daniel's rules). After the time period in question, the two witnesses are called to heaven and the Messiah takes possession of the "Kingdom of the world". At which point, the wrath of God comes, the time for judging begins, and rewards are doled out to all who fear His name. If this happened at the end of the 1260 days, either in 1798 or at some other time supposed by scholars, it is remarkable that the subsequent events went without notice.
12:5 This is perhaps the most significant event that John has recorded yet. The woman giving birth! Clearly of divine origin, she is an underscrutinized figure. I am reminded of interpretations that this woman (conflated with similar figures elsewhere in the Bible) is actually The Holy Spirit, or the Wisdom of God. The child she bears is irresistibly Christ-like. The problem with all of the interpretations that spring from that is one of timing. Is this divine birth after the second woe or Ch. 11? If so, whom could it possibly be? And what is meant by the period of exile for this woman and her child, also conveniently 1260 days?
A lot of these problems stem from the assumption that John is seeing these events unfold in linear time. Such a viewpoint is not only difficult here, but also in 8:4 and 9:11, to name just a few that have jumped out on this reading. But it is not by any means the only interpretation of time. Boethius, and all who drew from him, work from the assumption that time, when seen from divine eyes, is not linear, but simultaneous. If one adopts such a perspective, a Tralfamadorian reading of The Revelation so to speak, a lot of these difficulties fall away, and it's rather more easy to believe that John was not just dreaming.
12:13-18 Which reinvests the reader in the fate and identity of this woman. Her battles seem to be every bit as relevant as those of her son, even though they be unseen or metaphorical.
13:2 Approaching these visions from a Boethian perspective ertainly opens up some possibilities. The assumption in most exegesis that I have found is that this beast is a different one than Daniel saw in his Ch 7. Surely, since John's vision is taking place centuries after Daniel's, and presumably after the fulfillment of the latter, we are seeing a separate, still future event. But time in visions and in spirit does not necessarily work that way. There is nothing to prevent us from wondering if this beast is the same as Daniel's fourth beast, and whether John's attention wasn't simply grabbed by different details than Daniel was. it's the same instinct that prompts us to wonder whether John's vision in Rev. 4 isn't simply Ezekiel 1 seen from above. The blind men all touch the elephant in differen tplaces. To one, it is much like a wall. To another, like a sword. And to a third, it is a beast with seven heads and ten horns.
13:5-9 And if we take the assumption that this beast is indeed the same as Daniel's, this is a pretty accurate description of what awaited the "saints" after John's death.
13:11-14 But here John is seeing something that Daniel did not seem to. What arose after, propped up, and gave breath to the Roman empire after its nearly mortal blow? Surely the papacy is a strong contender. Strictly speaking from chronology, the Byzantine empire is also a strong candidate.
13:17 Which interpretation would mean that the symbol in question is actually the cross . . . I can't imagine that interpretation getting much traction though.
13:18 The most interesting and underanalyzed aspect of this verse is the fact that the number of the beast is "the number of a person". What could this mean? Is it an ordinal number? The 666th of something? Or some play on words, a person named Sextus or some such? Among Eastern Emperors, there was a VI of Constantine, John, Leo, and Michael. None of them seem to have been particularly significant though. When I get to those rulers in Gibbon's Decline and Fall, maybe more will be clear. At any rate, the mark of the beast is not its number, as is commonly thought. The number is in some way tied to the name.
A lot of people, and most scholars, seem to get tied up in conflating the identity of this beast with the Antichrist, assigning the latter a prominence in the scriptures that is unearned. There is nothing to tie the two entities together, and nothing particularly identifies the Antichrist as a literal figure. Conversely, the Bible has a well-established pattern of using beasts to represent, not individuals, but entire empires. John's two-headed beast, if one is consistent, and the name/number/mark that goes with it, seem unlikely to be that of a single person.
14:1 A prime example of how John's visions operate very much like dreams.
14:4 If these 144,000 are to be taken as a literal group of people, with a literal number, then it seems inconsistent to suppose that they are anything other than literal virgins.
14:6 I had never before stopped to suppose exactly what "midheaven" means, assuming that it just meant "in midair". But the Greek here is literally in the middle of heaven, not air or sky, and occurs only in Revelation. Having no concept of atmosphere, outer space, or anything beyond the literal sky, one must wonder exactly what John saw here. An actual celestial realm, separate from full heaven? What did it look like? How did he know what he was seeing?
14:8 Here is our clearest argument yet for a Boethian approach to this vision (and others?). Babylon the Great has not even been introduced yet, let alone the scene of her demise described.
14:10 This torture by fire and sulphur is used, I would imagine, to support an idea of hellfire. But it is worth noting here that it is "in the presence of the holy angels and in the presence of the Lamb" that it seems to take place--in the same heaven as the rest of the chapter.
14:13 It's been a while since we heard from the Spirit in this book: not since chapter 3, and even then the words of the Spirit were second hand, conveyed by "one like the Son of Man". In that former passage, it would have been easy to interpret it as a metaphorical or impersonal force, perhaps one of the seven that he held in his hand. Here it is definitely given a persona, though, and agency.
14:14 Speaking of whom, here again is "one like a Son of Man". Is it his voice that we heard in the previous verse, and by extension, was he referring to his own words in 2-3?
14:18 It's tempting to take the definite article here as a doorway into some metaphysical explication of the duties of various angels. The idea that there is one angel in charge of fire certainly predicates some very polytheistic questions. But the Greek here has no definite article, even though such is common in Greek--merely a relative pronoun.
15:1 I've lost track. Which scroll, trumpet, and woe are we on? Is this the third woe? All of these marker seem a lot fuzzier than one could be led to believe by reading exegesis of them.
15:5 This is the only mention that I can remember of "The temple of the tent of witness". Traditional interpretation has heaven itself as being the prototypical temple of God, not merely its location. Is this a separate temple? One devoted to a special purpose? If so, for what is it the archetype?
16:1 An argument could be made based on this verse that it is the Most Holy of the tabernacle and subsequently of Solomon's Temple, the resting place of the Ark of the Covenant, and by extension of the Divine presence.
16:4 Is "The angel of the waters" merely the angel who poured the bowl into them, or is it a more managerial position? It would not be the first time that such positions have been hinted at in this book, on both sides of the divine rivalry.
16:7 Which altar? From back in 6:9? Or is this the actual voice of the altar, not merely of those sacrificed on it? What would that even mean?
16:8 All of these plagues so far seem terribly modern. The pollution, disease, rising temperatures, vanishing marine life . . . one prone to apocalyptic thinking might have a lot of fun with these verses.
16:10 But this verse is a little more specific and a lot more obscure. If one sees a nation suddenly plunged into darkness, not only will we have identified the "beast", but also the end chronology.
16:12 After which one would expect China to invade Iraq, I suppose.
16:16 One of my favorite misinterpretations of scripture. Armageddon is not an event; it is a place.
16:19 Referent failure! The last great city mentioned was heavenly Jerusalem. Surely it is not being referred to here. If one acts under the assumption that John meant for his vision to be understood, then his omission of identifying details means he expected his readers to be able to know what he meant by "the great city", arguing for either literal Jerusalem or Rome. But John clearly does not give a withered fig if his audience is as confused as he must be.
16:20 Another very modern, or near future, sign.
Saturday, August 20, 2016
Haruki Murakami: Colorless Tsukuru Tazaki and His Years of Pilgrimage
I have some good news, and I have some bad news. And they are the same news, as they always are. During a moment of weakness in Sofia, Bulgaria, i made the mistake of letting my guard down and trusting the general good intentions of people. I was rewarded with a stolen phone, and a bruised ego. This cast a shadow over the rest of my European tour, and I suppose that's the bad news. But the books I was reading, the online games with which I spent too many hours, and the constant flow of communication I used to numb my foolish brain disappeared with it. That was the good news. I suddenly had nothing but my thoughts to entertain me, and had to hunt down a few real books to keep that from driving me crazy. I read five books in the final week of my trip, and each in its own way was exactly what I needed.
The good news and the bad news, in Literature as in everything, are the same news. Books are often like tarot cards, not saying anything themselves--try though they might--but merely providing the vocabulary necessary for us to think about that which we already knew. And so it is that what I take away from a given book is what I needed to receive from it (that's the good news), which may or may not have anything to do with what the book was really about (the bad news). Books--and art, music, film, relationships, the whole spectrum of human experience--are powerless in the hands of the creator, and omniscient in the hands of the reader. To say that they are as colorless as the title character of this book is an example of the liberty that one may and must take as a reader. Murakami's meaning clearly has nothing to do with readership, literature, and interpretation. But that is the thought that I went into the book with so that is the meaning I found.
And the characters in the book were manifestly not meant as allegories for people in my own life. Even forced into those roles, they served only imperfectly. None who know me would describe me as colorless, and yet I am. I have very little identity of my own, and the colors people see in me are more often than not their own color, amplified and reflected. I am not an empty vessel, tormented by a confusion about my own identity, but as I became Tazaki, I also wore this part of him. And the answers that satisfied him also satisfied me, until I put the book down, and again became myself.
