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.
Wednesday, July 20, 2016
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.
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