I can't believe I didn't think of this before.
1:2 I thought this sort of post facto messiahfication was reserved for the later gospels. I wonder where in Isaiah this comes from, if this one is a stretch or not. I seem to remember something about that in Isaiah . . .
1:5 Jews "were baptized by him" and "confessing their sins", just like that? Unless I'm mistaken, this was a pretty new concept in Judaism. I wonder if John came up with the idea, and if so how he framed it to people.
1:12 "The spirit drove him out intno the wilderness." I'm not sure how to interpret this, but I like the way it is put.
1:13 In later versions, the devil specifically tempts Jesus to have angels minister to him. In this version, the angels are doing it willingly. Not irreconcilable, but interesting.
1:14 This is certainly a more palatable message than John's. Not "come air your dirty laundry and go through this ritual with me" but "hey, take stock of yourself and listen up."
1:16 this is the second time that it feels Mark has left something out (1:5). Surely it was not this succinct.
1:20 Or was he just that charismatic?
1:21 Did they let people do this? Just walk in and start teaching? Probably not. Pretty ballsy.
1:22 And what does this "authority" consist of? Charisma? Confidence? Logic and reasoning? Knowledgability? Perhaps all of the above . . .
1:23 This is probably not the spirit [sic] in which it was meant, but having "an unclean spirit" has some real applicability. I feel sometimes like my spirit is dirty, like it needs polished.
1:27 I guess I forgot one type of authority: actual power.
1:31 this is the third mention of some sort of service to Jesus (1:7, 13). some kind of theme developing?
1:34 Why not permit the demons to speak this time? Because "they knew him"? What did they know?
1:40-42 A nice parallel to the driving out of the uncleannes in 1:25.
1:43 a little late for this, dontcha think?
2:1 toldya.
2:8 Did he read their minds, or just have good hearing? Or were they simply indiscreet?
2:14 Is this Matthew? Or James? NOTA?
2:21 this is an interesting juxtaposition: straight from a rebuff of fasting to the wineskins analogy. Is he saying that fasting is obsolete, or is it a trick of the editor? Unrelated: the wineskins is one of my favorite sayings of Jesus.
2:27 I don't recall noticing this turn of phrase before. A nice antimetabole.
3:4 Another nice political/rhetorical display of skill
3:11 surely there is something to the fact Jesus calls himself "Son of Man" and all the spirits call him "Son of God".
3:12 Again, a little late for that.
3:16 This is the first I realized that Jesus gave Peter his name. Researching . . . meaning stone! Interesting. More than interesting.
3:18 Again, what is the relationship between this James and the Levi of 2:14?
3:28-30 This seems to answer the question "what is the unforgivable sin?" rather more nicely than I had realized. In my upbringing, it was always a divine mystery, but here it is rather clearly used to mean calling something holy something profane.
3:33 Not very worshipful of the so-called Queen of Heaven.
4:3-9 This is distinctly unpolitical moment. Anybody really interested in temporal power would have seized this moment to make an explicable analogy. Why didn't he explain it? Had popularity gotten too crowded, and he felt like he needed to winnow?
4:12 Why is this section in verse? Researching . . . The first two lines seem to rhyme in Greek, both ending in aw-seen, and the ending appears again in the middle of the next line, which ends in tah-ees. I don't feel like searching through the entire Greek interlinear, but the ending aw-seen does not appear anywhere else in this chapter. It does therefore seem to be deliberate poetry. But what a bizarre thing to say, let alone put into verse. Where is it from? Researching . . . in one version (NRSV), it is given quotation marks, as though pulled from somewhere else. In another, (NWT) not. In Matthew's parallel account, it is definitely attributed to Isaiah, probably 6:9, to wit: "Keep listening, but do not comprehend; keep looking, but do not understand." As in Mark, no reason is given. If it is not meant to be understood by the masses, why say it? Why not reserve it for its intended recipients. Why mess with people's minds like this?
4:13 And then, after specifically saying that the parable was inscrutable, why berate the apostles for not understanding it?
4:21 But he does seem to temper it a bit here, saying, "But don't worry. I'm not just being a jerk. All will be revealed; you really have to pay better attention though."
4:25 I think I understand what he is really saying here for the first time. I have always thought of this as a classic example of Jesus being a jerk. "If you understand, I will explain. If you don't understand, I will confuse you even more." But this interpretation is predicated (literally, for once) on the understanding that the getting and the giving are in the same currency. In light of v.23-4, it makes more sense to say "the measure [of attention] you give will be the measure [of understanding] you get." In this light, Jesus really does seem to be winnowing the flock. Trying to make it more manageable? Or more pure?
4:26-32 He then does them the favor of following up with two easily understood parables. To boost their confidence? To hone their deparabalizing skills? These, he does not seem to (need to) explain. Except tha tI am left with the question "What is this Kingdom of God?" Again, is it understanding? Or some spiritual gift?
Monday, January 19, 2009
Monday, January 12, 2009
Last and First
Rigoberta Menchu: I, Rigoberta Menchu
This last book of 2008 makes me want to revive my old content/style rating method for books. The content of the book was strong, the riveting story of a Quechua woman who fought for native rights in Guatemala. Dictated, rather than writeen, though, the book lacks style rather terminally. This is understandable, since Menchu had only been speaking Spanish for three years when she narrated it and was utterly uneducated, but it still keeps this from being worth reading other than as a curiosity. My World Literature class has been such a success so far, I decided to read in their entirety some of the books of which I taught on ly excerpts, and this one was easy to knock out on a single plane flight.
Philip K. Dick: Flow, My Tears the Policeman Said
I have to give this one a poor grade by comparison to Dick's masterpiece Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? While the latter transcended typical ideas of literature, the former ultimately relied on a single technological conceit, and fell short of my recommendation. It felt as though Dick almost followed the same formula to write the two books. Although the two protagonists are ostensibly polar opposites--the hard-boiled detective and the glitzy celebrity, the end up with the same quandaries about their realities, and ultimately end up feeling the same. The worlds created for the two books likewise feels interchangeable, although the irradiated world of Sheep ties more nicely into its theme than the police state of Tears.
What originally irritated me about Sheep, however, I longed for in Tears. the lack of resolution in the former resounded with the whole text to create a truly thought-provoking statement about the nature of reality. While Tears treated the same topic--as I suspect all of Dick's work does, it ultimately didn't take it beyond typical science-fiction fare.
This last book of 2008 makes me want to revive my old content/style rating method for books. The content of the book was strong, the riveting story of a Quechua woman who fought for native rights in Guatemala. Dictated, rather than writeen, though, the book lacks style rather terminally. This is understandable, since Menchu had only been speaking Spanish for three years when she narrated it and was utterly uneducated, but it still keeps this from being worth reading other than as a curiosity. My World Literature class has been such a success so far, I decided to read in their entirety some of the books of which I taught on ly excerpts, and this one was easy to knock out on a single plane flight.
Philip K. Dick: Flow, My Tears the Policeman Said
I have to give this one a poor grade by comparison to Dick's masterpiece Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? While the latter transcended typical ideas of literature, the former ultimately relied on a single technological conceit, and fell short of my recommendation. It felt as though Dick almost followed the same formula to write the two books. Although the two protagonists are ostensibly polar opposites--the hard-boiled detective and the glitzy celebrity, the end up with the same quandaries about their realities, and ultimately end up feeling the same. The worlds created for the two books likewise feels interchangeable, although the irradiated world of Sheep ties more nicely into its theme than the police state of Tears.
What originally irritated me about Sheep, however, I longed for in Tears. the lack of resolution in the former resounded with the whole text to create a truly thought-provoking statement about the nature of reality. While Tears treated the same topic--as I suspect all of Dick's work does, it ultimately didn't take it beyond typical science-fiction fare.
Friday, December 05, 2008
Five your consideration:
I shouldn't really be trying to do justice to these books, some of which are among the best ever written, in this state of exhaustion. I thought that I would find the energy to write about them in the manner they deserve, but I have not, so this will have to do.
Athol Fugard: Valley Song
This is the second time I have read this book, this time with a view to teaching it to my world literature class. On second reading it is, if possible even more charming. Valley Song is an example of how to do drama right. There is a not so fine line between Shaw, Ibsen and , especially Strindberg--the very definition of realistic drama--and Becket, Ionesco and their ilk. I suppose it is a continuum of sorts, and Fugard falls slightly to the right of Pirandello on the scale. Not so real as to be boring, but not to absurd as to be . . . absurd? Rather, he passes seemingly effortlessly between the two worlds, into and out of the characters' minds. The real beauty is that it seems so natural that the reader/viewer doesn't even think to ask, "What parts of this are real, and which imaginary" until trying to write something about it.
Murasaki Shikibu: The Tale of Genji
This monster has long been on my list, and only Philip Ward was persuasive enough to get me to follow through. I almost feel regret for reading it under such compulsion, for I didn't really begin to appreciate the beauty of it until three-quarters of the way through. I was reading it as such an English Major, such a westerner, always looking for the meaning, that I didn't stop to appreciate that it really is written quite beautifully. The prose is so flowery that it may as well have been written in verse, and I have no doubt that the Lady Murasaki would have been up tot that task as well. Sadly, I was in too modern a frame of mind, both literarily, and mentally--wanting to get through it and defeat it.
In spite of its general lack of theme, however, I did manage to take away a sympathy with the title character, and even his adoptive son, who dominates the last third of the book. Neither of them ever really found permanent love; nobody in the book did except, perhaps, the suspiciously named Murasaki, Genji's favorite. There is always, especially for men, another side of the fence, another field to be mown, so to speak. Maybe gay marriage is not such a good idea . . .
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle: The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes, The Return of Sherlock Holmes, His Last Bow, The Case-Book of Sherlock Holmes.
I was originally intending to write this revivew as what Leslie Klinger calls in his introduction to the anthology, "a gentle fiction". Throughout, he takes the amusing tack of treating the works as honest-to-god biographies, commenting in extensive notes about Holmes' and Watson's lives as though they were real people. This was not entirely annoying, for the extent of Sherlockian scholarship would make comprehensive annotations impossible. "Why not then," says I, "write the review in the same style." I may yet write an apocryphal work, wherein Holmes uses his powers to deduce that he and Watson are, in fact, fictional, and critiques how he is written. But not today.
Michael Chabon: The Yiddish Policeman's Union
Far more enjoyable and succinct than Kavalier and Klay [sic] due largely to the way Chabon's masterful way with an epigrammatic metaphor naturally fits the detective noir genre. Some of my favorites:
"A badge of grass, a green brooch pinned at the collarbone of a mountain to a vast cloak of black trees" (247).
"The Body, the horror and the splendor of it, naked as a giant bloodshot eyeball without a socket . . . Now it emerged ponderous from the steam, a wet slab of limestone webbed with a black lichen of hair . . . the belly pregnant with elephant triplets, the breast full and pendulous, each tipped with a pink lentil of a nipple. The thighs great, hand-rolled marbled loaves of halvah" (341).
This latter one reminds me of a certain opera singer I know. I thought I saw Jessie yeterday, but it was only a white Volkswagon.
Often a certain ghost contributor to this blog and I read side by side--different books, of course, his unbearably non-fictional--and read cute little passages to each other. I had to stop myself, though. Every page of the Union has at least one aphorism that deserves to be read aloud. I think it perfectly just that he won the Hugo this year, an event that I was, may I mention, witness to.
There was another book I finished recently, but I can't remember which one . . . BTD: 29?
Added later: the book is Three Guineas by Virginia Woolf. I have some relevant things to say about it, but I can't find my copy.
Athol Fugard: Valley Song
This is the second time I have read this book, this time with a view to teaching it to my world literature class. On second reading it is, if possible even more charming. Valley Song is an example of how to do drama right. There is a not so fine line between Shaw, Ibsen and , especially Strindberg--the very definition of realistic drama--and Becket, Ionesco and their ilk. I suppose it is a continuum of sorts, and Fugard falls slightly to the right of Pirandello on the scale. Not so real as to be boring, but not to absurd as to be . . . absurd? Rather, he passes seemingly effortlessly between the two worlds, into and out of the characters' minds. The real beauty is that it seems so natural that the reader/viewer doesn't even think to ask, "What parts of this are real, and which imaginary" until trying to write something about it.