The good news and the bad news, in Literature as in everything, are the same news. Books are often like tarot cards, not saying anything themselves--try though they might--but merely providing the vocabulary necessary for us to think about that which we already knew. And so it is that what I take away from a given book is what I needed to receive from it (that's the good news), which may or may not have anything to do with what the book was really about (the bad news). Books--and art, music, film, relationships, the whole spectrum of human experience--are powerless in the hands of the creator, and omniscient in the hands of the reader. To say that they are as colorless as the title character of this book is an example of the liberty that one may and must take as a reader. Murakami's meaning clearly has nothing to do with readership, literature, and interpretation. But that is the thought that I went into the book with so that is the meaning I found.
And the characters in the book were manifestly not meant as allegories for people in my own life. Even forced into those roles, they served only imperfectly. None who know me would describe me as colorless, and yet I am. I have very little identity of my own, and the colors people see in me are more often than not their own color, amplified and reflected. I am not an empty vessel, tormented by a confusion about my own identity, but as I became Tazaki, I also wore this part of him. And the answers that satisfied him also satisfied me, until I put the book down, and again became myself.
Thursday, August 18, 2016
Umberto Eco: Numero Zero
Much like with The Name of the Rose, I feel like I must be missing something here. Eco is widely regarded as a great writer, perhaps one of the greatest, and has legions of devoted fans. What are they seeing that I am not? Very nearly half of this book was themeless, plotless recountings of historical events, most of which seem to be invented, but were not. The general impression is that Eco embarked on a long line of research, discovered the potential for a conspiracy theory, and shoehorned it into a detective novel. Perhaps Italian audiences, being more familiar with the names dropped in huge piles on every page, were more receptive to or interested in these sort of speculations. Perhaps the whole novel is really a cover for Eco's theory that Mussolini's death did not occur as in the textbooks. But the entire plot he concocted as a setting for the plot he thought he uncovered was bald and superficial, offering nothing particularly inventive or engaging.
With the exception of a few character points that I found applicable to my life. The character of Maia is described as constantly jumping trains of thought, and scarcely noticing that others had a hard time following her. I have known, and was borne by, such people. This was a nice way of capturing their essence. And the protagonist may well have been me when he observes that only losers know very much. How simultaneously true and depressing.
With the exception of a few character points that I found applicable to my life. The character of Maia is described as constantly jumping trains of thought, and scarcely noticing that others had a hard time following her. I have known, and was borne by, such people. This was a nice way of capturing their essence. And the protagonist may well have been me when he observes that only losers know very much. How simultaneously true and depressing.
Tuesday, August 16, 2016
Ursula LeGuin: Changing Planes
This is not a book that bears up to deep scrutiny. It begs to be read, not at a desk with a notebook at hand, but in the very place where it was inspired and set: the misery, irritation, and suffering of an airport.
I have always hated airports. Everything about them seems designed to inspire contempt, and the moment a human enters one of these infernal portals, she or he is primed with a hatred for fellow travelers and becomes by virtue of that disgust a perfect target for the glowering disdain of all the similarly affected pilgrims around.
While the conceit of the book is inspired, the book itself is not particularly so. Each of the stories told here was worth telling, but perhaps some of them were worth telling at greater length. None of them were long enough to have said anything, and merely glanced at rather heady and poignant questions: to what extent are each of us an individual? Do our traditions serve or enslave us? What is the nature of language?
But it only paused long enough at each moment to ask the question, never long enough for an answer to be an option. And perhaps that was for the best. Who wants to read the Critique of Pure Reason while enduring the misery we call air travel? Certainly not I. I'm glad I read this on the way to Brussels instead.
I have always hated airports. Everything about them seems designed to inspire contempt, and the moment a human enters one of these infernal portals, she or he is primed with a hatred for fellow travelers and becomes by virtue of that disgust a perfect target for the glowering disdain of all the similarly affected pilgrims around.
While the conceit of the book is inspired, the book itself is not particularly so. Each of the stories told here was worth telling, but perhaps some of them were worth telling at greater length. None of them were long enough to have said anything, and merely glanced at rather heady and poignant questions: to what extent are each of us an individual? Do our traditions serve or enslave us? What is the nature of language?
But it only paused long enough at each moment to ask the question, never long enough for an answer to be an option. And perhaps that was for the best. Who wants to read the Critique of Pure Reason while enduring the misery we call air travel? Certainly not I. I'm glad I read this on the way to Brussels instead.
Sunday, August 14, 2016
Vincent Van Gogh: Peach Tree in Blossom
It's likely a surprise to no one that I approach Art much as I approach Literature. Books and paintings can be merely appreciated: viewed or read, judged as pleasing or not, and then set aside. But Art and Literature offer a deeper pleasure: that of being understood. Works that deserve to be included in these capitalized categories are very much like stacks of old transparencies, such as one used to find in the middle of encyclopedias, each system of the human body printed on a separate plate, and then bound together as a unit. One could certainly look at the stack and see the marvelous, complicated unity of the system, but what sort of barbarian would stop there? Who could resist lifting away the topmost plate and seeing what lie underneath?
The trick is to find the loose corners, the passages that don't seem to fit with the rest of the work, the words that an author uses more or differently than she or he might have, Coleridge's eyes, Eliot's Iphigenia, and in this case, Van Gogh's shadows. I wrote years ago about Van Gogh's curious affinity for Bunyan, and how that author was a loose edge that allowed one to lift a layer of the artist's work and see a bit of what was underneath. The gist is that Van Gogh seemed to see himself in Christian, the eponymous pilgrim, and many of his paintings can be seen as an allegorical journey. I was quite pleased with this analysis at the time, but had merely lifted up the first layer.
As I walked through the Van Gogh museum in Amsterdam, I was not even looking for a new analysis. I didn't expect to find any dogeared corners, any loose edges begging to be lifted up, but I found one, and it is this painting. I walked past the rows of haystacks, the sunflowers, the Dutch working class who were turning into the potatoes they ate, but was stopped in my tracks when I came to "Peach Tree in Blossom". Something was not right about it. It didn't make sense, and I stared at it for some minutes trying to put my eye on exactly what was different about it. Wasn't it just like all the others? But no, it was all wrong. The shadows were all wrong.
Where is the light source in this picture? It seems to be a low sun off canvas to the left. The tree in the back is casting a long shadow on the fence, and the palette is that of near sunset. But the tree in the front. Its shadow is cast directly underneath. Was this a mistake? Where is this other light source? And why does it not catch the tree in the background? And the tree itself is uniformly lit. Seemingly from the front.
An impressionist would never have done this. Monet et al were fastidiously faithful to the light they saw. But Van Gogh was creating an expression, not an impression. This was not the light he saw; it's manifestly impossible for the shadows to have been cast in this way. And it is not as though he was incapable of or averse to capturing realistic shade.
What is the difference between these two sunflower still lifes?
The former, by Monet, has a clear light source and casts a shadow. The latter is manifestly impossible. There is light in the picture, as seen from the reflection on the vase, but it has two strange features: it is cast from directly in front of the painting, and its shadows do not follow the laws of nature. This was not a light he saw; it was a light that lived only in the mind of the painter.
Once attuned to this inconsistency, one sees it everywhere. I noticed it again at the Alte Nationalgalerie in Berlin in "Le Moulin de la Galette":
The shadows here are all over the place. In fact, there is only one possible source for the light in this painting, and again it is directly in front of the canvas. The figures on the left are casting a shadow to the right. Those on the right are the opposite. And the figure in the rough center is casting a shadow directly underneath or behind. The light is coming from behind the artist, and by extension, the viewer.
Or is it? Such a mental placement works for "Le Moulin", but it can't account for "Sunflowers" or "Peach Tree". There is no literal light source that would behave that way. The light in these paintings cannot be literal. And what about when Van Gogh tries to capture an actual light? Say, a candle?
This candle casts no shadow! Such a thing is possible because this is not a painting of a candle. It is an allegorical portrait of Gaugin. An artist. A light without a shadow. The light in Van Gogh's paintings is not coming from behind him. It is him. No wonder that the only realistic shadows he painted were on his own face. And when you look at a Van Gogh, you necessarily adopt his perspective. You see what he saw, and you know what he knew: that the light is not coming from behind you; it is you. You are the light in Van Gogh's paintings. You are the traveler. You are the pilgrim. You are the candle, as much as he was, and the shadows you cast are bizarre, irregular, and unreal.
Kurt Vonnegut: Galapagos
Usually when a one realizes how a trick is done, the magician's spell is broken. Not so with Vonnegut. I have read enough of his work that a pattern has become clear: each book succeeds on the deft juggling of three tricks. Each of his maneuvers is a staple of writers everywhere; none of them is unique to this writer. But a combination of his refusal to repeat himself--never executing any of his moves in the same way twice, a wildly creative imagination, and a fearless willingness to take seemingly absurd premises to a satisfactory conclusion, causes each of his books to come out as a fully realized, unique philoso-literary tapestry that is part of a greater multiptych.
Trick one: An amusing orthographic or lexical innovation. In Galapagos, this is manifest as an asterisk before the name of characters who are about to die. Because why not? The asterisk in Breakfast of Champions was used in the same way to entirely different, rather more intestinal ends.
Trick two: A driving structural conceit. In Galapagos: the story is gradually revealed to have been written by the ghost of a dock worker. In the air. With his immaterial finger. See also: the memoir conceit of Bluebeard, the novel within a novel of Champions, etc.
Trick three, which is not really a trick: A brilliant and insightful kernel of truth about the way Vonnegut sees the world and existence, and which invariably happens to be something this reader wanted or needed to hear. In Galapagos, the central idea is that everything bad that ever happened is because of our big, dumb, human brains and our need to do something with them. How true! Even now, I can be seen wondering about what this book means and how to analyze it, instead of glorying in its humor and aphorism. And as soon as I hit publish, no doubt I am going to start using all my extra brain on the problem of what I should do with my life, what is my purpose for existing, and what on earth I mean by "I" anyway. How silly these big brains of ours are! How unnecessary and troublesome! Who can doubt that it would be better swim all day, rut in the sand without wonder, and then fart wetly to the unanimous laughter of our peers?
Trick one: An amusing orthographic or lexical innovation. In Galapagos, this is manifest as an asterisk before the name of characters who are about to die. Because why not? The asterisk in Breakfast of Champions was used in the same way to entirely different, rather more intestinal ends.
Trick two: A driving structural conceit. In Galapagos: the story is gradually revealed to have been written by the ghost of a dock worker. In the air. With his immaterial finger. See also: the memoir conceit of Bluebeard, the novel within a novel of Champions, etc.
Trick three, which is not really a trick: A brilliant and insightful kernel of truth about the way Vonnegut sees the world and existence, and which invariably happens to be something this reader wanted or needed to hear. In Galapagos, the central idea is that everything bad that ever happened is because of our big, dumb, human brains and our need to do something with them. How true! Even now, I can be seen wondering about what this book means and how to analyze it, instead of glorying in its humor and aphorism. And as soon as I hit publish, no doubt I am going to start using all my extra brain on the problem of what I should do with my life, what is my purpose for existing, and what on earth I mean by "I" anyway. How silly these big brains of ours are! How unnecessary and troublesome! Who can doubt that it would be better swim all day, rut in the sand without wonder, and then fart wetly to the unanimous laughter of our peers?
Friday, August 12, 2016
Dante Alighieri: The New Life
This brief volume didn't offer me a lot of literary pleasures in and of itself. The type of love Dante enshrines here is of dubious character, for one thing. I have, once or twice, felt the sort of overpowering obsession, the worshipful adoration that he tries to capture. The object of such love very nearly seems like a gift from heaven; he can do no wrong, is free from flaws, and light seems to radiate from his very face. But I have an advantage over Dante: those whom I have seen in such a light didn't die before I learned the truth.
Dante calls this experience "love", but he does so seemingly without consciousness of the blurriness of that word. It is a cliche, but nonetheless a useful one, to draw attention to the fact that "I love pizza" and "I love Pablo" are referring to two very different things. Any objective observer, or even a compromised one who knows of what ze speaks, will recognize in Dante's rapture something much more closely resembling the former than the latter.
Too often, we say, feel, or think that we love something, when in fact we merely desire it. Did Dante love Beatrice? How could he have? They scarcely met. This is not to say that his feelings for her were not real, or that they were not as powerful as he describes, simply that he has misidentified them. I, for my part, love sushi in the sense that I desire it. I love Gilbert and Sullivan operettas, in the sense that I can never seem to get enough of them. I have even told myself, in the literal sense of the thought arising in my mind unbidden, that I love Pablo. This too turned out to be more accurately called desire.
Which begs the question "what is love?" The answer to that question is beyond both the scope of this reaction, and perhaps beyond my capacity to write about in any medium. But I feel confident in my assessment that it is equally far from Dante's capacity to have written at the time of The New Life.
Dante calls this experience "love", but he does so seemingly without consciousness of the blurriness of that word. It is a cliche, but nonetheless a useful one, to draw attention to the fact that "I love pizza" and "I love Pablo" are referring to two very different things. Any objective observer, or even a compromised one who knows of what ze speaks, will recognize in Dante's rapture something much more closely resembling the former than the latter.
Too often, we say, feel, or think that we love something, when in fact we merely desire it. Did Dante love Beatrice? How could he have? They scarcely met. This is not to say that his feelings for her were not real, or that they were not as powerful as he describes, simply that he has misidentified them. I, for my part, love sushi in the sense that I desire it. I love Gilbert and Sullivan operettas, in the sense that I can never seem to get enough of them. I have even told myself, in the literal sense of the thought arising in my mind unbidden, that I love Pablo. This too turned out to be more accurately called desire.
Which begs the question "what is love?" The answer to that question is beyond both the scope of this reaction, and perhaps beyond my capacity to write about in any medium. But I feel confident in my assessment that it is equally far from Dante's capacity to have written at the time of The New Life.
Wednesday, July 20, 2016
The Revelation of John II
6:1 Here we come to one of the most memorable sections of the book, and the one I least hope to be able to interpret.
6:2 It is worth mentioning how little the reality of John's vision overlaps with the popular memory of it. The four horsemen are commonly thought of as Death, War, Plague, and Famine, but this first rider is none of those.
6:7 This verse doesn't even match up with my memory of it. I had mistakenly remembered Death as the one who follows and swallows up the victims of the preceding four, but it is rather Hades; the grave.
6:8 That these four horsemen are summoned by the living creatures (seraphs?) themselves seems important. They are not destructive forces against which the angels fight, but rather agents of the angels themselves. And that first horse. Freed from the interpretation of my youth, namely that this horseman was the enthroned Christ, I find myself gravitating tot he interpretation that it is rather government itself, the misbegotten instinct of mankind to rule and to conquer, in the wake of which comes war, famine, death, and the grave by turns.
6:9 This fifth seal does not summon anything at all. It is not causative, if indeed the first four were. Rather it is a revealing of knowledge to John. The symbolism of a scroll being opened lends itself to an interpretation that these are not events being announced, but knowledge.
6:12 Although the events of the sixth seal seem to be more causative, there is nothing in the language to suggest that the opening of the seal is the catalyst for the celestial events that follow it.
7:1 Is this more information held beneath the sixth seal, or have we moved on?
7:2 A little research seems to be in order. Is the word translated "seal" here the same as in ch. 6? It is indeed.
7:6 Not sure what to make of the fact that Manasseh has replaced Dan in the twelve tribes.
7:9 The relationship between these two groups, the 144,000 and the great multitude, is unclear here. The interpretation of my youth is hard to overlook here.
8:1 How is John able to judge time in the midst of this vision?
8:2 If the vision is to be taken as a prophecy, rather than an explanation, then both of the above groups are "before the throne" among the angels before the opening of the seventh seal.
8:13 This eagle is another character that I don't recall. Of what nation or ruler could it be a symbol? Or is it a seraph, turned so that John can only see one of its faces?
8:4 Insofar as those with the seal in 7:2 are still on the Earth, we may assume that either their presence before the throne earlier is metaphorical, or the events related here are non-linear. But the fact that the great multitude of 7:9 are either conflated with that group, or subject to the effects of the fifth trumpet is troubling.
9:11 Abaddon, one of the only angels named in the Bible, is described in 9:1 as a "star that had fallen from heaven to earth". Does this mark him as a fallen angel? Even though the description of that fall will take place later in the vision?
9:19 The escalation is clear. The locusts are tortuous, but not fatal. The lion headed cavalry, triply fatal.
10:4 But what is the third woe/seventh trumpet? Is this interlude for dramatic effect? What did the seven thunders say?
10:7 "The mystery of God will be fulfilled" is a fascinating turn of phrase. This seventh trumpet that we are anticipating is the culmination of every last thing the prophets have written, and the culmination of the divinity itself.
6:2 It is worth mentioning how little the reality of John's vision overlaps with the popular memory of it. The four horsemen are commonly thought of as Death, War, Plague, and Famine, but this first rider is none of those.
6:7 This verse doesn't even match up with my memory of it. I had mistakenly remembered Death as the one who follows and swallows up the victims of the preceding four, but it is rather Hades; the grave.
6:8 That these four horsemen are summoned by the living creatures (seraphs?) themselves seems important. They are not destructive forces against which the angels fight, but rather agents of the angels themselves. And that first horse. Freed from the interpretation of my youth, namely that this horseman was the enthroned Christ, I find myself gravitating tot he interpretation that it is rather government itself, the misbegotten instinct of mankind to rule and to conquer, in the wake of which comes war, famine, death, and the grave by turns.
6:9 This fifth seal does not summon anything at all. It is not causative, if indeed the first four were. Rather it is a revealing of knowledge to John. The symbolism of a scroll being opened lends itself to an interpretation that these are not events being announced, but knowledge.
6:12 Although the events of the sixth seal seem to be more causative, there is nothing in the language to suggest that the opening of the seal is the catalyst for the celestial events that follow it.
7:1 Is this more information held beneath the sixth seal, or have we moved on?
7:2 A little research seems to be in order. Is the word translated "seal" here the same as in ch. 6? It is indeed.
7:6 Not sure what to make of the fact that Manasseh has replaced Dan in the twelve tribes.
7:9 The relationship between these two groups, the 144,000 and the great multitude, is unclear here. The interpretation of my youth is hard to overlook here.
8:1 How is John able to judge time in the midst of this vision?
8:2 If the vision is to be taken as a prophecy, rather than an explanation, then both of the above groups are "before the throne" among the angels before the opening of the seventh seal.
8:13 This eagle is another character that I don't recall. Of what nation or ruler could it be a symbol? Or is it a seraph, turned so that John can only see one of its faces?
8:4 Insofar as those with the seal in 7:2 are still on the Earth, we may assume that either their presence before the throne earlier is metaphorical, or the events related here are non-linear. But the fact that the great multitude of 7:9 are either conflated with that group, or subject to the effects of the fifth trumpet is troubling.