Murasaki Shikibu: The Tale of Genji
This monster has long been on my list, and only Philip Ward was persuasive enough to get me to follow through. I almost feel regret for reading it under such compulsion, for I didn't really begin to appreciate the beauty of it until three-quarters of the way through. I was reading it as such an English Major, such a westerner, always looking for the meaning, that I didn't stop to appreciate that it really is written quite beautifully. The prose is so flowery that it may as well have been written in verse, and I have no doubt that the Lady Murasaki would have been up tot that task as well. Sadly, I was in too modern a frame of mind, both literarily, and mentally--wanting to get through it and defeat it.
In spite of its general lack of theme, however, I did manage to take away a sympathy with the title character, and even his adoptive son, who dominates the last third of the book. Neither of them ever really found permanent love; nobody in the book did except, perhaps, the suspiciously named Murasaki, Genji's favorite. There is always, especially for men, another side of the fence, another field to be mown, so to speak. Maybe gay marriage is not such a good idea . . .
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle: The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes, The Return of Sherlock Holmes, His Last Bow, The Case-Book of Sherlock Holmes.
I was originally intending to write this revivew as what Leslie Klinger calls in his introduction to the anthology, "a gentle fiction". Throughout, he takes the amusing tack of treating the works as honest-to-god biographies, commenting in extensive notes about Holmes' and Watson's lives as though they were real people. This was not entirely annoying, for the extent of Sherlockian scholarship would make comprehensive annotations impossible. "Why not then," says I, "write the review in the same style." I may yet write an apocryphal work, wherein Holmes uses his powers to deduce that he and Watson are, in fact, fictional, and critiques how he is written. But not today.
Michael Chabon: The Yiddish Policeman's Union
Far more enjoyable and succinct than Kavalier and Klay [sic] due largely to the way Chabon's masterful way with an epigrammatic metaphor naturally fits the detective noir genre. Some of my favorites:
"A badge of grass, a green brooch pinned at the collarbone of a mountain to a vast cloak of black trees" (247).
"The Body, the horror and the splendor of it, naked as a giant bloodshot eyeball without a socket . . . Now it emerged ponderous from the steam, a wet slab of limestone webbed with a black lichen of hair . . . the belly pregnant with elephant triplets, the breast full and pendulous, each tipped with a pink lentil of a nipple. The thighs great, hand-rolled marbled loaves of halvah" (341).
This latter one reminds me of a certain opera singer I know. I thought I saw Jessie yeterday, but it was only a white Volkswagon.
Often a certain ghost contributor to this blog and I read side by side--different books, of course, his unbearably non-fictional--and read cute little passages to each other. I had to stop myself, though. Every page of the Union has at least one aphorism that deserves to be read aloud. I think it perfectly just that he won the Hugo this year, an event that I was, may I mention, witness to.
There was another book I finished recently, but I can't remember which one . . . BTD: 29?
Added later: the book is Three Guineas by Virginia Woolf. I have some relevant things to say about it, but I can't find my copy.
Friday, October 31, 2008
Gary Soto: Novio Boy
At the beginning of this school year, I was very excited at the idea of teaching this play. I hadn't yet read it, but I had taught others of Soto's works with wild success to a similar student population. Now that I have finally gotten around to reading it, I am glad that I didn't get around to teaching it.
In spite of his Mexican roots, Soto manages to come across as pandering and cloying. Novio Boy has the feel of a politician courting votes in New Mexico by peppering his regular campaign speech with Spanish phrases and bits of local color. The play itself is unremarkable, but every fifth word is in cutesy Spanish that feels completely out of place. I can hear my students now: "Mister, we don't talk like that. who is this guy?"
In spite of his Mexican roots, Soto manages to come across as pandering and cloying. Novio Boy has the feel of a politician courting votes in New Mexico by peppering his regular campaign speech with Spanish phrases and bits of local color. The play itself is unremarkable, but every fifth word is in cutesy Spanish that feels completely out of place. I can hear my students now: "Mister, we don't talk like that. who is this guy?"
Friday, October 24, 2008
Dennis Cooper: The Weaklings
Normally this book would not merit its own entry. I found it pretty unremarkable, although a certain ghost contributor to this blog swears that the author is worthy. I seem to remember liking one of the poems, but, looking back, I can't remember which one.
Orson Scott Card: Ender's Game
"Alai suddenly kissed Ender on the cheek and whispered in his ear, "Salaam." Then, red-faced, he turned away and walked to his own bed at the back of the barracks. Ender guessed that the kiss and the word were somehow forbidden" (69).
Ender's Game is unmistakably flawed. At first riveting, it gradually becomes self-indulgent and forced, until it ends in a convoluted afterthought. At 324 pages, it is also the first book of any length I have read through without stopping in many years. I could not have put it down if it were on fire.
In my youth, as mentioned elsewhere in a blog accessible from this point, I lived in a world of fantasy, both conscious and un-, in which there were certain central themes. My sleeping dreams, much like my waking ones, found me the aloof leader of a team of my peers whom I treated with a sense of noblesse oblige, invariably engaged in some noble task. I distinctly remember two such dreams in particular.
I trace the first to the age of six or seven. My first grade class and I were engaged in a game of tag in my backyard. When tagged in this dream, I became injured, and was taken by my teammates to the gardening shed where I was bandaged and fed mashed potatoes by a girl named Autumn, whom I still remember .
In the second, from some later age, I am similarly engaged in a contest with my peers, but this time we have a plush headquarters. We are called upon to best a team of rivals. The leader of these opponents was a dark version of myself, an athletic, soccer-playing, seemingly indigent Latin. The finalevent, between this leader and myself, was breakfast-making. I won with a delicious cinnamon toast. My sleeping mind didn't really know how to make cinnamon toast, so my dream self affixed the spices to the toast with spit. When I woke up, I remained infatuated with this mysterious doppelganger, and I made a point of learning how to make cinnamon toast for real. My waking fantasies largely mirrored this pattern. I always was in charge of a group of my peers, but unfulfilled and incomplete, searching for a complement.
In short, flawed though it is, Ender's Game is a magical realization of every element of my childhood--and even adolescent--fantasies. It is as though I myself wrote the book, not the ironically homophobic Orson Scott Card. As I read that "Salaam", that kiss, I wept, gasping. That moment is all I have ever wanted in life, I exaggerate not.
Ender's Game is unmistakably flawed. At first riveting, it gradually becomes self-indulgent and forced, until it ends in a convoluted afterthought. At 324 pages, it is also the first book of any length I have read through without stopping in many years. I could not have put it down if it were on fire.
In my youth, as mentioned elsewhere in a blog accessible from this point, I lived in a world of fantasy, both conscious and un-, in which there were certain central themes. My sleeping dreams, much like my waking ones, found me the aloof leader of a team of my peers whom I treated with a sense of noblesse oblige, invariably engaged in some noble task. I distinctly remember two such dreams in particular.
I trace the first to the age of six or seven. My first grade class and I were engaged in a game of tag in my backyard. When tagged in this dream, I became injured, and was taken by my teammates to the gardening shed where I was bandaged and fed mashed potatoes by a girl named Autumn, whom I still remember .
In the second, from some later age, I am similarly engaged in a contest with my peers, but this time we have a plush headquarters. We are called upon to best a team of rivals. The leader of these opponents was a dark version of myself, an athletic, soccer-playing, seemingly indigent Latin. The finalevent, between this leader and myself, was breakfast-making. I won with a delicious cinnamon toast. My sleeping mind didn't really know how to make cinnamon toast, so my dream self affixed the spices to the toast with spit. When I woke up, I remained infatuated with this mysterious doppelganger, and I made a point of learning how to make cinnamon toast for real. My waking fantasies largely mirrored this pattern. I always was in charge of a group of my peers, but unfulfilled and incomplete, searching for a complement.
In short, flawed though it is, Ender's Game is a magical realization of every element of my childhood--and even adolescent--fantasies. It is as though I myself wrote the book, not the ironically homophobic Orson Scott Card. As I read that "Salaam", that kiss, I wept, gasping. That moment is all I have ever wanted in life, I exaggerate not.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Convince Me
Somehow, some way, the jerk-offs in charge think that some words from Mrs. Clinton will convince me that Mr. Obama is sincere. About green collar (hand) jobs, ad ad infinitum.
So here's Gov of Montana, prepping the crowd with wit and humor:
Chanting with the crowd? Why was no one in the crowd prepared for this turn?
Also the petrodictators keep changing the chant from chant to chant?
Let's see how she does. Fox News (Corp.) tried to convince me that Mrs. Clinton thought she was not the Dems' PR person, and in the course of the same story showed how much power she could wield if she were evil. Oh wait.
SO....
DNC
YES WE CAN & etc.
A vidoebio.
Astro-Hillary! Rock MUSIC. Clearly this woman could respectively play with men. I'm inspired, but she's not the nominee. Sidenote: "Bill Clinton brainwashed by the queen of heart btw? Can we expect some instruction from an aging Angela Lansbury about where to shoot? " 18 million cracks would be cool to find in bed. I wonder if Obama's videobio will be this full of cutaways and still photos? No, the runner up (read loser) is still a winner with 18million Kracckks in the sealing .
fin
No, no, thank you. You're a looker these days, Chelsea!
Hoorah! More rockin' music and idle idolatry. Some KBCO music about a Jezebel-esque. The royalties come pouring in from this convention.
(emerge Hillary, in orange pant-suit)
(crowd goes apeshit)
That's a lot of signage. Authorized signage.
A proud mother, dem sen. from NY, American, supporter of Obam., an' proud runner up in the catfight.
Single party! Single purpose! Single motherhood! And the same team! Go w(h)in(e) together!
Did she balance? Could she be the next Justice of the Supreme Meat Lovers Court? I think they deliver to my place.
Burn. No way, nohow no McCain. Was that what was said in the Wizard of OZ?
Can't wait for the no ad days. The future? I want to live in Kubrick's 2001.
Old dog and new tricks taught, whaddaya know.
Fight for healthcare! Do it from the SENATE!Do it from the SENATE!Do it from the SENATE!
Apparently Puerto Rico has children and more left behind. And something to do with the Bush Admin. and therefore McCain. I don't get it.
You die right before the convention, and the politicos will misuse your name to say why YOUR GUY should be elected. Wait, that mean Clinton lost a superdelagate by her death. Yikes.
Geoerosive forces have gone to work on our American Reputation AND Promise.
Save for College? and a Home? Hrm, my parents missed the boat.
Yay rights! I want rights.
Shift in tone for Terrorism! Get grave.
I just noticed that the UNITY signs, cleverly hidden before, just waited to appear til time came to say: Barack!
Toughest challenges (met and unmet): cracking open a beer with teeth, have orgy involving any of the Arquettes, cut taxes for big bad big oil, get elected to NY Senate seat.
Elect Obama and you too can become a stuffy elitist. He'll teach you!
I want to see how Obama signs his name, good point Hill.
Repair our alliances and the White House toilets? Is there anything this man cannot do?
And Michelle O. has the pursed lip-look when mentioned for her heartfelt speech that NPR indicated showed a different kind of political wymyn. One who can be smart, have judgement, and show her sensitive feminine intuitive side.
Twin cities, McCan't is twin of W, what a connection. Man, Woman, Child. Don't forget that Colorado's 1908 Convention hosted the first female delegates. Honor the shrine of our Constitution!
More cleverly hidden signs. OBAMA!
Let's phase out those Clinton signs! Yep, GONE! Now the signs indicate our unity. The show's almost over, kids. The take home: O&B*A$M@A! U!N(I/T^Y!!!
GOD SAVE THE QUEEN.
I don't feel vindicated. I'm still skeptical.
So here's Gov of Montana, prepping the crowd with wit and humor:
Chanting with the crowd? Why was no one in the crowd prepared for this turn?
Also the petrodictators keep changing the chant from chant to chant?
Let's see how she does. Fox News (Corp.) tried to convince me that Mrs. Clinton thought she was not the Dems' PR person, and in the course of the same story showed how much power she could wield if she were evil. Oh wait.
SO....
DNC
YES WE CAN & etc.
A vidoebio.
Astro-Hillary! Rock MUSIC. Clearly this woman could respectively play with men. I'm inspired, but she's not the nominee. Sidenote: "Bill Clinton brainwashed by the queen of heart btw? Can we expect some instruction from an aging Angela Lansbury about where to shoot? " 18 million cracks would be cool to find in bed. I wonder if Obama's videobio will be this full of cutaways and still photos? No, the runner up (read loser) is still a winner with 18million Kracckks in the sealing .
fin
No, no, thank you. You're a looker these days, Chelsea!
Hoorah! More rockin' music and idle idolatry. Some KBCO music about a Jezebel-esque. The royalties come pouring in from this convention.
(emerge Hillary, in orange pant-suit)
(crowd goes apeshit)
That's a lot of signage. Authorized signage.
A proud mother, dem sen. from NY, American, supporter of Obam., an' proud runner up in the catfight.
Single party! Single purpose! Single motherhood! And the same team! Go w(h)in(e) together!
Did she balance? Could she be the next Justice of the Supreme Meat Lovers Court? I think they deliver to my place.
Burn. No way, nohow no McCain. Was that what was said in the Wizard of OZ?
Can't wait for the no ad days. The future? I want to live in Kubrick's 2001.
Old dog and new tricks taught, whaddaya know.
Fight for healthcare! Do it from the SENATE!Do it from the SENATE!Do it from the SENATE!
Apparently Puerto Rico has children and more left behind. And something to do with the Bush Admin. and therefore McCain. I don't get it.
You die right before the convention, and the politicos will misuse your name to say why YOUR GUY should be elected. Wait, that mean Clinton lost a superdelagate by her death. Yikes.
Geoerosive forces have gone to work on our American Reputation AND Promise.
Save for College? and a Home? Hrm, my parents missed the boat.
Yay rights! I want rights.
Shift in tone for Terrorism! Get grave.
I just noticed that the UNITY signs, cleverly hidden before, just waited to appear til time came to say: Barack!
Toughest challenges (met and unmet): cracking open a beer with teeth, have orgy involving any of the Arquettes, cut taxes for big bad big oil, get elected to NY Senate seat.
Elect Obama and you too can become a stuffy elitist. He'll teach you!
I want to see how Obama signs his name, good point Hill.
Repair our alliances and the White House toilets? Is there anything this man cannot do?
And Michelle O. has the pursed lip-look when mentioned for her heartfelt speech that NPR indicated showed a different kind of political wymyn. One who can be smart, have judgement, and show her sensitive feminine intuitive side.
Twin cities, McCan't is twin of W, what a connection. Man, Woman, Child. Don't forget that Colorado's 1908 Convention hosted the first female delegates. Honor the shrine of our Constitution!
More cleverly hidden signs. OBAMA!
Let's phase out those Clinton signs! Yep, GONE! Now the signs indicate our unity. The show's almost over, kids. The take home: O&B*A$M@A! U!N(I/T^Y!!!
GOD SAVE THE QUEEN.
I don't feel vindicated. I'm still skeptical.
Liveblogging Hillary
Before we get to Her Royal Craziness, we have had the honour [sic] of listening to the governour [sic] of Montana. I am struggling to refrain from waving my Stetson in the air and yelling "Yee-haw!" A few key transliterations:
Mawntaana
inergee indupeyndeyns
a draaaah well
Amayricuh
Burawk Obawma
fahv miiilyun greyn collur jawbs
fooowr moowr yeyars
And now:
"Hillary's for families!"
"Hillary Clinton is inspirational"
"Hillary!"
"Hill-a-ry!"
An alternatingly maudlin and inspirational video montage, narrated by Chelsea, and including a tribute to Hillary's bray. To sum up, "Look little girls! A woman can lose a primary too!"
mentions of 18,000,000 cracks in the glass ceiling so far: 2
Chelsea: "I'm proud to introduce my hero and my mother!"
Michelle, mentally: "That's two people, right?"
outfit: coral
lips: pursed
Me, me , me! Aren't I awesome?
Biden, mentally: "Don'tbeabitchdon'tbeabitch"
Another mention of the Hillary bray.
I will always remember . . . that bald single mom who adopts retarded kids and painted my name on her head, some kid whose loser mom got her hours cut at the hamburger stand, some gimp soldier, and, you know, a bunch of eager old biddies and little cherubs. Whatever.
But enough about me. Some people you've never heard of died this year. Howsabout that?
Green-collar jobs again? I believe we'vefound the epicenter of a mind-virus.
Gay rights? What? Gosh, thanks Hillary! Too bad you don't want us to get married.
Michelle: "Huh? What? I heard my name . . ."
Biden: "It's the home stretch, Clinton. Don'tbeabitchdon'tbeabitch . . ."
Wait a minute, what was that? A valid intellectual inquiry: Were you in it for me, or for kids/moms/broads/veterans?
I thought at first that I was imagining it, but she definitely hesitates every time she says Barack Obama.
"President . . . Obama!"
"It is time for us all to unite around . . . Barack Obama"
As if the words burn her Demon Lips.
To sum up, green-collar jobs, aww poor veterans, aww poor kiddies, vote for b, buh, Barack! I even might! America! Fuck Yeah! Glass ceiling! Oh wait: Harriet Tubman! She was black! Goodnight everybody!
And now, everybody, here's Methodist minister Chinky Kong with a benediction It's a prayer, just don't tell the atheists. They're total dicks about this shit.
Mawntaana
inergee indupeyndeyns
a draaaah well
Amayricuh
Burawk Obawma
fahv miiilyun greyn collur jawbs
fooowr moowr yeyars
And now:
"Hillary's for families!"
"Hillary Clinton is inspirational"
"Hillary!"
"Hill-a-ry!"
An alternatingly maudlin and inspirational video montage, narrated by Chelsea, and including a tribute to Hillary's bray. To sum up, "Look little girls! A woman can lose a primary too!"
mentions of 18,000,000 cracks in the glass ceiling so far: 2
Chelsea: "I'm proud to introduce my hero and my mother!"
Michelle, mentally: "That's two people, right?"
outfit: coral
lips: pursed
Me, me , me! Aren't I awesome?
Biden, mentally: "Don'tbeabitchdon'tbeabitch"
Another mention of the Hillary bray.
I will always remember . . . that bald single mom who adopts retarded kids and painted my name on her head, some kid whose loser mom got her hours cut at the hamburger stand, some gimp soldier, and, you know, a bunch of eager old biddies and little cherubs. Whatever.
But enough about me. Some people you've never heard of died this year. Howsabout that?
Green-collar jobs again? I believe we'vefound the epicenter of a mind-virus.
Gay rights? What? Gosh, thanks Hillary! Too bad you don't want us to get married.
Michelle: "Huh? What? I heard my name . . ."
Biden: "It's the home stretch, Clinton. Don'tbeabitchdon'tbeabitch . . ."
Wait a minute, what was that? A valid intellectual inquiry: Were you in it for me, or for kids/moms/broads/veterans?
I thought at first that I was imagining it, but she definitely hesitates every time she says Barack Obama.
"President . . . Obama!"
"It is time for us all to unite around . . . Barack Obama"
As if the words burn her Demon Lips.
To sum up, green-collar jobs, aww poor veterans, aww poor kiddies, vote for b, buh, Barack! I even might! America! Fuck Yeah! Glass ceiling! Oh wait: Harriet Tubman! She was black! Goodnight everybody!
And now, everybody, here's Methodist minister Chinky Kong with a benediction It's a prayer, just don't tell the atheists. They're total dicks about this shit.
Sunday, July 06, 2008
BTD: 20ish
Kurt Vonnegut: Breakfast of Champions
Kilgore Trout, the fictional and vicarious author of Breakfast of Champions, also wrote another book. In Now It Can Be Told, the hero is the only real man on Earth; everybody else is a machine that participates in the great experiment of the one real man's free will. The one real man is eventually told by The Creator of the nasty trick andis transported to a new experiment, a paradise where he can jump into an icy mountain stream. While getting out of the stream, he would yell something crazy, a chilled ejaculation that The Creator found fascinating. "The Creator Never knew what he was going to yell . . . after a dip one day, for instance, The Man yelled this: 'Cheese!' Another time he yelled, 'Wouldn't you really rather own a Buick?'" (179).
Just as Kilgore Trout is a thinly veiled caricature of Vonnegut himself, Now It Can Be Told is a caricature of Breakfast of Champions. In both books, The Man yells random things, unpredictable, even by himself. "Asshole!" Vonnegut, says occasionally in the middle of the story, "Gilgongo! Drano!". Vonnegut, in Trout's voice, "let[s] others bring order to chaos. I would bring chaos to order instead, which I think I have done" (215).
In doing so, Vonnegut has slyly revealed a beautiful truth. Now it Can Be Told is written in the second person; the reader, whomsoever he or she may be, is The Man, the one person who is not a machine. An ill-balanced man reads it; antics ensue. But Breakfast of Champions holds the same message. "At the core of each person who reads this book is a band of unwavering light" (231). That unwavering band of light is responsible for all our nonsensical ejaculations, all of our childishness and loves and battles, and is the most beautiful thing in existence.
Arrian: Anabasis (The Campaigns of Alexander)
I think of myself on occasion as the advance literary guard, a reconnaissance unit that reads everything and tells people whether there is anything worth finding there. Having now read four ancient historians, I take some pride in telling people to read Suetonius and Plutarch and to skip Tacitus and Arrian. The book had great moments, and I enjoy the intellectual security of having a reputable grasp of Alexander's life. The battles of Issus and Gaugamela, Peucestas' bravery, Porus' nobility and Alexander's love for Hephaestion all make nice flourishes on the decorative platter of my consciousness. I especially intend to remember what Arrian says about Alexander: "To think was to act: without further hesitation, he made his leap" (6:10). I have often said the same of my Father, whose middle name happens to be Alexander.
But for all of that, Plutarch gives nearly as much pleasure in his account of Alexander's life, but only takes 40 pages to do so, as compared to Arrian's 400. I liked Arrian's account, but I don't know that I 400 pages liked it. Unless you are a complete book nerd, read Plutarch instead.
William Trevor: The Children of Dynmouth
Of the three books by Trevor I have now read this year, this is narrowly my favorite. I can see why Philip Ward recommends it in his Lifetime of Reading (http://www.interleaves.org/~rteeter/grtward.html which, in case I have neglected to mention, is something I will be doing for the next fifty years), as opposed to the less inventive Death in Summer. Trevor returns to the familiar theme of the destructive individual who stands outside of and ungoverned by society. Unlike Septimus Tuam of The Love Department, however, Timothy Gedge starts as a thoroughly sympathetic character. The reader cannot help but feel for him. this is partly accomplished through Trevor's remarkable facility with dialogue. as in Death in Summer ("How was he spelling that, then?", for example), Timothy's diction, tone, introductory "only" and other verbal traits give him a flavor that enables the reader to actually hear his voice, as though it were an audio recording; Trevor's gift is that magical.
As with the other books, however, I was so intoxicated with Trevor's inventiveness that I braced myself for an equally inventive ending. No such luck. Perhaps I am too fond of perfect, tidy endings. I have a similar complaint with Toni Morrison--in fact, I have a lot of the same praises for Trevor that I do for her. But the ending always feels like that of Breakfast of Champions: a simple and literal "etc." For Vonnegut, it works and ties his book into a mind-blowing literary package. For Trevor, as for Morrison, not so much.
Kilgore Trout, the fictional and vicarious author of Breakfast of Champions, also wrote another book. In Now It Can Be Told, the hero is the only real man on Earth; everybody else is a machine that participates in the great experiment of the one real man's free will. The one real man is eventually told by The Creator of the nasty trick andis transported to a new experiment, a paradise where he can jump into an icy mountain stream. While getting out of the stream, he would yell something crazy, a chilled ejaculation that The Creator found fascinating. "The Creator Never knew what he was going to yell . . . after a dip one day, for instance, The Man yelled this: 'Cheese!' Another time he yelled, 'Wouldn't you really rather own a Buick?'" (179).
Just as Kilgore Trout is a thinly veiled caricature of Vonnegut himself, Now It Can Be Told is a caricature of Breakfast of Champions. In both books, The Man yells random things, unpredictable, even by himself. "Asshole!" Vonnegut, says occasionally in the middle of the story, "Gilgongo! Drano!". Vonnegut, in Trout's voice, "let[s] others bring order to chaos. I would bring chaos to order instead, which I think I have done" (215).
In doing so, Vonnegut has slyly revealed a beautiful truth. Now it Can Be Told is written in the second person; the reader, whomsoever he or she may be, is The Man, the one person who is not a machine. An ill-balanced man reads it; antics ensue. But Breakfast of Champions holds the same message. "At the core of each person who reads this book is a band of unwavering light" (231). That unwavering band of light is responsible for all our nonsensical ejaculations, all of our childishness and loves and battles, and is the most beautiful thing in existence.