9:11 Abaddon, one of the only angels named in the Bible, is described in 9:1 as a "star that had fallen from heaven to earth". Does this mark him as a fallen angel? Even though the description of that fall will take place later in the vision?
9:19 The escalation is clear. The locusts are tortuous, but not fatal. The lion headed cavalry, triply fatal.
10:4 But what is the third woe/seventh trumpet? Is this interlude for dramatic effect? What did the seven thunders say?
10:7 "The mystery of God will be fulfilled" is a fascinating turn of phrase. This seventh trumpet that we are anticipating is the culmination of every last thing the prophets have written, and the culmination of the divinity itself.
Tuesday, July 19, 2016
From Here to Eternity
I don't think it would be possible to make this film today. We have talented enough actors, writers, and cinematographers. All of those elements of the film, while executed with a marksmanlike honesty and clarity, could be reproduced today by drawing on the wide pool of talent that exists in filmmaking today. But what we also have today are a set of expectations for our movies, books and television shows from which this film was either free, or willing to break free. Modern audiences, writers, and executives expect, for one thing, at least somebody to be happy at the end of the story. If for some reason the whole point of the movie is to be as bleak and desperate as possible, it is incumbent upon the film to announce itself as art, through stylistic choices if nothing else. And even those media which end badly for all involved cater to our collective cathartic sentiment by making sure the road to despair was littered with bad choices or character flaws.
But such was not the case for Eternity. It is said of Burt Lancaster's character at one point that he's a man who will "draw himself a line he thinks fair, and he won't come over it." This is equally true of all the five main characters in the movie. They are suffused with very American virtues:grit, fortitude, determination, and unbreakable will. They face their relationships and circumstances with grave honor, but without the fanfare that would normally accompany such. And they all suffer for it.
These two elements, the unashamededness and the matter-of-factness of the movie remind one of a Hemingway novel. The movie did not hesitate to place the audience in the arms of adulterers, but neither did it congratulate itself for this choice. It simply invited us to watch the simple, universal sadnesses of these five, and in doing so to remember our own.
But such was not the case for Eternity. It is said of Burt Lancaster's character at one point that he's a man who will "draw himself a line he thinks fair, and he won't come over it." This is equally true of all the five main characters in the movie. They are suffused with very American virtues:grit, fortitude, determination, and unbreakable will. They face their relationships and circumstances with grave honor, but without the fanfare that would normally accompany such. And they all suffer for it.
These two elements, the unashamededness and the matter-of-factness of the movie remind one of a Hemingway novel. The movie did not hesitate to place the audience in the arms of adulterers, but neither did it congratulate itself for this choice. It simply invited us to watch the simple, universal sadnesses of these five, and in doing so to remember our own.
Monday, July 18, 2016
Yevgeny Zamyatin: We
There are so many directions from which to approach this book. The most obvious one is to treat it as the precursor to the more well known examples of the genre: 1984, The Handmaid's Tale, Brave New World, et al. In fact, so much do these latter works owe to We that one cannot read it without becoming aware that it alone made these other books possible.
As is so often true of seminal works with no forebearer, one could just as easily look at what is wrong with it. It is sloppy in places, especially when the author sees fit to deliver on his promise of a plot. Plenty of passages feel like missed opportunities, connecting to the larger tapestry just enough to make a literary snob like this reader wish for a little tidier weaving.
But I'm sure all of these essays have been written already, and by more knowledgeable scholars than me. I did notice a point that is so subtle that perhaps it has escaped other eyes, however. The narrator, mathematician that he is, often phrases his internal conflict as the task of removing the irrational number √-1 from himself. Anyone who has taken high school algebra recognizes this as the formula for the number i, which opens these passages up to a fascinating set of questions. I is /am indeed the most irrational of numbers/beings. What is/am I? Philosophers have never come up with an answer that satisfies. Is it even possible to remove that most irrational--and potentially destructive--element, the ego, from ourselves? Would it result in more or less happiness? What would need to be sacrificed? All of this ties in nicely with the themes of the book, and Zamyatin, freed from the requirement of proof, offers his answers rather more clearly than Descartes could.
But the most fascinating aspect of this question is that, in spite of its seamless blending into the overall themes of the text, and the almost precious cleverness that it elicits from the reader, it is unlikely if not impossible that it has any real place in the text. We was written in Russian, and only translated later into English. For all of the layered meanings and probing questions that i and the obvious corollary evoke in English, in Russian it is just another letter. The first person pronoun in Russian is not I but я. To what extent, then, do all of these fascinating interpretations have any place in the discussion? If the author did not mean for them to be there, do they exist? Are they part of the text? Or do they belong only to the reader--specifically the English-speaking reader? This is a marvelous window into the very question of textuality that divides literary theorists even as recently as a book I finished this week (Scholes' Textual Power). It's a very concrete example of a very elusive question. For me, this book is mine now, not Zamyatin's. He can participate in the reading with me, but only as an equal partner. Maybe he would be as pleased by his unintended(?) cleverness as I am.
As is so often true of seminal works with no forebearer, one could just as easily look at what is wrong with it. It is sloppy in places, especially when the author sees fit to deliver on his promise of a plot. Plenty of passages feel like missed opportunities, connecting to the larger tapestry just enough to make a literary snob like this reader wish for a little tidier weaving.
But I'm sure all of these essays have been written already, and by more knowledgeable scholars than me. I did notice a point that is so subtle that perhaps it has escaped other eyes, however. The narrator, mathematician that he is, often phrases his internal conflict as the task of removing the irrational number √-1 from himself. Anyone who has taken high school algebra recognizes this as the formula for the number i, which opens these passages up to a fascinating set of questions. I is /am indeed the most irrational of numbers/beings. What is/am I? Philosophers have never come up with an answer that satisfies. Is it even possible to remove that most irrational--and potentially destructive--element, the ego, from ourselves? Would it result in more or less happiness? What would need to be sacrificed? All of this ties in nicely with the themes of the book, and Zamyatin, freed from the requirement of proof, offers his answers rather more clearly than Descartes could.
But the most fascinating aspect of this question is that, in spite of its seamless blending into the overall themes of the text, and the almost precious cleverness that it elicits from the reader, it is unlikely if not impossible that it has any real place in the text. We was written in Russian, and only translated later into English. For all of the layered meanings and probing questions that i and the obvious corollary evoke in English, in Russian it is just another letter. The first person pronoun in Russian is not I but я. To what extent, then, do all of these fascinating interpretations have any place in the discussion? If the author did not mean for them to be there, do they exist? Are they part of the text? Or do they belong only to the reader--specifically the English-speaking reader? This is a marvelous window into the very question of textuality that divides literary theorists even as recently as a book I finished this week (Scholes' Textual Power). It's a very concrete example of a very elusive question. For me, this book is mine now, not Zamyatin's. He can participate in the reading with me, but only as an equal partner. Maybe he would be as pleased by his unintended(?) cleverness as I am.
Monday, July 11, 2016
Robert Scholes: Textual Power
Oh, academia.
During my years teaching public school in America, I came to the classroom with a very clear set of goals for the students.
And so for the first half of this book, I was pumping my fist in the air with Scholes. "We have an endless web here, of growth, and change, and interaction, learning and forgetting, dialogue and dialectic. Our task as teachers is to introduce students to this web, to make it real and visible for them, insofar as we can, and to encourage them to cast their own strands of thought and text into this network . . ." he urges (21). "Right on, brother!" I concurred. "We move from a submission to textual authority in reading, through a sharing of textual power in interpretation, toward an asssertion of power through opposition in criticism" he advocates (39). "Preach! Testify!" I responded. "We neither capture nor create the world with our texts, but interact with it" (112). "Amen! Come lord Chaucer!"
It is unclear at exactly what point he lost me. His transition from the argument for teaching students of literature to construct a web of understanding and connect it to the existing web where they can, to a specific assault on certain of his contemporaries is so subtle and gradual that I am at a loss to give it a page number. If this were a thesis and I his advising professor, I would stop him around chapter seven and guide him back in the direction of actual teaching practice. For lack of such a guiding hand, Scholes tears off in a direction that is guilty of some of the sins against which he rails. His invective against Stanley Fish is positioned at the apex of the book, in a way that would lead a reader to believe that such an assault was the primary reason for the book's existence. His takedown is thorough and decisive, and one would have hoped that he returned at the last to the question of what this means for teachers. He never does. The result is that he spins a beautiful web of pedagogy, at once subversive and practical, then departs that web for another. He does this seemingly with the intention of connecting the two into one great tapestry, but gets entangled in academic point-counterpoint, and dies there, covered in sticky, silken arguments.
During my years teaching public school in America, I came to the classroom with a very clear set of goals for the students.
- For them to read, watch, and listen to some interesting things, and have something interesting to say or write about them.
- For them to walk away with a definition of literature that includes more than just old books.
And so for the first half of this book, I was pumping my fist in the air with Scholes. "We have an endless web here, of growth, and change, and interaction, learning and forgetting, dialogue and dialectic. Our task as teachers is to introduce students to this web, to make it real and visible for them, insofar as we can, and to encourage them to cast their own strands of thought and text into this network . . ." he urges (21). "Right on, brother!" I concurred. "We move from a submission to textual authority in reading, through a sharing of textual power in interpretation, toward an asssertion of power through opposition in criticism" he advocates (39). "Preach! Testify!" I responded. "We neither capture nor create the world with our texts, but interact with it" (112). "Amen! Come lord Chaucer!"
It is unclear at exactly what point he lost me. His transition from the argument for teaching students of literature to construct a web of understanding and connect it to the existing web where they can, to a specific assault on certain of his contemporaries is so subtle and gradual that I am at a loss to give it a page number. If this were a thesis and I his advising professor, I would stop him around chapter seven and guide him back in the direction of actual teaching practice. For lack of such a guiding hand, Scholes tears off in a direction that is guilty of some of the sins against which he rails. His invective against Stanley Fish is positioned at the apex of the book, in a way that would lead a reader to believe that such an assault was the primary reason for the book's existence. His takedown is thorough and decisive, and one would have hoped that he returned at the last to the question of what this means for teachers. He never does. The result is that he spins a beautiful web of pedagogy, at once subversive and practical, then departs that web for another. He does this seemingly with the intention of connecting the two into one great tapestry, but gets entangled in academic point-counterpoint, and dies there, covered in sticky, silken arguments.
Saturday, July 09, 2016
Intolerance
I'm struggling to come up with a suitable metaphor for D.W. Griffith. Was he the Brian Singer or Michael Bay of his time? He certainly had their gift for pandering, for filling a slapdash script with car chases, tits, and explosions. Or is he more analogous to Brett Ratner and James Cameron, with an ego big enough to actually stamp his initials on the narration slides, and infuse this mess with a pedantic air that convinces one he thought it was a public service?
At any rate, it's clear that Griffith's gifts did not lie in scriptwriting, and this heavy-handed attempt to make Literature recoils from the mirror when seen in that light. His titular subject is seemingly chosen at random, although no doubt influenced by the public's reaction to his earlier travesty, Birth of a Nation. Of the four stories chosen to illustrate his subject, only one of them is even remotely relevant, and even that of the Bartholomew's Day Massacre was likely recommended by its picturesque potential, rather than its thematic relevance.
I came to this film with an analytical eye, primed by name recognition, purported significance, and thematic potential to see layers of meaning in the film, carefully woven narrative threads, resonant confluences of character and plot. I spent far too much mental effort trying to decipher the patterns hidden in the color washes he used for the various themes. Were the green overlays meant to invoke jealousy? The purple ones lust? But there was no pattern, neither in color nor in anything else.
If I had not come prepared to take the film seriously, I might have enjoyed it. The sound stages are fit out in regalia that would still be impressive today. No expense was spared, and one staggers to imagine how he convinced backers to put up 2.5 million in 1916 dollars. A modern viewer can also find much to amuse in the laughable deaths of main characters, filmed seemingly in one take with 19th century stage props. If I had brought as much mental effort to the viewing as I do to that of an X-Men movie, all of which are guilty in smaller portion of the same sins, I might have simply forgotten about it. But I came to it with the mistaken hope that it might be good--as much a mistake as doing the same with any of the aforementioned modern directors.
At any rate, it's clear that Griffith's gifts did not lie in scriptwriting, and this heavy-handed attempt to make Literature recoils from the mirror when seen in that light. His titular subject is seemingly chosen at random, although no doubt influenced by the public's reaction to his earlier travesty, Birth of a Nation. Of the four stories chosen to illustrate his subject, only one of them is even remotely relevant, and even that of the Bartholomew's Day Massacre was likely recommended by its picturesque potential, rather than its thematic relevance.
I came to this film with an analytical eye, primed by name recognition, purported significance, and thematic potential to see layers of meaning in the film, carefully woven narrative threads, resonant confluences of character and plot. I spent far too much mental effort trying to decipher the patterns hidden in the color washes he used for the various themes. Were the green overlays meant to invoke jealousy? The purple ones lust? But there was no pattern, neither in color nor in anything else.
If I had not come prepared to take the film seriously, I might have enjoyed it. The sound stages are fit out in regalia that would still be impressive today. No expense was spared, and one staggers to imagine how he convinced backers to put up 2.5 million in 1916 dollars. A modern viewer can also find much to amuse in the laughable deaths of main characters, filmed seemingly in one take with 19th century stage props. If I had brought as much mental effort to the viewing as I do to that of an X-Men movie, all of which are guilty in smaller portion of the same sins, I might have simply forgotten about it. But I came to it with the mistaken hope that it might be good--as much a mistake as doing the same with any of the aforementioned modern directors.
Monday, June 06, 2016
Gabby Ruiz: Juliet Takes a Breath
I should have read this without having should to have had. I can't even remember the last book I read for pleasure, without a list or a promise or a book club to drive me to finish it. But if I was the sort of person who read things he didn't feel he had to (namely, other than cripplingly lazy), this would have been on the list anyway.
It's a good, if flawed book. I tried to give it the Literature treatment, highlighting passages that I thought would have thematic significance later, but it simply didn't hold up to that sort of analysis. Nonetheless, I didn't put it down and read it straight through. It charmingly weaves a braid of coming of age, queer theory, and racial thinkpiece filled with appealing characters that can be forgiven for seeming overly broad in light of the fact that they are based on real people who, in all likelihood, are actually caricatures of themselves.
This book wasn't written for me at any angle. I am neither trying to find where I fit in the world racially, coming to terms with the mechanisms of my own body, nor experiencing the first flutters of love and sexual desire. There wasn't a single face in the book I could wear, but I still found it revealing. The title character learns early what I wish I had learned at all: that your identity is never going to be explained to you, and that you must take pieces of what works for you from knowledgeable people you trust, and fill in the gaps with what they could never offer.
It's a good, if flawed book. I tried to give it the Literature treatment, highlighting passages that I thought would have thematic significance later, but it simply didn't hold up to that sort of analysis. Nonetheless, I didn't put it down and read it straight through. It charmingly weaves a braid of coming of age, queer theory, and racial thinkpiece filled with appealing characters that can be forgiven for seeming overly broad in light of the fact that they are based on real people who, in all likelihood, are actually caricatures of themselves.
This book wasn't written for me at any angle. I am neither trying to find where I fit in the world racially, coming to terms with the mechanisms of my own body, nor experiencing the first flutters of love and sexual desire. There wasn't a single face in the book I could wear, but I still found it revealing. The title character learns early what I wish I had learned at all: that your identity is never going to be explained to you, and that you must take pieces of what works for you from knowledgeable people you trust, and fill in the gaps with what they could never offer.
Friday, June 03, 2016
Benedetto Croce: The Essence of Aesthetic
That the author should endeavor such a task as to define art in one word is remarkable enough. That he very nearly succeeds is nothing short of formative.
Croce's proposal that art can be defined simply as "intuition" is the sort of seductive aphorism that I am surprised doesn't get tossed around more than the similarly catchy and vague "The act of you looking is art". It bears up to casual conversation, and is suitable to be dropped as a one-liner over a glass of Malbec, but not a glass of absinthe. Intuition is a word, and as such is at mercy to all the linguistic traps that Wittgenstein proposed, the more so insofar as Croce proposed it in his native Italian. It is suffused with layers of meaning and interpretation, many of which are unique to the individual speaker of listener, and the idea of art as intuition requires as much translation, explication, and defense as one would expect. What is remarkable about Croce is not, therefore, that he has chosen a word that is more or less acceptable to represent something that seemingly defies representation. Rather, it is that the idea behind his choice is so incisive and universal that it untangles not only the conundrum at hand, but does so in a way that reveals underlying truths much deeper than he may have intended to probe. The Gordian knot he cuts is revealed to have been holding up the curtain of perception that obscures reality, and which so many mistake for reality itself.
Hans Gombrich's excellent treatment of The Story of Art is one that I, rightly or not, recall as framing art as the constant swing of a pendulum between what is seen and what is known, between perception and thought, idea and reality. Croce denies the existence of this pendulum, and in fact begins his argument with a denial of anything historical, moral, technical, or scientific in the nature of art. Those who phrase art in terms of its purpose, its rightful execution, or its place in society are mistaking the reflection of the moon for the moon itself, the frame for the picture. Art is not a dialectic between two things, Croce determines, not the swinging of a pendulum, but the thesis of the two, the moment when the pendulum suddenly comes to rest.
Although the word intuition itself if not helpful in the task that Croce has set for it, his exponence of it most certainly is. There are those that insist art is an act of beauty, a product--be it poem, song, or image--that exists in and of itself. Accordingly, any question of meaning or purpose has no place in the conversation. On the other hand are those that say the mere beauty of an object is not enough to qualify it as art. These latter are constantly asking what it "means" (a nauseating question, to be sure) and finding no deeper purpose behind a work, consign it to the merely pleasing, rather than artistic. Croce reveals this argument to be a foolish one, but, like so many foolish questions, one that inadvertently reveals the truth behind it. Art is neither product nor process, image nor idea, but rather the perfect union of the two in one moment. A moment of true art is not a song, poem, or image that perfectly expresses a moment of the soul; nor is it a philosophical truth somehow given form. It is both of these things and neither: an unreal reality. For Croce, art is the moment when it is not necessary to "promote mysterious nuptials between sign and image", but when the image itself is the sign (52). The signifier of art cannot be divorced from its signified, any more than a word can be divorced from its meaning. Both exist simultaneously in the sign, and to say that one does not gain supremacy over the other is to miss the point. Rather, both cease to exist, and language, or art, is born. Anything that can be called Art is the marriage of the real and the unreal, the seen and the unseen, the perceived and the conceived, a lyrical intuition of a state of the soul.