Arrian: Anabasis (The Campaigns of Alexander)
I think of myself on occasion as the advance literary guard, a reconnaissance unit that reads everything and tells people whether there is anything worth finding there. Having now read four ancient historians, I take some pride in telling people to read Suetonius and Plutarch and to skip Tacitus and Arrian. The book had great moments, and I enjoy the intellectual security of having a reputable grasp of Alexander's life. The battles of Issus and Gaugamela, Peucestas' bravery, Porus' nobility and Alexander's love for Hephaestion all make nice flourishes on the decorative platter of my consciousness. I especially intend to remember what Arrian says about Alexander: "To think was to act: without further hesitation, he made his leap" (6:10). I have often said the same of my Father, whose middle name happens to be Alexander.
But for all of that, Plutarch gives nearly as much pleasure in his account of Alexander's life, but only takes 40 pages to do so, as compared to Arrian's 400. I liked Arrian's account, but I don't know that I 400 pages liked it. Unless you are a complete book nerd, read Plutarch instead.
William Trevor: The Children of Dynmouth
Of the three books by Trevor I have now read this year, this is narrowly my favorite. I can see why Philip Ward recommends it in his Lifetime of Reading (http://www.interleaves.org/~rteeter/grtward.html which, in case I have neglected to mention, is something I will be doing for the next fifty years), as opposed to the less inventive Death in Summer. Trevor returns to the familiar theme of the destructive individual who stands outside of and ungoverned by society. Unlike Septimus Tuam of The Love Department, however, Timothy Gedge starts as a thoroughly sympathetic character. The reader cannot help but feel for him. this is partly accomplished through Trevor's remarkable facility with dialogue. as in Death in Summer ("How was he spelling that, then?", for example), Timothy's diction, tone, introductory "only" and other verbal traits give him a flavor that enables the reader to actually hear his voice, as though it were an audio recording; Trevor's gift is that magical.
As with the other books, however, I was so intoxicated with Trevor's inventiveness that I braced myself for an equally inventive ending. No such luck. Perhaps I am too fond of perfect, tidy endings. I have a similar complaint with Toni Morrison--in fact, I have a lot of the same praises for Trevor that I do for her. But the ending always feels like that of Breakfast of Champions: a simple and literal "etc." For Vonnegut, it works and ties his book into a mind-blowing literary package. For Trevor, as for Morrison, not so much.
Monday, June 23, 2008
Two -Fisting It
Dzongsar Jamyang Khyentse: What Makes You Not a Buddhist
The sayings of the Buddha are among the most succinct, meaningful things ever said by a man. Silly me, thinking that things said about the Buddha would approach that profundity, simply by virtue of content. Khyentse tries, of course, but his aim is to make the ideas of Buddhism accessible. While he manages to capture the basics and convey them acceptably, he misses the spirit of the matter, and it's that which makes the Buddha's sayings worthwhile in the first place.
Nassim Nicholas Taleb: The Black Swan
I have no problem with the central idea of this book. The idea that we can't prove anything, that one observation (such as that of a single black swan) can invalidate everything we believe (such as that all swans are white). Of course, the idea is not Taleb's. Karl Popper has been credited with the theory, although it could be argued that Taleb puts it more succinctly and accessibly.
The problem with The Black Swan is that Taleb is such an insufferable pig that I could scarcely stomach the book. He says it himself, even, describing a verbal harangue by "a prominent member of the mathematical establishment" who "started hurling insults at me for having desecrated the institution,saying I lacked pudheur (modesty)". Of course, neither is modesty one of my own key descriptors; I cannot fault a writer for lacking modesty. What is nauseating is when an author views his lack of modesty as a credential, and writes about it in a book that nothing to do with modesty, and should have nothing to do with the author at all. Taleb drops names, recounts irrelevant personal anecdotes, and masturbates for pages upon pages before he gets to the point.
The biggest flaw with the book is, however, that itis one big, tedious example of the very thing against which the author cautions, namely constructing a narrative to fit and confirm our paradigm. The idea of the black swan and the story of Yevgenia's book are only a few of the imaginary metaphors Taleb uses to confirm and support his meme. The problem is, as Popper realized, you cannot confirm anything in this life, especially not your own ego.
The sayings of the Buddha are among the most succinct, meaningful things ever said by a man. Silly me, thinking that things said about the Buddha would approach that profundity, simply by virtue of content. Khyentse tries, of course, but his aim is to make the ideas of Buddhism accessible. While he manages to capture the basics and convey them acceptably, he misses the spirit of the matter, and it's that which makes the Buddha's sayings worthwhile in the first place.
Nassim Nicholas Taleb: The Black Swan
I have no problem with the central idea of this book. The idea that we can't prove anything, that one observation (such as that of a single black swan) can invalidate everything we believe (such as that all swans are white). Of course, the idea is not Taleb's. Karl Popper has been credited with the theory, although it could be argued that Taleb puts it more succinctly and accessibly.
The problem with The Black Swan is that Taleb is such an insufferable pig that I could scarcely stomach the book. He says it himself, even, describing a verbal harangue by "a prominent member of the mathematical establishment" who "started hurling insults at me for having desecrated the institution,saying I lacked pudheur (modesty)". Of course, neither is modesty one of my own key descriptors; I cannot fault a writer for lacking modesty. What is nauseating is when an author views his lack of modesty as a credential, and writes about it in a book that nothing to do with modesty, and should have nothing to do with the author at all. Taleb drops names, recounts irrelevant personal anecdotes, and masturbates for pages upon pages before he gets to the point.
The biggest flaw with the book is, however, that itis one big, tedious example of the very thing against which the author cautions, namely constructing a narrative to fit and confirm our paradigm. The idea of the black swan and the story of Yevgenia's book are only a few of the imaginary metaphors Taleb uses to confirm and support his meme. The problem is, as Popper realized, you cannot confirm anything in this life, especially not your own ego.
Saturday, May 31, 2008
Some of Solomon
What do three points make? A tri-something. I was an English major, dammit. What do three books make? In this case, a chronicle of the changes a young, intelligent, dashing ruler goes through before he dies.
In Proverbs, one I cannot help but see the hand of the clever politician. Two things conspire to create the impression:
As he matured, however, Solomon seems to have developed a different opinion. "Wisdom? Meh." He appears to say in Ecclesiastes. "What advantage have the wise over fools?" he asks, and rightly so (6:7). His advice? "Do not be too righteous, and do not act too wise. Why should you destroy yourself?" (7:16). What a change from the author who wrote in Proverbs, "Happy are those who find wisdom, and those who get understanding, for her income is better than silver" (3:13).
If wisdom is overrated, what then should be pursued? As a Witness, I would immediately have drawn attention to the closing verse: "The end of the matter, all has been heard. Fear God,and keep his commandments; for that is the whole duty of everyone" (12:13). As a free thinker, however, I take this as a liberation, not a constraint. Do no harm, he seems to say. As for everything else, hey! There's a time for it. A time to laugh, a time to seek, a time to fart, and a time to fuck. Take it easy, already! (3:1-8 . . . kinda).
With the understanding that the books may or may not have been written in this order, it is nonetheless telling that the final step of Solomon's evolution is pure poetry. The Song of Solomon is hard to follow, and, I suspect, open to critical dissection and multiple versions. Something about a girl and her channel, a boy and his jewels, and a king and his spear. "His speech is most sweet," One of them says, "and he is altogether desirable. this is my beloved, and this is my friend" (5:16) This is the most beautiful verse I have ever read (that I can think of now), and Oh, Robert, I love you, and I have loved you, and I can think of nothing else. It looks as though poor Solomon and I have come to the same pass at the same time. And what he says is true: "Do not stir up or awaken love until it is ready!" (2:7).
In Proverbs, one I cannot help but see the hand of the clever politician. Two things conspire to create the impression:
- A peripatetic inconsistency to take one example, compare 16:28 "a whisperer separates close friends" with 18:8 "the words of a whisperer are delicious morsels." Or my favorite example, 26:4 "Do not answer fools according to their folly, or you will be a fool yourself" with the very next verse, 26:5 "Answer fools according to their folly, or they will be wise in their own eyes." If I were still a witness, I would be inclined to make excuses, to come to some literary reconciliation of these and many other inconsistencies, but as a free thinker, I am inclined to see Solomon as one who says whatever sounds right at the time. This is especially so in light of item number dos:
- Solomon can't keep his tongue quiet about the virtues of kings. "The mind of kings is unsearchable" (25:3). "Loyalty and faithfulness preserve the king, and his throne is upheld by righteousness" (20:28). "In the light of a king';s face, there is life" (16:15). One needn't look far to find more examples. Every page has one (literary license), and some of them are downright nauseating bits of demagoguery.
As he matured, however, Solomon seems to have developed a different opinion. "Wisdom? Meh." He appears to say in Ecclesiastes. "What advantage have the wise over fools?" he asks, and rightly so (6:7). His advice? "Do not be too righteous, and do not act too wise. Why should you destroy yourself?" (7:16). What a change from the author who wrote in Proverbs, "Happy are those who find wisdom, and those who get understanding, for her income is better than silver" (3:13).
If wisdom is overrated, what then should be pursued? As a Witness, I would immediately have drawn attention to the closing verse: "The end of the matter, all has been heard. Fear God,and keep his commandments; for that is the whole duty of everyone" (12:13). As a free thinker, however, I take this as a liberation, not a constraint. Do no harm, he seems to say. As for everything else, hey! There's a time for it. A time to laugh, a time to seek, a time to fart, and a time to fuck. Take it easy, already! (3:1-8 . . . kinda).
With the understanding that the books may or may not have been written in this order, it is nonetheless telling that the final step of Solomon's evolution is pure poetry. The Song of Solomon is hard to follow, and, I suspect, open to critical dissection and multiple versions. Something about a girl and her channel, a boy and his jewels, and a king and his spear. "His speech is most sweet," One of them says, "and he is altogether desirable. this is my beloved, and this is my friend" (5:16) This is the most beautiful verse I have ever read (that I can think of now), and Oh, Robert, I love you, and I have loved you, and I can think of nothing else. It looks as though poor Solomon and I have come to the same pass at the same time. And what he says is true: "Do not stir up or awaken love until it is ready!" (2:7).
Friday, May 30, 2008
The Book of Psalms
Among the many childish religious misconceptions that have been dissolved by an honest reading of the Bible is the idea that the Book of Psalms makes any sense.
That is to say, it is not really one book. Of course, David is the most notable--and enjoyable; more on that later--author, but there is also more than a peppering of unattributed or unremarkable Psalms, the whole of which does not come close to congealing.
When David speaks, however, my heart listens. At his worst, which is to say, his whiniest, he is reminiscent of Job, and there is a fraternity between the two protagonists that bears further analysis. Like Job, David wonders, "My God, why have you forsaken me?" The relatively righteous David and the thoroughly righteous Job both wonder why they suffer. "What have we done?" they wail to the heavens. Of course, David ceases to ask that question later in his career, knowing full well what he has done, but the first section of Psalms, especially Psalms 18-25ish, might well have come from Job's own mouth.
This is especially revealing, as I mentioned in my discussion of Job, when David resolves the question. He comes to the same conclusion as Job--that the heavens, the whirlwind, so to speak, are giving the answer. "Ascribe to JEHOVAH the glory of his name . . . The voice of JEHOVAH is over the waters; the God of glory thunders . . . the voice of JEHOVAH . . . the voice of JEHOVAH" etc. etc. (Psl 29).
But at his best, David passes Job. He becomes more relaxed, Zen even. You desire truth in the inward being;" he sings, "therefore teach me wisdom in my secret heart" (51:6). When David stops whining, He displays an almost Buddhist perspective. In fact, when David speaks of the the swallow who finds "a nest for herself, where she may lay her young," he echoes the Buddha's description of sati, present-moment awareness in the samyuttanikayo 5.47 (84:3,4). In this light, David's constant craving for "steadfastness", "the rock", "the mountain","the bulwark" and permanence of every type becomes a search for that which never changes, a description that could easily be applied to the Buddha. "I have calmed and quieted my soul," he finally realizes, "my soul is like the weaned child within me" (131:2). How I envy him.
Saturday, May 10, 2008
Three Little Maids
The Best American Essays: 2007
I like to pick at least one of the Best American series each year, and every year I mistakenly believe from the title that I will be delighted. Everybody, including the editors and guest editors of the series, has his or her own definition of "best", and in most cases I disagree.