No doubt my interpretation of Croce's meaning is heavily colored by my own thinking. His language is often obscure, and he frequently takes for granted that of which I have no knowledge. Combined with the obvious dangers of translation (although Italian is less opaque to English than some languages), and it may well be that Croce would give me a good slap for misunderstanding him so thoroughly. Nonetheless, dead as he is, I shall add this volume to the growing, internal works cited page that appendices my continuing search for the nacheinander and the nebeneinander, the unreal reality of life.
Croce's proposal that art can be defined simply as "intuition" is the sort of seductive aphorism that I am surprised doesn't get tossed around more than the similarly catchy and vague "The act of you looking is art". It bears up to casual conversation, and is suitable to be dropped as a one-liner over a glass of Malbec, but not a glass of absinthe. Intuition is a word, and as such is at mercy to all the linguistic traps that Wittgenstein proposed, the more so insofar as Croce proposed it in his native Italian. It is suffused with layers of meaning and interpretation, many of which are unique to the individual speaker of listener, and the idea of art as intuition requires as much translation, explication, and defense as one would expect. What is remarkable about Croce is not, therefore, that he has chosen a word that is more or less acceptable to represent something that seemingly defies representation. Rather, it is that the idea behind his choice is so incisive and universal that it untangles not only the conundrum at hand, but does so in a way that reveals underlying truths much deeper than he may have intended to probe. The Gordian knot he cuts is revealed to have been holding up the curtain of perception that obscures reality, and which so many mistake for reality itself.
Hans Gombrich's excellent treatment of The Story of Art is one that I, rightly or not, recall as framing art as the constant swing of a pendulum between what is seen and what is known, between perception and thought, idea and reality. Croce denies the existence of this pendulum, and in fact begins his argument with a denial of anything historical, moral, technical, or scientific in the nature of art. Those who phrase art in terms of its purpose, its rightful execution, or its place in society are mistaking the reflection of the moon for the moon itself, the frame for the picture. Art is not a dialectic between two things, Croce determines, not the swinging of a pendulum, but the thesis of the two, the moment when the pendulum suddenly comes to rest.
Although the word intuition itself if not helpful in the task that Croce has set for it, his exponence of it most certainly is. There are those that insist art is an act of beauty, a product--be it poem, song, or image--that exists in and of itself. Accordingly, any question of meaning or purpose has no place in the conversation. On the other hand are those that say the mere beauty of an object is not enough to qualify it as art. These latter are constantly asking what it "means" (a nauseating question, to be sure) and finding no deeper purpose behind a work, consign it to the merely pleasing, rather than artistic. Croce reveals this argument to be a foolish one, but, like so many foolish questions, one that inadvertently reveals the truth behind it. Art is neither product nor process, image nor idea, but rather the perfect union of the two in one moment. A moment of true art is not a song, poem, or image that perfectly expresses a moment of the soul; nor is it a philosophical truth somehow given form. It is both of these things and neither: an unreal reality. For Croce, art is the moment when it is not necessary to "promote mysterious nuptials between sign and image", but when the image itself is the sign (52). The signifier of art cannot be divorced from its signified, any more than a word can be divorced from its meaning. Both exist simultaneously in the sign, and to say that one does not gain supremacy over the other is to miss the point. Rather, both cease to exist, and language, or art, is born. Anything that can be called Art is the marriage of the real and the unreal, the seen and the unseen, the perceived and the conceived, a lyrical intuition of a state of the soul.
No doubt my interpretation of Croce's meaning is heavily colored by my own thinking. His language is often obscure, and he frequently takes for granted that of which I have no knowledge. Combined with the obvious dangers of translation (although Italian is less opaque to English than some languages), and it may well be that Croce would give me a good slap for misunderstanding him so thoroughly. Nonetheless, dead as he is, I shall add this volume to the growing, internal works cited page that appendices my continuing search for the nacheinander and the nebeneinander, the unreal reality of life.
Monday, May 16, 2016
The Revelation to John
It's hard to believe that I'm actually finishing this project. For all of the other inconsistencies in my life, and all of the other projects I've thrown into the metaphorical firepit over the last ten years, this blog is one thing about which I have been conscientious. Every book I've read during that time. Hundreds of them. It may be the only consistent thing in my life. I'm pretty proud of it, whether or not anybody ever reads it.
1:1 I guess this is technically a fourth hand account, transmitted by an as yet unnamed angel. John's use of "soon" here likely does not mean what he thought it did at the time.
1:3 This is interesting. What effect does reading these words aloud have? This is the only mention of such a phenomenon of which I am aware. Should I be reading this aloud as I go? I'm tempted to. But what are the terms and conditions of this blessing? And what makes this prophecy different from others?
1:4 A nice parallel to the beginning of his own gospel. John may have aged, but his voice and perspective are still recognizable here. Who are these seven spirits though?
1:5 The ruler of the kings of the Earth? In what way? I am inclined to view Christ's Kingdom as entirely unaffiliated with Earthly governments.
1:7 I wonder what aspects of this in the Greek make it verse, and not prose. What sets this passage apart linguistically?
1:8 A definite conflation of God and Christ here, consistent with John's theology elsewhere.
1:9 He "was" on Patmos? Where is he now?
1:11 The literality of the seven churches here argues toward a literal interpretation of the seven spirits in 1:4.
1:12-16 More symbolism of 7s, but the figure here can be none other than Christ. Didn't John say that the message was delivered to him through an intermediary in 1:1?
1:19 The Son of Man does not say "soon", but "after this". John must have interpolated the time frame.
1:20 And, as I recalled, the seven spirits are indeed literal. One for each church. What church are those spirits supervising today, if any?
2:1 Ah, John is writing to the angels now? Then perhaps not so literal after all. Either "angel" here is a metaphor for a human overseer, or it refers to the spirit of the church in a metaphorical sense.
2:3,6 Peter and Paul also pounded this point pretty hard.
2:10 Curious to know if this came true in a literal sense.
2:11 The theme of conquest seemed unworthy of mention in 2:7, but the repetition here alerts one to a pattern.
2:12 And the way he identifies himself to each congregation is a nice little mini-theme within each message. I don't recall John being this literary.
2:17 A fascinating and layered image. I don't recall if it gets develop later or not, but I have my eye out for it.
2:20 Again, John almost sound like Paul here, only more florid. Did they agree to this extent in life?
3:1 I would hate to be in the Sardis congregation when this letter was received . . .
3:11 Well, now he has said "soon". I guess John wasn't taking liberties.
3:12 To each congregation, he makes a different promise for their conquest. Of them all, the white stone with a new name on it is the one I would most like to receive.
4:1 This clears up the confusion about the messenger earlier.
4:2 The distinction is an important one. The Son of Man with his seven spirits etc. is a physical manifestation, and all of his accoutrements are symbols of earthly things. With this verse, though, everything we see until notified otherwise will be a symbol of something heavenly.
4:5 So much for that theory haha. We now have the seven flames and seven spirits again.
4:6-8 I've always tended toward an interpretation of this section as an alternate view of Isaiah's chariot. The see in from of the throne that John sees is the same expanse that Isaiah sees from below. The four living creatures, each with one face, are the same as the Cherubs Isaiah saw. Etc.
4:8 Definitely a theme with John, here and elsewhere.
4:9-12 I wonder how John resolved the clear separation between the one seated upon the throne and the Son of Man he met earlier. Or did the dichotomy register for him?
5:6 These seven spirits are becoming the most fascinating part of this book. Bound at the time of the writing to the seven congregations, but clearly not eternally so, they are here said to be sent into all the earth. This part of the symbolism was also seriously undertreated in my upbringing, to the extent that I hardly remember it being interpreted at all.
5:8 The one seated upon the throne is rather pointedly silent.
5:13 This dichotomy becomes even more pronounced here. There can be no doubt in John's mind that this Lamb is Christ. Who then is seated upon the throne? It cannot be this same Lamb. And the argument cannot hold that one is simply an earthly manifestation of the other, since we are solidly in the spirit realm here.
1:1 I guess this is technically a fourth hand account, transmitted by an as yet unnamed angel. John's use of "soon" here likely does not mean what he thought it did at the time.
1:3 This is interesting. What effect does reading these words aloud have? This is the only mention of such a phenomenon of which I am aware. Should I be reading this aloud as I go? I'm tempted to. But what are the terms and conditions of this blessing? And what makes this prophecy different from others?
1:4 A nice parallel to the beginning of his own gospel. John may have aged, but his voice and perspective are still recognizable here. Who are these seven spirits though?
1:5 The ruler of the kings of the Earth? In what way? I am inclined to view Christ's Kingdom as entirely unaffiliated with Earthly governments.
1:7 I wonder what aspects of this in the Greek make it verse, and not prose. What sets this passage apart linguistically?
1:8 A definite conflation of God and Christ here, consistent with John's theology elsewhere.
1:9 He "was" on Patmos? Where is he now?
1:11 The literality of the seven churches here argues toward a literal interpretation of the seven spirits in 1:4.
1:12-16 More symbolism of 7s, but the figure here can be none other than Christ. Didn't John say that the message was delivered to him through an intermediary in 1:1?
1:19 The Son of Man does not say "soon", but "after this". John must have interpolated the time frame.
1:20 And, as I recalled, the seven spirits are indeed literal. One for each church. What church are those spirits supervising today, if any?
2:1 Ah, John is writing to the angels now? Then perhaps not so literal after all. Either "angel" here is a metaphor for a human overseer, or it refers to the spirit of the church in a metaphorical sense.
2:3,6 Peter and Paul also pounded this point pretty hard.
2:10 Curious to know if this came true in a literal sense.
2:11 The theme of conquest seemed unworthy of mention in 2:7, but the repetition here alerts one to a pattern.
2:12 And the way he identifies himself to each congregation is a nice little mini-theme within each message. I don't recall John being this literary.
2:17 A fascinating and layered image. I don't recall if it gets develop later or not, but I have my eye out for it.
2:20 Again, John almost sound like Paul here, only more florid. Did they agree to this extent in life?
3:1 I would hate to be in the Sardis congregation when this letter was received . . .
3:11 Well, now he has said "soon". I guess John wasn't taking liberties.
3:12 To each congregation, he makes a different promise for their conquest. Of them all, the white stone with a new name on it is the one I would most like to receive.
4:1 This clears up the confusion about the messenger earlier.
4:2 The distinction is an important one. The Son of Man with his seven spirits etc. is a physical manifestation, and all of his accoutrements are symbols of earthly things. With this verse, though, everything we see until notified otherwise will be a symbol of something heavenly.
4:5 So much for that theory haha. We now have the seven flames and seven spirits again.
4:6-8 I've always tended toward an interpretation of this section as an alternate view of Isaiah's chariot. The see in from of the throne that John sees is the same expanse that Isaiah sees from below. The four living creatures, each with one face, are the same as the Cherubs Isaiah saw. Etc.
4:8 Definitely a theme with John, here and elsewhere.
4:9-12 I wonder how John resolved the clear separation between the one seated upon the throne and the Son of Man he met earlier. Or did the dichotomy register for him?
5:6 These seven spirits are becoming the most fascinating part of this book. Bound at the time of the writing to the seven congregations, but clearly not eternally so, they are here said to be sent into all the earth. This part of the symbolism was also seriously undertreated in my upbringing, to the extent that I hardly remember it being interpreted at all.
5:8 The one seated upon the throne is rather pointedly silent.
5:13 This dichotomy becomes even more pronounced here. There can be no doubt in John's mind that this Lamb is Christ. Who then is seated upon the throne? It cannot be this same Lamb. And the argument cannot hold that one is simply an earthly manifestation of the other, since we are solidly in the spirit realm here.
Friday, May 13, 2016
Samuel Wilson Fussell: Muscle
Whatever the intended audience for this book was, I am not among their number.
The most charitable interpretation I can offer is that it's a cautionary tale, one that successfully deglamourizes the world of competitive bodybuilding. As though bodybuilders were not already unappealing enough, the detailed observations on cystic acne, prolapsed rectums, incontinence, and other side effects should more than serve to dissuade the reader from ever setting foot in that world.
A more cynical interpretation is that the book is written as a mea culpa, an apology to his parents and others whom he left behind to pursue his ridiculous task. Each chapter is filled with self-deprecating explanations of why he did what he did, why he jettisoned his effete, academic life, and why he was sorry. This is the literary equivalent of the fellow in your office who wants so badly to be thought of as intelligent that you can't bring yourself to give it to him. It is the guy who says things like "What unspeakable hubris!" unironically, and "My clothes took on increasingly Brobdingnagian proportions" with a smirk that dares you to ask him what it means (201, 180). The last chapter may well have been titled, "Can I Come Back Yet?"
But my personal interpretation is that the book was written for an audience of one. I have certainly had those moments where I look back on my life from the emotional dumpster fire in which I stand and think, "How did I even get here?" It is as though another took hold of my strings and shook me wildly across the stage, and then left me in a heap, draped across the lip of the bandshell. What have I done? Why did I throw all of that away, and for what? It must not have been me; I was clearly possessed by a malevolent puppeteer, or an insane djinn. At those moments, the only way to preserve one's sanity and move forward is to write a book, to spin a narrative out of the frayed threads, and then tell oneself, "This is what it meant."
The most charitable interpretation I can offer is that it's a cautionary tale, one that successfully deglamourizes the world of competitive bodybuilding. As though bodybuilders were not already unappealing enough, the detailed observations on cystic acne, prolapsed rectums, incontinence, and other side effects should more than serve to dissuade the reader from ever setting foot in that world.
A more cynical interpretation is that the book is written as a mea culpa, an apology to his parents and others whom he left behind to pursue his ridiculous task. Each chapter is filled with self-deprecating explanations of why he did what he did, why he jettisoned his effete, academic life, and why he was sorry. This is the literary equivalent of the fellow in your office who wants so badly to be thought of as intelligent that you can't bring yourself to give it to him. It is the guy who says things like "What unspeakable hubris!" unironically, and "My clothes took on increasingly Brobdingnagian proportions" with a smirk that dares you to ask him what it means (201, 180). The last chapter may well have been titled, "Can I Come Back Yet?"
But my personal interpretation is that the book was written for an audience of one. I have certainly had those moments where I look back on my life from the emotional dumpster fire in which I stand and think, "How did I even get here?" It is as though another took hold of my strings and shook me wildly across the stage, and then left me in a heap, draped across the lip of the bandshell. What have I done? Why did I throw all of that away, and for what? It must not have been me; I was clearly possessed by a malevolent puppeteer, or an insane djinn. At those moments, the only way to preserve one's sanity and move forward is to write a book, to spin a narrative out of the frayed threads, and then tell oneself, "This is what it meant."
Sunday, April 03, 2016
김려령: 완득이
한국 아동 소설을 읽을 때 왜 이렇게 고아, 아니면 부모랑 사이가 안 좋은 주인공 많이 나오냐는 생각이 든다. 생각해보니 Harry Potter, Tom Sawyer, To Kill a Mockingbird등과 같은 서양 소설도 그렇게 서있다. 왜 그랬을까요? 고아와 공감이 국가 간 경계를 넘어간 것 같는다.
근데, 이 책을 통하여 그렇게 경계 못 넘는 점을 이해하게 되었다. 대부분 한국 사람들 떡, 막창과 같은 쫄깃쫄깃한 음식을 미칠 뜻이 좋아한다. 대부분 서양인들이 "떡은 맛이 하나도 없는데 음식 아니고 입 운동"이라고 하면서 싫어한다. 왜 그런지 알게 됬다. 완득이란 주인공이 "나도 어느새 폐닭에 익숙해졌나보다. 씹기도 전에 똑똑 끊어진는 이 퍼석한 닭 정말 별로다"고한다. 한국 친구들 "질감도 맛이다" 설명한다. 난 그렇지 않다. 질감과 맛에 큰 차이가 있다. 떡은 질감이 있지만 맛은 없다. 그래도 한국 친구의 개념을 파악된 것같다.
근데, 이 책을 통하여 그렇게 경계 못 넘는 점을 이해하게 되었다. 대부분 한국 사람들 떡, 막창과 같은 쫄깃쫄깃한 음식을 미칠 뜻이 좋아한다. 대부분 서양인들이 "떡은 맛이 하나도 없는데 음식 아니고 입 운동"이라고 하면서 싫어한다. 왜 그런지 알게 됬다. 완득이란 주인공이 "나도 어느새 폐닭에 익숙해졌나보다. 씹기도 전에 똑똑 끊어진는 이 퍼석한 닭 정말 별로다"고한다. 한국 친구들 "질감도 맛이다" 설명한다. 난 그렇지 않다. 질감과 맛에 큰 차이가 있다. 떡은 질감이 있지만 맛은 없다. 그래도 한국 친구의 개념을 파악된 것같다.
Friday, March 25, 2016
Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid
I like to put things into my own words usually, but in this case I find myself in such perfect agreement with the late Roger Ebert that I feel compelled to quote his review of this movie at length:
"The movie starts promisingly, with an amusing period-piece newsreel about the Cassidy gang. And then there is a scene in a tavern where Sundance faces down a tough gambler, and that's good. And then a scene where Butch puts down a rebellion in his gang, and that's one of the best things in the movie. And then an extended bout of train-robbing, climaxing in a dynamite explosion that'll have you rolling in the aisles. And then we meet Sundance's girlfriend, played by Katharine Ross, and the scenes with the three of them have you thinking you've wandered into a really first-rate film."
I concur wholeheartedly, and I also agree with Ebert when he goes on to observe that it all falls apart about halfway through. this is especially true of the dialogue, which eventually
". . . gets so bad we can't believe a word anyone says. And then the violent, bloody ending is also a mistake; apparently it was a misguided attempt to copy "Bonnie and Clyde." But the ending doesn't belong on "Butch Cassidy," and we don't believe it, and we walk out of the theater wondering what happened to that great movie we were seeing until an hour ago."
This last line perfectly captures what went wrong. What happened to the good, though not great, movie this could have been? What misbegotten committee is responsible for turning it into a monstrous hybrid of Godard, Bacharach, and Apatow? The only circumstance under which I could recommend this movie is to an aspiring director, as an example of how to lose one's vision.
"The movie starts promisingly, with an amusing period-piece newsreel about the Cassidy gang. And then there is a scene in a tavern where Sundance faces down a tough gambler, and that's good. And then a scene where Butch puts down a rebellion in his gang, and that's one of the best things in the movie. And then an extended bout of train-robbing, climaxing in a dynamite explosion that'll have you rolling in the aisles. And then we meet Sundance's girlfriend, played by Katharine Ross, and the scenes with the three of them have you thinking you've wandered into a really first-rate film."