This is one of those cases. I found only two or three truly interesting essays in this collection of twenty or so, and most of them were not only uninteresting but also irritatingly written. Guest editor David Foster Wallace gives a clue to the reason when he writes of himself in the introduction, "As someone who has a lot of trouble being clear, concise and/or cogent, I tend to be allergic to academic writing . . ." This lack of clarity, concision and cogency, despite his professed efforts in the other direction, are reflected everywhere in his selections. It is as though he is not only incapable of writing clearly, but also of recognizing clarity in others and confusing it for lumpy rambling. This was compounded by his promise in the intro of a "brutal little treat" of an essay, hidden somewhere among the selections. That turn of phrase lulled me into an excited search for its referent, and up to the last essay, I hoped, "Maybe this is it . . ." It turned out to be either a sly editorial trick, or another misjudgment on Wallace's part.
The two exceptions to my irritation touched on confluent themes: Phillip Robertson's "In the Mosque of Imam Ali" and "Rules of Engagement" by Elaine Scarry. The former is a first-hand, though journalistic, account of the author's experience in and around Najaf during a siege by American troops and Moqtada Al Sadr's rather effective demagoguery. The latter is a riveting, though academic, iteration of the treachery of the United States government and military, even by its own standards. A pity that these were the main bright, though dark, spots in an otherwise unremarkable collection.
William Trevor: The Love Department
"'All this wretched love thing,' said Edward, 'Is it the cause of everything?'"(158). So questions Trevor throughout this remarkable novel. This early work of his accomplishes its goal far more effectively than his later, Death in Summer, a fact which leads me to prefer reading the similarly early The Children of Dynmouth for my next selection. In The Love Department, Trevor finds that Holy Grail of novelists, an inventive and curious conceit strong enough to carry an entire novel. The eponymous department is a Dear Abby-style service that takes the additional step of hunting down and thwarting the enemies of marital--and only marital--love. The chief offender is one Septimus Tuam, an itinerant gigolo who is responsible, not so much for the destruction of marriages, but for the wives' unhappinesses. The protagonist Edward, unhappy in his own right, is set upon this offender as a hapless agent of the department.
Through a series of well-constructed plot developments and whilst in the company of many memorable and believable characters, Edward comes to the realization that, as his boss had said, "We all set up a department of a kind". Indeed, the department develops into more than a literary device; it becomes an allegory of love itself. Everyone comes to his or her own amorous epiphanies, with the possible exception of Edward himself, a reminder that the messengers of love may not be meant for it themselves.
Apuleius: The Golden Ass
By means of Ward's Lifetime of Reading ( http://www.interleaves.org/~rteeter/grtward.html ) I have stumbled upon some lovable, profound works that I would never have read on my own. Never mind that Ward managed to get my to buckle down and read the Bible for real, or to chew my way through Tacitus, things about which I am less than humble. I am more grateful that he introduced me to the likes of Vaclav Havel, Maxim Gorky and Ondra Lysohorsky--none of which I would have been likely to read unsupervised. I add Apuleius to this list.
I expected something more along the lines of Ovid when I picked The Golden Ass (or Metamorphoses). I grinned heartily to find that it is a closer to a second century Harlequin Romance. Apuleius works his way progressively through the sexual vices, starting with normal--if animalistic--straight vaginal sex, through straight anal sex, gay anal sex, and ending with nothing short of bestiality. Along the way, he does that which I always say distinguishes mind-blowing literature from merely good books: he writes in such a way that the form of the book reflects the content. The "Back-and-forth fretwork of Fate", as the narrator puts it, is reflected in the back-and-forth narrative. It is no real trick that Apuleius takes the reader--roundaboutly--through stories within tales within narratives, including an account of Cupid and Psyche that is clearly the foundation for the story of Cinderella--the real one, not the Disney one. The translator does an admirable job of preserving Apuleius tricks of alliteration, cute word couplings, and other sly references to his meaning. I can't quite bring myself to label The Golden Ass MBL, but I give Apuleius just due for writing something trashy that still has wink of literariness.
I like to pick at least one of the Best American series each year, and every year I mistakenly believe from the title that I will be delighted. Everybody, including the editors and guest editors of the series, has his or her own definition of "best", and in most cases I disagree.
This is one of those cases. I found only two or three truly interesting essays in this collection of twenty or so, and most of them were not only uninteresting but also irritatingly written. Guest editor David Foster Wallace gives a clue to the reason when he writes of himself in the introduction, "As someone who has a lot of trouble being clear, concise and/or cogent, I tend to be allergic to academic writing . . ." This lack of clarity, concision and cogency, despite his professed efforts in the other direction, are reflected everywhere in his selections. It is as though he is not only incapable of writing clearly, but also of recognizing clarity in others and confusing it for lumpy rambling. This was compounded by his promise in the intro of a "brutal little treat" of an essay, hidden somewhere among the selections. That turn of phrase lulled me into an excited search for its referent, and up to the last essay, I hoped, "Maybe this is it . . ." It turned out to be either a sly editorial trick, or another misjudgment on Wallace's part.
The two exceptions to my irritation touched on confluent themes: Phillip Robertson's "In the Mosque of Imam Ali" and "Rules of Engagement" by Elaine Scarry. The former is a first-hand, though journalistic, account of the author's experience in and around Najaf during a siege by American troops and Moqtada Al Sadr's rather effective demagoguery. The latter is a riveting, though academic, iteration of the treachery of the United States government and military, even by its own standards. A pity that these were the main bright, though dark, spots in an otherwise unremarkable collection.
William Trevor: The Love Department
"'All this wretched love thing,' said Edward, 'Is it the cause of everything?'"(158). So questions Trevor throughout this remarkable novel. This early work of his accomplishes its goal far more effectively than his later, Death in Summer, a fact which leads me to prefer reading the similarly early The Children of Dynmouth for my next selection. In The Love Department, Trevor finds that Holy Grail of novelists, an inventive and curious conceit strong enough to carry an entire novel. The eponymous department is a Dear Abby-style service that takes the additional step of hunting down and thwarting the enemies of marital--and only marital--love. The chief offender is one Septimus Tuam, an itinerant gigolo who is responsible, not so much for the destruction of marriages, but for the wives' unhappinesses. The protagonist Edward, unhappy in his own right, is set upon this offender as a hapless agent of the department.
Through a series of well-constructed plot developments and whilst in the company of many memorable and believable characters, Edward comes to the realization that, as his boss had said, "We all set up a department of a kind". Indeed, the department develops into more than a literary device; it becomes an allegory of love itself. Everyone comes to his or her own amorous epiphanies, with the possible exception of Edward himself, a reminder that the messengers of love may not be meant for it themselves.
Apuleius: The Golden Ass
By means of Ward's Lifetime of Reading ( http://www.interleaves.org/~rteeter/grtward.html ) I have stumbled upon some lovable, profound works that I would never have read on my own. Never mind that Ward managed to get my to buckle down and read the Bible for real, or to chew my way through Tacitus, things about which I am less than humble. I am more grateful that he introduced me to the likes of Vaclav Havel, Maxim Gorky and Ondra Lysohorsky--none of which I would have been likely to read unsupervised. I add Apuleius to this list.
I expected something more along the lines of Ovid when I picked The Golden Ass (or Metamorphoses). I grinned heartily to find that it is a closer to a second century Harlequin Romance. Apuleius works his way progressively through the sexual vices, starting with normal--if animalistic--straight vaginal sex, through straight anal sex, gay anal sex, and ending with nothing short of bestiality. Along the way, he does that which I always say distinguishes mind-blowing literature from merely good books: he writes in such a way that the form of the book reflects the content. The "Back-and-forth fretwork of Fate", as the narrator puts it, is reflected in the back-and-forth narrative. It is no real trick that Apuleius takes the reader--roundaboutly--through stories within tales within narratives, including an account of Cupid and Psyche that is clearly the foundation for the story of Cinderella--the real one, not the Disney one. The translator does an admirable job of preserving Apuleius tricks of alliteration, cute word couplings, and other sly references to his meaning. I can't quite bring myself to label The Golden Ass MBL, but I give Apuleius just due for writing something trashy that still has wink of literariness.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
I finished four books in one weekend.
You wouldna unnerstand. Itza Gemini thing.
Philip K. Dick: I Hope I Shall Arrive Soon
This was a book of many virtues. As always, Dick proves epigrammatic and quirky, and here gives rise to our new expression, "That really animates my shoes," which is to say that we find something very irritating. By we, I of course mean Robert. I only mention this because his complete lack of participation in the blog might lead you to wonder about my pronoun referent. Maybe snide digs such as this one will motivate him.
Dick is far more than another skillful, original writer, however. The best story in the book, "Holy Quarrel", is a perfect example of Dick's specialty, the prismatic metaphor. "What does it mean?" The reader asks in such situations, and Dick wryly answers, "Yes." The Genux-B computer is one such creation. In rapid succession, it becomes a symbol of five or six different philosophical paradigms, and each time the reader is tricked into thinking he or she has discovered Dick's meaning. Of course, the reader is always wrong, and Dick spills all your deep, ponderous wondering on the floor at the end, while coyly protesting, "What? It's just a cute little science fiction story."
Even the introduction to the collection is an insight-laden masterpiece. I found it most useful, considering I am about to embark on teaching Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep. As obscure and opaque as he can be in his fiction, this essay--not really an introduction at all--lays his thinking bare. I think. "The two basic topics which fascinate me are "What is reality?" and "What constitutes the authentic human being?". Bingo. Instant literary analysis. Of course, I don't trust him for an instant, but that gives my Seniors and Juniors something to wrap their minds around.
But the greatest pleasure the book gave me--and that any book could give for that matter--is that of reading me back. The last two stories in the book deal with a similar topic, that of constructed realities in a person's mind. This brings to mind Dick's semi-serious hypothesis in the introduction that there is only one time: 50 A.D.. all we have been doing since then is reliving and reinterpreting events. He uses as evidence his observation that many of the things he writes end up happened or proving to have happened. I found his arguments along this line rather specious and tiresome, and discarded them. Until I read "Rautavaara's Case" and the title story, pointedly reserved for the last word, no doubt, even though not, as I've said, the most enjoyable in the collection. As I put the book down, I found myself in it. I kid not, I was in the story, I was that character who was trapped in a world of his own mental creation, reliving versions of past events. In the space of an hour or so, I reenacted an entire month of my life, down to frighteningly small detail. I still unnerved and wonder how Dick did it.
Speaking of books that read back,
A Course in Miracles
If I had finished this on schedule, which is to say, last year, I would have had very different things to say about it. I would, in fact, have used the fact that it, as I say, reads me back to give it a place as a holy text on my bookshelf. The daily exercises, the insistence on release and forgiveness, all very appealing. It seems like a non-fiction version of The Celestine Prophecy, or perhaps the eponymous prophecy itself.
But Now I have read the smallest fraction of the Buddha's sayings. A Course in Miracles seems unnecessary by comparison. And was it necessary to write all 1300 pages in a caricature of iambic pentameter? Was that meant to give it artistic verisimilitude? 'Cause it was just ponderous and drowsy.
John Kennedy Toole: A Confederacy of Dunces.
This may be a first. My brother, not exactly a literary person, swore to me that, although "it will be terrible if you ever get my hands on this book," It was the best book he had ever read, andI simply had to read it.
Having read it, I see why he thought I would like it. The egoistic, blustering, obese, lazy, stagnant hero of the book is probably close to the version of me he knows. I even could put items from his fictional journal side by side with passages from this very blog and challenge you to say which was which. And I would, except that I have to go now to demonstrate my mental and moral superiority at the local Pub Trivia night, and must finish up here.
Suffice it to say that, although it was not the best book I ever read, I have no doubt that it was the best he has ever read, and I am glad for him.
update 3-18-08
The following passage--from this very blog, in fact--may give the educated reader an idea of the extent to which my own writing parallels Ignatius':
"I like to think that Isaiah is either two different people, or else suffering from multiple personality disorder. He seems to have two diametrically opposed viewpoints on every topic. For instance, there is the subject of prophecy, central to the gravitas of the book. At one point, Isaiah seems to agree with Boethius that God's power of prophecy stems from his perception of time as simultaneous, instead of linear. It is thus that he is able to reveal the future to his prophet, as though withdrawing a curtain."
Vladimir Nabokov: Invitation to a Beheading
What can I say except that this novel shows, as Lolita did not, why Nabokov is considered the best author of the last century. I must read it more before I am fit to write about it. And I have to go play drunk trivia.
Philip K. Dick: I Hope I Shall Arrive Soon
This was a book of many virtues. As always, Dick proves epigrammatic and quirky, and here gives rise to our new expression, "That really animates my shoes," which is to say that we find something very irritating. By we, I of course mean Robert. I only mention this because his complete lack of participation in the blog might lead you to wonder about my pronoun referent. Maybe snide digs such as this one will motivate him.