I concur wholeheartedly, and I also agree with Ebert when he goes on to observe that it all falls apart about halfway through. this is especially true of the dialogue, which eventually
". . . gets so bad we can't believe a word anyone says. And then the violent, bloody ending is also a mistake; apparently it was a misguided attempt to copy "Bonnie and Clyde." But the ending doesn't belong on "Butch Cassidy," and we don't believe it, and we walk out of the theater wondering what happened to that great movie we were seeing until an hour ago."
This last line perfectly captures what went wrong. What happened to the good, though not great, movie this could have been? What misbegotten committee is responsible for turning it into a monstrous hybrid of Godard, Bacharach, and Apatow? The only circumstance under which I could recommend this movie is to an aspiring director, as an example of how to lose one's vision.
Charles Singer: A Short History of Scientific Ideas to 1900
One of my favorite books from Ward's Lifetime of Reading so far has been E.H. Gombrich's The Story of Art. Instead of just discussing various movements and their proponents, he wove a narrative of art as the constant interplay between the Turners and the Constables of the world, the Caravaggios and the Caraccis. The story of art has been that of a pendulum swinging constantly between what we see and what we know. Between our senses and our mind. Reading that book has influenced how I see art more than any other experience.
This is probably responsible for my glee once I realized a few chapters in that Singer's intent was to do the same for scientific thought. The story he tells, though he takes a well-calibrated amount of space to explain the various theories and discoveries themselves, is largely one of the constant push and pull between Plato and Aristotle--between mind and matter. Scientific thought--and intellectual inquiry of all flavors--can never resist the urge to extrapolate beyond what we see. To Platonize things and look for the underlying principle, the ideal. Neither can it long stay in the theoretical, and before long it returns to the concrete, skeptical world of Aristotle.
Which is why the story is filled with characters who, sensing the approach of the parabolic arc, turn their attention in the other direction. Some look inward for answers, as Singer observes in his lovely treatment of Kepler:
"That Kepler sought so persistently for a simple mathematical scheme of the material worlds and, having found one, he regarded it as fitting his scheme of the moral world, suggests certain reflections on the workings of the human mind itself. Whatever reality may be, we seem to be so made that we aspire towards an interpretation of the universe that shall hold together in a complete and reasonable scheme. The fact that we thus aspire does not in the least prove that such a scheme corresponds to reality" (239).
And even as those forces draw the pendulum in one direction, others are gathering their momentum. Those such as Giordano Bruno, easily the most fascinating figure in Singer's treatment of the subject. He is described as a renegade monk who "showed a lofty indifference to common sense that cannot fail to command our respect--at a distance" (218). Bruno's willingness to completely jettison Platonic models of existence makes him a far more engaging character than his predecessor, Copernicus, although it is this latter whom we remember. His notion of space as being without a center and, therefore infinite, was diametrically opposed to the contemporary anthropocentric models. This vision went far further than, preceded, and is more sustainable than Galileo's.
Of course all of this ties in nicely to my general framework for existence: the interplay between the nacheinander and the nebeneinander. The series and parallel natures of our experience. Where will the pendulum fall? Is reality what we see, or what we know, Subhuti? Singer presciently closes his book with a supposition on that matter: "It seems probable that Science itself is now reaching a stage in which an adequate scientific equipment will involve some regard to the world as an interconnected whole, in other words, in which Science and Philosophy will dwell less apart . . . Notably it seems probable that the conceptions of the separation of mind from mind and of mind from matter may need modification" (516). No pendulum can swing forever. At some point, Van Gogh and Monet, Linnaeus and Cuvier, will have to come to rest.
This is probably responsible for my glee once I realized a few chapters in that Singer's intent was to do the same for scientific thought. The story he tells, though he takes a well-calibrated amount of space to explain the various theories and discoveries themselves, is largely one of the constant push and pull between Plato and Aristotle--between mind and matter. Scientific thought--and intellectual inquiry of all flavors--can never resist the urge to extrapolate beyond what we see. To Platonize things and look for the underlying principle, the ideal. Neither can it long stay in the theoretical, and before long it returns to the concrete, skeptical world of Aristotle.
Which is why the story is filled with characters who, sensing the approach of the parabolic arc, turn their attention in the other direction. Some look inward for answers, as Singer observes in his lovely treatment of Kepler:
"That Kepler sought so persistently for a simple mathematical scheme of the material worlds and, having found one, he regarded it as fitting his scheme of the moral world, suggests certain reflections on the workings of the human mind itself. Whatever reality may be, we seem to be so made that we aspire towards an interpretation of the universe that shall hold together in a complete and reasonable scheme. The fact that we thus aspire does not in the least prove that such a scheme corresponds to reality" (239).
And even as those forces draw the pendulum in one direction, others are gathering their momentum. Those such as Giordano Bruno, easily the most fascinating figure in Singer's treatment of the subject. He is described as a renegade monk who "showed a lofty indifference to common sense that cannot fail to command our respect--at a distance" (218). Bruno's willingness to completely jettison Platonic models of existence makes him a far more engaging character than his predecessor, Copernicus, although it is this latter whom we remember. His notion of space as being without a center and, therefore infinite, was diametrically opposed to the contemporary anthropocentric models. This vision went far further than, preceded, and is more sustainable than Galileo's.
Of course all of this ties in nicely to my general framework for existence: the interplay between the nacheinander and the nebeneinander. The series and parallel natures of our experience. Where will the pendulum fall? Is reality what we see, or what we know, Subhuti? Singer presciently closes his book with a supposition on that matter: "It seems probable that Science itself is now reaching a stage in which an adequate scientific equipment will involve some regard to the world as an interconnected whole, in other words, in which Science and Philosophy will dwell less apart . . . Notably it seems probable that the conceptions of the separation of mind from mind and of mind from matter may need modification" (516). No pendulum can swing forever. At some point, Van Gogh and Monet, Linnaeus and Cuvier, will have to come to rest.
Tuesday, January 26, 2016
The Letter of Jude
This book strikes me as the outlyingest of the Greek scriptures. Even by virtue of authorship it is singular among those books adopted as canonical by the early church. There seems to be some confusion about the identity of this Jude. Was he a brother of Jesus? Or one of the original 12 apostles? It would seem to depend on whom you ask. My religious upbringing asserted the former. In either case, nearly nothing is known about him, as compared with Peter, John, Paul et al. As with the book attributed to James, it appears I will need to take it largely on its content.
1:2 Contrasting this salutation with those of Paul and Peter, one would expect the book to be less concerned with "grace" and more with love".
1:4 A recurring theme. Jude adds his voice to those other writers in defending the church against apostasy.
1:6 Whence does this bit of theology come? A reference from some apocryphal book? Not found in any of the canonical books, to my knowledge. And yet it is treated as established fact here.
1:9 Yet another unfamiliar reference--apocryphal even by Catholic standards.
1:14 And a reference to the book of Enoch--not exactly mainstream.
1:23 Well, at least we can see why "grace" was left out of his salutation.
Of all the many epistles that have been lost to history, and still more that have been preserved but refused canonicity, how did this one manage to be included? I can find no other answer than that the Jonathon Edwardsian fire and brimstone appealed to the sensibilities of those in charge of such decisions. y my original count, I have one more book to go in this little project. But the more I read, the more I want to add to the list books that have been inexplicably excluded.
1:2 Contrasting this salutation with those of Paul and Peter, one would expect the book to be less concerned with "grace" and more with love".
1:4 A recurring theme. Jude adds his voice to those other writers in defending the church against apostasy.
1:6 Whence does this bit of theology come? A reference from some apocryphal book? Not found in any of the canonical books, to my knowledge. And yet it is treated as established fact here.
1:9 Yet another unfamiliar reference--apocryphal even by Catholic standards.
1:14 And a reference to the book of Enoch--not exactly mainstream.
1:23 Well, at least we can see why "grace" was left out of his salutation.
Of all the many epistles that have been lost to history, and still more that have been preserved but refused canonicity, how did this one manage to be included? I can find no other answer than that the Jonathon Edwardsian fire and brimstone appealed to the sensibilities of those in charge of such decisions. y my original count, I have one more book to go in this little project. But the more I read, the more I want to add to the list books that have been inexplicably excluded.
Jaws
Well, that was unexpected. I suspected that this film earned its place on the AFI's list of 100 influential movies by virtue of its social impact, rather than its quality. And for the first third of the movie, I was comfortable in my assessment: it was a serviceable, but unremarkable monster movie.
But then they got in the boat. At that moment it went from being cinematic to theatrical, in the sense of being suitable for the stage, rather than the screen. In fact, I can easily imagine the best actors of our time being drawn to the roles of three men trapped in a life and death struggle with a force of nature. Working title: Two and a Half Men (badum tssss). And the movie never backtracked; it never went back to land and remembered that it was a monster movie. Once those men got in a boat, it became a dramatic character study, and so it remained.
But then they got in the boat. At that moment it went from being cinematic to theatrical, in the sense of being suitable for the stage, rather than the screen. In fact, I can easily imagine the best actors of our time being drawn to the roles of three men trapped in a life and death struggle with a force of nature. Working title: Two and a Half Men (badum tssss). And the movie never backtracked; it never went back to land and remembered that it was a monster movie. Once those men got in a boat, it became a dramatic character study, and so it remained.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)