Dick is far more than another skillful, original writer, however. The best story in the book, "Holy Quarrel", is a perfect example of Dick's specialty, the prismatic metaphor. "What does it mean?" The reader asks in such situations, and Dick wryly answers, "Yes." The Genux-B computer is one such creation. In rapid succession, it becomes a symbol of five or six different philosophical paradigms, and each time the reader is tricked into thinking he or she has discovered Dick's meaning. Of course, the reader is always wrong, and Dick spills all your deep, ponderous wondering on the floor at the end, while coyly protesting, "What? It's just a cute little science fiction story."
Even the introduction to the collection is an insight-laden masterpiece. I found it most useful, considering I am about to embark on teaching Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep. As obscure and opaque as he can be in his fiction, this essay--not really an introduction at all--lays his thinking bare. I think. "The two basic topics which fascinate me are "What is reality?" and "What constitutes the authentic human being?". Bingo. Instant literary analysis. Of course, I don't trust him for an instant, but that gives my Seniors and Juniors something to wrap their minds around.
But the greatest pleasure the book gave me--and that any book could give for that matter--is that of reading me back. The last two stories in the book deal with a similar topic, that of constructed realities in a person's mind. This brings to mind Dick's semi-serious hypothesis in the introduction that there is only one time: 50 A.D.. all we have been doing since then is reliving and reinterpreting events. He uses as evidence his observation that many of the things he writes end up happened or proving to have happened. I found his arguments along this line rather specious and tiresome, and discarded them. Until I read "Rautavaara's Case" and the title story, pointedly reserved for the last word, no doubt, even though not, as I've said, the most enjoyable in the collection. As I put the book down, I found myself in it. I kid not, I was in the story, I was that character who was trapped in a world of his own mental creation, reliving versions of past events. In the space of an hour or so, I reenacted an entire month of my life, down to frighteningly small detail. I still unnerved and wonder how Dick did it.
Speaking of books that read back,
A Course in Miracles
If I had finished this on schedule, which is to say, last year, I would have had very different things to say about it. I would, in fact, have used the fact that it, as I say, reads me back to give it a place as a holy text on my bookshelf. The daily exercises, the insistence on release and forgiveness, all very appealing. It seems like a non-fiction version of The Celestine Prophecy, or perhaps the eponymous prophecy itself.
But Now I have read the smallest fraction of the Buddha's sayings. A Course in Miracles seems unnecessary by comparison. And was it necessary to write all 1300 pages in a caricature of iambic pentameter? Was that meant to give it artistic verisimilitude? 'Cause it was just ponderous and drowsy.
John Kennedy Toole: A Confederacy of Dunces.
This may be a first. My brother, not exactly a literary person, swore to me that, although "it will be terrible if you ever get my hands on this book," It was the best book he had ever read, andI simply had to read it.
Having read it, I see why he thought I would like it. The egoistic, blustering, obese, lazy, stagnant hero of the book is probably close to the version of me he knows. I even could put items from his fictional journal side by side with passages from this very blog and challenge you to say which was which. And I would, except that I have to go now to demonstrate my mental and moral superiority at the local Pub Trivia night, and must finish up here.
Suffice it to say that, although it was not the best book I ever read, I have no doubt that it was the best he has ever read, and I am glad for him.
update 3-18-08
The following passage--from this very blog, in fact--may give the educated reader an idea of the extent to which my own writing parallels Ignatius':
"I like to think that Isaiah is either two different people, or else suffering from multiple personality disorder. He seems to have two diametrically opposed viewpoints on every topic. For instance, there is the subject of prophecy, central to the gravitas of the book. At one point, Isaiah seems to agree with Boethius that God's power of prophecy stems from his perception of time as simultaneous, instead of linear. It is thus that he is able to reveal the future to his prophet, as though withdrawing a curtain."
Vladimir Nabokov: Invitation to a Beheading
What can I say except that this novel shows, as Lolita did not, why Nabokov is considered the best author of the last century. I must read it more before I am fit to write about it. And I have to go play drunk trivia.
Sunday, February 17, 2008
It's been a month since I read these; I'm not sure I even remember them
William Trevor: Death in Summer
Part of my frustration with the modern novel is that so many of them feel like first drafts. I don't mean to say that they are packed with any sort of glaring errors or annoying inconsistencies. When I draft a paper, I often don't realize what I want to say until I've written it. I then cheerfully delete the entire thing and start over, main point now clearly in mind. For all you know, I've rewritten this four times by the time you get a hold of it. I haven't, but if I expected you to pay for it, I would have.
Which is the only thing I have against Death in Summer. It's delightfully well-written, and lays out a Newton's cradle of desire that nicely outlays a world where everybody wants something "with a passion that will not be stilled (133). Mrs. Biddle wants Albert wants Pettie wants Thaddeus--who is also wanted by Mrs. Ferry. Thaddeus wants none of the other characters, not even his charming wife. He has none of the book's urgent passion, except for passion itself; he wants nothing more than to be able to want something.
But in the last chapter, the book takes a philosophical turn that I am unable to relate believably to the rest of the book. At the very end, Thaddeus begins to look at time like Boethius--simultaneous, instead of linear. If only this were somewhere earlier in the book, if only it related somehow, I would find the book irresistible. Unless Trevor is trying to make a statement about freedom from desire being the way to nirvana. But that would require going back and rewriting this analysis, a task up to which I am not.
Joseph Campbell: The Power of Myth
This book feel like Chinese water torture: a steady drip of wisdom, when I know there's a torrent, an aquifer waiting to burst. The book isn't a book; it's a transcript of a wonderful conversation, and therefore never really goes anywhere. It's just Campbell dropping cold, clear drops of water on your forehead without ever opening the floodgates. Campbell refers at one point to being ravenously consumed with an author in a way that Lin Yutang calls a love affair. I wonder if, were I to read his actual books, whether Campbell and I would fall in love as well.
Basic Teachings of the Buddha: edited by Glenn Wallis
What is there to say about the Buddha, other than I should have read this thirty years ago. Next to it, The Bible seems whiny, and A Course in Miracles seems obfuscatory. And serious props to the editor, whose simultaneously scholarly and epigrammatic commentary are responsible for a percentage of my delight.
Part of my frustration with the modern novel is that so many of them feel like first drafts. I don't mean to say that they are packed with any sort of glaring errors or annoying inconsistencies. When I draft a paper, I often don't realize what I want to say until I've written it. I then cheerfully delete the entire thing and start over, main point now clearly in mind. For all you know, I've rewritten this four times by the time you get a hold of it. I haven't, but if I expected you to pay for it, I would have.
Which is the only thing I have against Death in Summer. It's delightfully well-written, and lays out a Newton's cradle of desire that nicely outlays a world where everybody wants something "with a passion that will not be stilled (133). Mrs. Biddle wants Albert wants Pettie wants Thaddeus--who is also wanted by Mrs. Ferry. Thaddeus wants none of the other characters, not even his charming wife. He has none of the book's urgent passion, except for passion itself; he wants nothing more than to be able to want something.
But in the last chapter, the book takes a philosophical turn that I am unable to relate believably to the rest of the book. At the very end, Thaddeus begins to look at time like Boethius--simultaneous, instead of linear. If only this were somewhere earlier in the book, if only it related somehow, I would find the book irresistible. Unless Trevor is trying to make a statement about freedom from desire being the way to nirvana. But that would require going back and rewriting this analysis, a task up to which I am not.
Joseph Campbell: The Power of Myth
This book feel like Chinese water torture: a steady drip of wisdom, when I know there's a torrent, an aquifer waiting to burst. The book isn't a book; it's a transcript of a wonderful conversation, and therefore never really goes anywhere. It's just Campbell dropping cold, clear drops of water on your forehead without ever opening the floodgates. Campbell refers at one point to being ravenously consumed with an author in a way that Lin Yutang calls a love affair. I wonder if, were I to read his actual books, whether Campbell and I would fall in love as well.
Basic Teachings of the Buddha: edited by Glenn Wallis
What is there to say about the Buddha, other than I should have read this thirty years ago. Next to it, The Bible seems whiny, and A Course in Miracles seems obfuscatory. And serious props to the editor, whose simultaneously scholarly and epigrammatic commentary are responsible for a percentage of my delight.
Saturday, January 05, 2008
Harold Pinter: The Homecoming
In The Power of Myth, Bill Moyers makes a comment that I paraphrase to the effect that I often walk onto life's stage under the impression that I have been cast in a Gilbert Sullivan operetta and find myself in the middle of a Pinter play. I had a notion what he meant, having read The Dumb Waiter in college, but this cements my impression. Pinteresque is a dramatic version of Kafkaesque, meaning, not only morbid but also inscrutable. Pinter and Kafka both create worlds that are caricatures of our own, with rules that are beyond the comprehension of not only the characters, but also of the reader. Pinter gets specific in The Homecoming, creating a caricature of family dynamics that seems to have little resemblance to reality, but is nonetheless upsetting because, subconsciously, we know that there but for the grace of whatever go we and our loved ones. The effect is wildly unsettling, and I, for one, am reminded that we are only pretending that it all makes sense.
Tuesday, January 01, 2008
Charles Dickens: A Child's History of England
Dickens, in his characteristic manner, doesn't bother to disguise the fact that this is neither intended for children nor a history at all, being rather a commentary. As such, the book holds little in the way of objectivity, and Dickens is comfortable referring to himself in the first person, saying such things as "in my opinion" and "or so I think" and going to some effort to disagree with the conventional wisdom whenever possible.
And in his opinion, admiration is due to very few of the monarchs indeed. Alfred the Great, Edward III and Henry V (also my favorite) are among the only ones for whom he has actual reverence, although he tolerates some of the others--chiefly those who died before given the chance to exhibit any bad qualities. His chief goal seems to be correcting the general public opinion of the other monarchs. For instance, of Elizabeth I he says:
"She was well-educated, but a roundabout writer [something of which Dickens himself could be accused, I might point out], and rather a hard swearer and coarse talker. She was clever, but cunning and deceitful, and inherited much of her father's violent temper I mention this now because she has been so over-praised by one party, and so over-abused by the another, that it is hardly possible to understand the greater part of her reign without first understanding what kind of a woman she really was."
He seems especially interested in abusing the popular nicknames of certain of the kings. "We now come to King Henry the Eighth," He writes in the appropriate chapter, "whom it has been much the fashion to all 'Bluff King Hal' and 'Burly King Henry,' and other fine names; but whom I shall take the liberty to c all, plainly, one of the most detestable villains who ever drew breath." This critique is at it's most effective when applied to "The Merry Monarch," Charles II. Dickens sets out "to give you a general idea of some of the merry things that were done, in the merry days when this merry gentleman sat upon his merry throne, in merry England." Certain executions, he observes sarcastically, "were so extremely merry that every horrible circumstance which Cromwell had abandoned was revived with appalling cruelty, The hearts of sufferers were torn out of their living bodies; their bowels were burned before their faces" etc.. Merry indeed.
Which brings us to the ruler of whom Dickens' opinion I find quite unaccountable: Oliver Cromwell. Now everyone to whom I have ever spoken and every book I have ever read on the topic has painted Cromwell as a perfect tyrant. Dickens has another opinion. "There was not at that time, in England or anywhere else, a man so able to govern the country as Oliver Cromwell" nicely sums up Dickens' analysis of the Protectorate. Both of the subsequent kings are on the short end of his comparisons to Cromwell. I wonder if Dickens was ill-informed, or simply was of a more Puritanical nature than I had previously supposed.
The overall effect of Dickens' approach is a combination of the best of Suetonius' insightful and epigrammatic analysis with the worst of Tacitus' wearisome detail. A Child's History of England is a mixed bag literarily, but I can think of no more entertaining way to brush up on British history.
And in his opinion, admiration is due to very few of the monarchs indeed. Alfred the Great, Edward III and Henry V (also my favorite) are among the only ones for whom he has actual reverence, although he tolerates some of the others--chiefly those who died before given the chance to exhibit any bad qualities. His chief goal seems to be correcting the general public opinion of the other monarchs. For instance, of Elizabeth I he says:
"She was well-educated, but a roundabout writer [something of which Dickens himself could be accused, I might point out], and rather a hard swearer and coarse talker. She was clever, but cunning and deceitful, and inherited much of her father's violent temper I mention this now because she has been so over-praised by one party, and so over-abused by the another, that it is hardly possible to understand the greater part of her reign without first understanding what kind of a woman she really was."
He seems especially interested in abusing the popular nicknames of certain of the kings. "We now come to King Henry the Eighth," He writes in the appropriate chapter, "whom it has been much the fashion to all 'Bluff King Hal' and 'Burly King Henry,' and other fine names; but whom I shall take the liberty to c all, plainly, one of the most detestable villains who ever drew breath." This critique is at it's most effective when applied to "The Merry Monarch," Charles II. Dickens sets out "to give you a general idea of some of the merry things that were done, in the merry days when this merry gentleman sat upon his merry throne, in merry England." Certain executions, he observes sarcastically, "were so extremely merry that every horrible circumstance which Cromwell had abandoned was revived with appalling cruelty, The hearts of sufferers were torn out of their living bodies; their bowels were burned before their faces" etc.. Merry indeed.
Which brings us to the ruler of whom Dickens' opinion I find quite unaccountable: Oliver Cromwell. Now everyone to whom I have ever spoken and every book I have ever read on the topic has painted Cromwell as a perfect tyrant. Dickens has another opinion. "There was not at that time, in England or anywhere else, a man so able to govern the country as Oliver Cromwell" nicely sums up Dickens' analysis of the Protectorate. Both of the subsequent kings are on the short end of his comparisons to Cromwell. I wonder if Dickens was ill-informed, or simply was of a more Puritanical nature than I had previously supposed.
The overall effect of Dickens' approach is a combination of the best of Suetonius' insightful and epigrammatic analysis with the worst of Tacitus' wearisome detail. A Child's History of England is a mixed bag literarily, but I can think of no more entertaining way to brush up on British history.
Thursday, December 27, 2007
Charlie Wilson's War
At first I didn't believe the post on the slightly irreverent local blog that I read first thing this morning. Benazir Bhutto dead? Surely this is some ironic commentary on the part of the editorial staff. A quick link to the BBC left me with a angry, scared pit in my stomach. I have no particular connection to Bhutto, nor really any detailed knowledge of her. Yet what I experienced--albeit briefly--felt like real grief. Surely, I was not really grieving for a woman I knew nothing about?
To sum up, the world is going to shit, and The United States in particular. In fact, everything that America touches turns to shit. There is a very real possibility in my mind that, unless several brave, honest people get elected very soon, that my country will turn into a police state, or at least our Americanized version of it. I'm not by any means patriotic, but I refuse to live in a country that looks like every historical cautionary tale written. I would act.
Which makes it provident that I saw this movie today. "Zia did not kill Bhutto" is an actual line in the movie, referring to Benazir's father, killed in a military coup. What plays out on the screen is not only a well filmed and engaging piece of cinema, but also a morality play that dodges the deadly dagger of didacticism. I never saw "Lions for Lambs", but I heard it was a preachy little turd. "Charlie Wilson's War", I wager, does what "Lions for Lambs" meant to, namely make the audience think about what exactly is going on in this country.
It makes only one misstep, summed up nicely in the last line of the movie: [something along the lines of] "What happened was glorious . . . and we fucked up the ending." While meant to refer to the war in Afghanistan--the one in the eighties, mind you; don't get confused--it could also be used to refer to the film itself. The last few scenes were unecessary. We didn't need to see all the steps of the fucking up. A hint or two would have been sufficient. The choice to frame the movie with Wilson receiving an award from the "Clandestine Services", tries to refocus the film on the character of Wilson and remind the audience that, although he was an asshole, he did a good thing. This blunted the far more moving message of the movie: "Get off your ass now. Don't wait for this country to become a police state--either fascist or communist, because the lessons of history have about a year to be learned before we repeat all of the worst ones.
To sum up, the world is going to shit, and The United States in particular. In fact, everything that America touches turns to shit. There is a very real possibility in my mind that, unless several brave, honest people get elected very soon, that my country will turn into a police state, or at least our Americanized version of it. I'm not by any means patriotic, but I refuse to live in a country that looks like every historical cautionary tale written. I would act.
Which makes it provident that I saw this movie today. "Zia did not kill Bhutto" is an actual line in the movie, referring to Benazir's father, killed in a military coup. What plays out on the screen is not only a well filmed and engaging piece of cinema, but also a morality play that dodges the deadly dagger of didacticism. I never saw "Lions for Lambs", but I heard it was a preachy little turd. "Charlie Wilson's War", I wager, does what "Lions for Lambs" meant to, namely make the audience think about what exactly is going on in this country.
It makes only one misstep, summed up nicely in the last line of the movie: [something along the lines of] "What happened was glorious . . . and we fucked up the ending." While meant to refer to the war in Afghanistan--the one in the eighties, mind you; don't get confused--it could also be used to refer to the film itself. The last few scenes were unecessary. We didn't need to see all the steps of the fucking up. A hint or two would have been sufficient. The choice to frame the movie with Wilson receiving an award from the "Clandestine Services", tries to refocus the film on the character of Wilson and remind the audience that, although he was an asshole, he did a good thing. This blunted the far more moving message of the movie: "Get off your ass now. Don't wait for this country to become a police state--either fascist or communist, because the lessons of history have about a year to be learned before we repeat all of the worst ones.
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
Sweeney Todd
Movie musicals, recent movie musicals at least, are of two types. The first type basically shoots the stage version on fancier sets and with more closeups. This is a mistake. The directors of these musicals, the most striking recent example of which is Rent, seem to have forgotten all the wonderful possibilities to create meaning that are now open to them in film. Instead of letting us into the characters' minds in a way that the stage could never manage, they basically shoot a music video and laugh as the loyal but deluded fags line up for tickets. What these directors do has been done.
The second type of musical takes advantage of all that film has to offer. Chicago is the best example of this. It's brilliant and makes the stage version look rickety and bare by comparison. The daring visuals and inventive concept took the show beyond itself, and a masterpiece was born.
Which brings us to the subject at hand. I don't have anything serious against the movie and am grateful that Tim Burton has managed to bring the best American songwriter on the century and my personal idol the the movie screen. Sadly, Sweeney Todd stops just short of the second category. It doesn't quite descend into retread territory; At times, Burton uses film to its potential: "By The Sea" and Sweeney's soliloquy are both conceptually bold, with comedic and unnerving effects, respectively. But cinema's big advantage over live theatre is subtlety, and Burton doesn't fully capitalize on it. He feels that Sweeney has to gaze longingly and lengthily at his razors several times for the audience to get the point [sic], and we can only take so many reprises of slightly overearnest Jamie Campbell Bower chirping "buried sweetly in your yellow hair". So much of the subtlety is lost with wide, set-encompassing shots that reduce the mostly capable actors to figures on a stage. I may as well have seen those scenes in live theatre.
And when I say mostly capable, I chiefly have Johnny Depp in mind as the exception. I expected better. His Sweeney is consistent and clear enough, but he lacks honesty, reality. Except when he's in a murderous rage, it is always clear that we are watching Johnny Depp playing Sweeney. It's what Tom Lindblade would call "Shmacting". It doesn't help that he belts the high notes a la Nick Lachey. Helena Bonham-Carter, Timothy Spall, Alan Rickman, and Even Sacha Baron Cohen (who is hot, but I digress) on the other hand create clear, believable characters and do the difficult music justice. In scenes with Depp, however, they all seem to be searching for something to play off of, with no success.
In the final analysis, I suppose I can't be too upset. The movie was what it set out to be: A Sondheim musical with no limits.--at least not on the budget for bright, arterial blood. While I'm at it, the previews/advertisements are an entrenched part of the medium of movies, and it is worth noting that this is 3 Doors Down's "jump the shark" moment. A music video advertisement for the National Guard? As though our national guard is really the heir of the revolutionary militia? That is the sound of a band's soul flying into the purple, buzzing light.
The second type of musical takes advantage of all that film has to offer. Chicago is the best example of this. It's brilliant and makes the stage version look rickety and bare by comparison. The daring visuals and inventive concept took the show beyond itself, and a masterpiece was born.
Which brings us to the subject at hand. I don't have anything serious against the movie and am grateful that Tim Burton has managed to bring the best American songwriter on the century and my personal idol the the movie screen. Sadly, Sweeney Todd stops just short of the second category. It doesn't quite descend into retread territory; At times, Burton uses film to its potential: "By The Sea" and Sweeney's soliloquy are both conceptually bold, with comedic and unnerving effects, respectively. But cinema's big advantage over live theatre is subtlety, and Burton doesn't fully capitalize on it. He feels that Sweeney has to gaze longingly and lengthily at his razors several times for the audience to get the point [sic], and we can only take so many reprises of slightly overearnest Jamie Campbell Bower chirping "buried sweetly in your yellow hair". So much of the subtlety is lost with wide, set-encompassing shots that reduce the mostly capable actors to figures on a stage. I may as well have seen those scenes in live theatre.
And when I say mostly capable, I chiefly have Johnny Depp in mind as the exception. I expected better. His Sweeney is consistent and clear enough, but he lacks honesty, reality. Except when he's in a murderous rage, it is always clear that we are watching Johnny Depp playing Sweeney. It's what Tom Lindblade would call "Shmacting". It doesn't help that he belts the high notes a la Nick Lachey. Helena Bonham-Carter, Timothy Spall, Alan Rickman, and Even Sacha Baron Cohen (who is hot, but I digress) on the other hand create clear, believable characters and do the difficult music justice. In scenes with Depp, however, they all seem to be searching for something to play off of, with no success.
In the final analysis, I suppose I can't be too upset. The movie was what it set out to be: A Sondheim musical with no limits.--at least not on the budget for bright, arterial blood. While I'm at it, the previews/advertisements are an entrenched part of the medium of movies, and it is worth noting that this is 3 Doors Down's "jump the shark" moment. A music video advertisement for the National Guard? As though our national guard is really the heir of the revolutionary militia? That is the sound of a band's soul flying into the purple, buzzing light.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
Applewhite Minyard (Ed.): Decades of Science Fiction
This book is the chief reason that my Books To Date tally has become a bit meaningless. I started off by posting a bit on each short story in the book, but that shortly proved ridiculous. So I stopped somewhere in the Twenties, and here's the boiled version of the rest of it.
The Sixties, interestingly, were the richest decade in the book. Of course Philip K. Dick is always visionary, but the selection in the book was pretty accessible for him. the other two stories, by second-tier visionaries Anne McCaffrey and Harlan Ellison, were also delightful. A pity that it was so impossible to teach all three.
I did manage to teach all three stories in the Forties section. The themes of the three tied together nicely with each other, and all were well written.
In the truly terrible section, I have filed "The Exiles" by Ray Bradbury. Odd, since the other two Bradbury stories I have taught were pretty good.
And the Miss Congeniality prize goes to "At the Rialto" by Connie Willis. those students that understood it loved it. Both of them. It's not science fiction at all; it's more like meta-science? Quite clever, but subtly.
The Sixties, interestingly, were the richest decade in the book. Of course Philip K. Dick is always visionary, but the selection in the book was pretty accessible for him. the other two stories, by second-tier visionaries Anne McCaffrey and Harlan Ellison, were also delightful. A pity that it was so impossible to teach all three.
I did manage to teach all three stories in the Forties section. The themes of the three tied together nicely with each other, and all were well written.
In the truly terrible section, I have filed "The Exiles" by Ray Bradbury. Odd, since the other two Bradbury stories I have taught were pretty good.
And the Miss Congeniality prize goes to "At the Rialto" by Connie Willis. those students that understood it loved it. Both of them. It's not science fiction at all; it's more like meta-science? Quite clever, but subtly.
Monday, November 19, 2007
This is going to make me seem really religious.
Dorothy Allred Solomon: The Sisterhood: Inside the Lives of Mormon Women
I read this because Dorothy is an acquaintance, and I liked her last book. I never expected it to be quite so . . . the only word I can think of is propagandized. It feels very carefully weighed to keep her from incurring disfavor with the higher-ups of the Mormon empire. Dorothy is a clearminded, well-spoken, progressive woman, so the last thing I expected was a book extolling the many virtues of her religion, one with which I find serious fault. To wit: it is batshit crazy, to the tune of treating God like a space alien.
At the same time, what seems to more closely reflect her real opinions peeks through in the chapter entitled "What Would Jesus Do?" Everything up until that point seems like a trade pamphlet for the church. It is as if, having recited the company line, she now is free to say what she really thinks, namely that the lives of Mormon women aren't completely rosy. In fact, the Mormon hierarchy has been downright unjust to the women who are responsible for a large part of the church's prosperity. It could be that the earlier chapters are even a nod to the oppressive male hierarchy; much mention is made of other progressive women who have been excommunicated for outspokenness. What is more likely is that Dorothy starts and ends the book with praise of her church to avoid any negative portrayal. Knowing her, I am sure that the last thing in her mind is to stir dissension or portray the LDS church in anything approaching a negative light; she simply had to speak her truth.
And an interesting truth it is. I found discussion of the possibility that the Holy Spirit might be female--a thought which, if taken to its natural conclusion makes her the bride of God, the heavenly Mother--fascinating. And I had never thought of Eve as a noble character, one who willingly took the fruit so that mankind could be brought into existence. All this is. of course, heresy, but Dorothy sums it up nicely in the end. "Sure, it may be as people say it is. It sure seems that way sometimes," she seems to say. "But the benefits outweigh the brain damage, so here I remain."
Ezra
It is only appropriate that this was written by a copyist. It reads like 13 chapters of recitative.
Nehemiah
Maybe I was just mentally exhausted when I read this, but I didn't get much out of it either.
Esther
Now here is something I was able to sink my pencil into. The story is a familiar one, but underneath it is a fascinating countertext. The story is set in an overwhelmingly patriarchal society. When Ahasuerus' queen doesn't do as he commands, he has her stripped of her royalty as an example to all other women who were thinking of disobeying their husbands would "give honor to their husbands, high and low alike" (1:20). Pleased with himself, Ahasuerus prepares to select another quenn, one who, presumably, will do as she's told.
Esther the Jewess is one candidate for this position and although "she was given whatever she asked for to take in with her from the harem to the king," she took nothing "except what Hegai the king's eunuch, who had charge of the women, advised" (2:13-15). Perhaps it is this chutzpah which snares the King, but whatever the reason, she is chosen as the new, obedient Queen. Right?
The charm of Esther lies in the fact that, in this machismo-driven society, the wmoen still give all the decisions. Not only does Esther use a variety of tactics to influence the King--"Then Esther approached and touched the top of the scepter," for one example (5:2)--but also her uncle Mordecai, who "went away and did everything as Esther had ordered him" (4:17). And she is not the only power behind the penis. The villain Naaman's wife, Zeresh, tells her husband what to do, telling him how to exact his revenge on Mordecai. Esther even personally enacts the climactic piece of legislation that saves her people: "The command of Queen Esther fixed these practices of Purim, and it was recorded in writing" (9:32). Whoever wrote this, I bet she was smirking while she did it.
Job
For some reason, this one reminds me of Gilgamesh, Beowulf and other epics. It has a mythic quality to it, despite the relative lack of action. I once made the mistake of taking this obvious allegory literally, and looking at it now, I wonder some things that I was never willing to wonder then. For instance: it is clear that Job is an everyman of sorts, an allegory for the human race. What then do his friends represent? What are Bildad, Zophar and Eliphaz meant represent? Most importantly, who is Elihu? I find him especially interesting in light of his climactic role in Job's epiphany. As Elihu finishes his speech--one in which he invokes the winds, the thunder and all other manner of weather in the defense of God--Job is not given any chance to respond as he was with the other three. Instead, God jumps right in: "Then the Lord answered Job out of the whirlwind" (38:1). Waitaminnit. Answered? Job didn't ask anything. And whaddya mean out of the whirlwind? This is especially interesting in light of Elihu's earlier comment: " . . . his heavy shower of rain, / serves as a sign on everyone's hand . . . from its chamber comes the whirlwind" (37:6-9). So Elihu reminds Job of all the weather phenomenon that speak to God's righteousness, and God immediately speaks to Job from the heart of that phenomenon. Everything seems to suggest that Job's epiphany is internal, a personal revelation of such magnitude that it seems God himself is talking. Beginning with Chapter 38, the dialogue is either entirely within Job's head, or of such a personal nature that it might as well be. As David says later, "The heavens declare the glory of God" (Psl 19:1). Job's response is only right: "I have uttered what I did not understand" (42:3).
BTD: 39ish
I read this because Dorothy is an acquaintance, and I liked her last book. I never expected it to be quite so . . . the only word I can think of is propagandized. It feels very carefully weighed to keep her from incurring disfavor with the higher-ups of the Mormon empire. Dorothy is a clearminded, well-spoken, progressive woman, so the last thing I expected was a book extolling the many virtues of her religion, one with which I find serious fault. To wit: it is batshit crazy, to the tune of treating God like a space alien.
At the same time, what seems to more closely reflect her real opinions peeks through in the chapter entitled "What Would Jesus Do?" Everything up until that point seems like a trade pamphlet for the church. It is as if, having recited the company line, she now is free to say what she really thinks, namely that the lives of Mormon women aren't completely rosy. In fact, the Mormon hierarchy has been downright unjust to the women who are responsible for a large part of the church's prosperity. It could be that the earlier chapters are even a nod to the oppressive male hierarchy; much mention is made of other progressive women who have been excommunicated for outspokenness. What is more likely is that Dorothy starts and ends the book with praise of her church to avoid any negative portrayal. Knowing her, I am sure that the last thing in her mind is to stir dissension or portray the LDS church in anything approaching a negative light; she simply had to speak her truth.
And an interesting truth it is. I found discussion of the possibility that the Holy Spirit might be female--a thought which, if taken to its natural conclusion makes her the bride of God, the heavenly Mother--fascinating. And I had never thought of Eve as a noble character, one who willingly took the fruit so that mankind could be brought into existence. All this is. of course, heresy, but Dorothy sums it up nicely in the end. "Sure, it may be as people say it is. It sure seems that way sometimes," she seems to say. "But the benefits outweigh the brain damage, so here I remain."
Ezra
It is only appropriate that this was written by a copyist. It reads like 13 chapters of recitative.
Nehemiah
Maybe I was just mentally exhausted when I read this, but I didn't get much out of it either.
Esther
Now here is something I was able to sink my pencil into. The story is a familiar one, but underneath it is a fascinating countertext. The story is set in an overwhelmingly patriarchal society. When Ahasuerus' queen doesn't do as he commands, he has her stripped of her royalty as an example to all other women who were thinking of disobeying their husbands would "give honor to their husbands, high and low alike" (1:20). Pleased with himself, Ahasuerus prepares to select another quenn, one who, presumably, will do as she's told.
Esther the Jewess is one candidate for this position and although "she was given whatever she asked for to take in with her from the harem to the king," she took nothing "except what Hegai the king's eunuch, who had charge of the women, advised" (2:13-15). Perhaps it is this chutzpah which snares the King, but whatever the reason, she is chosen as the new, obedient Queen. Right?
The charm of Esther lies in the fact that, in this machismo-driven society, the wmoen still give all the decisions. Not only does Esther use a variety of tactics to influence the King--"Then Esther approached and touched the top of the scepter," for one example (5:2)--but also her uncle Mordecai, who "went away and did everything as Esther had ordered him" (4:17). And she is not the only power behind the penis. The villain Naaman's wife, Zeresh, tells her husband what to do, telling him how to exact his revenge on Mordecai. Esther even personally enacts the climactic piece of legislation that saves her people: "The command of Queen Esther fixed these practices of Purim, and it was recorded in writing" (9:32). Whoever wrote this, I bet she was smirking while she did it.
Job
For some reason, this one reminds me of Gilgamesh, Beowulf and other epics. It has a mythic quality to it, despite the relative lack of action. I once made the mistake of taking this obvious allegory literally, and looking at it now, I wonder some things that I was never willing to wonder then. For instance: it is clear that Job is an everyman of sorts, an allegory for the human race. What then do his friends represent? What are Bildad, Zophar and Eliphaz meant represent? Most importantly, who is Elihu? I find him especially interesting in light of his climactic role in Job's epiphany. As Elihu finishes his speech--one in which he invokes the winds, the thunder and all other manner of weather in the defense of God--Job is not given any chance to respond as he was with the other three. Instead, God jumps right in: "Then the Lord answered Job out of the whirlwind" (38:1). Waitaminnit. Answered? Job didn't ask anything. And whaddya mean out of the whirlwind? This is especially interesting in light of Elihu's earlier comment: " . . . his heavy shower of rain, / serves as a sign on everyone's hand . . . from its chamber comes the whirlwind" (37:6-9). So Elihu reminds Job of all the weather phenomenon that speak to God's righteousness, and God immediately speaks to Job from the heart of that phenomenon. Everything seems to suggest that Job's epiphany is internal, a personal revelation of such magnitude that it seems God himself is talking. Beginning with Chapter 38, the dialogue is either entirely within Job's head, or of such a personal nature that it might as well be. As David says later, "The heavens declare the glory of God" (Psl 19:1). Job's response is only right: "I have uttered what I did not understand" (42:3).
BTD: 39ish
Sunday, October 07, 2007
Has it really been June since I posted?
The bad news is, I can't remember much about what I've read since then. The good news is, that which I do remember must necessarily be the best parts.
Byron Katie: A Thousand Names for Joy
The chief thing that I remember about this book is that it kept me from killing my family when we were vacationing together. I read it while we were going through Italy in July, and Tensions were high. Thanks to Byron Katie, every time I caught myself thinking, "My sister is a selfish imbecile," or "My brother is a conceited dick," I would ask myself:
1. Is this true? (somewhat.)
2. Can I absolutely know for certain that it is true? (Only insofar as we can know anything is true, which is probably not a useful answer).
3. How do I feel when I think this? (irritated and superior)
4. Whom would I be without this thought? (My real self. Calm and forgiving.)
And then I would turn it around--My sister is not a selfish imbecile; she simply seems to be that person when we all get together, because that is the role she accustomed to playing and the way in which we are accustomed to see her. My Brother is not the selfish dick; I am (true!).
We all have terrible, foolish, or outright false thoughts. That can't be avoided. The trick, as Katie points out, is not to believe them solely on their having been thought. Any thought that cause discomfort or annoyance, flip it around. See if it's really true. Then believe it or don't, as you see fit. Be critical of your thoughts. And it worked.
Suetonius: The Twelve Caesars
Wow, this fucks Tacitus in the Ass! Succinct, epigrammatic, engaging and accessible. A must read.
Charles Dickens: Master Humphrey's Clock
Interesting mostly from a contextual standpoint, except for one little item that begs to be scholarized. "A Confession Found in a Prison in the Time of Charles II" is about a man who kills and buries his nephew, whose penetrating gaze is unnerves him into a first-degree homicidal mania. Sound familiar? Just wait. He buries the child, and seemingly gets away with the perfect crime. When the Gendarmes come to question him about the boys disappearance, he hubristically sets his chair on the very spot where the boy is buried. Alas, the murderers nerves give him away, and the body is discovered. By now, you should be asking yourself whether Poe copied Dickens or the other way around. As far as I can tell, this has not been discussed in scholarly circles, and I could make my name on it . . .
1 and 2 Chronicles
This is like 1 and 2 Kings for beginners. Clearer and more linear. Sadly, it eliminates most of the negative parts. I feel like it was written by Israel's publicist. And every time I read "And as for the rest of the affairs of (King's name) are they not written in (Name of undiscovered apocryphal book)?" I wonder where all these other books are. Except for the "Prayer of Manasseh", I have never heard of any of them.
William Shakespeare: Timon of Athens
Clearly a "problem play", but one with a lot of potential. When I first started reading Shakespeare-- around 22 years ago?--I was smitten with the smart, engaging characters. Here were people to whom I could relate! As I grew up, my understanding deepened. I began to appreciate the language, the theatricality, the thematic integrity just as much. In college, however, I came to the ultimate understanding of Shakespeare--he writes Science Fiction. In each play, he invents a parallel world, one that mirrors ours, but imperfectly. In the alternate universe where Timon takes place, the byword is "pretense". Every character, down to the assorted one-line merchants and rabble, has his persona on, but just askew enough to let us see that it is a persona. How cool would it be to produce Timon with elaborate masks? Favorite line: "O, my good lord! The world is but a word. / Were it all yours to give it with a breath, / how quickly were it gone!" (II.2.162-4).
Philip K. Dick: Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?
I look forward to teaching this. It has such lovely levels. I wish I wasn't so damned tired; I might have more to say.
Byron Katie: A Thousand Names for Joy
The chief thing that I remember about this book is that it kept me from killing my family when we were vacationing together. I read it while we were going through Italy in July, and Tensions were high. Thanks to Byron Katie, every time I caught myself thinking, "My sister is a selfish imbecile," or "My brother is a conceited dick," I would ask myself:
1. Is this true? (somewhat.)
2. Can I absolutely know for certain that it is true? (Only insofar as we can know anything is true, which is probably not a useful answer).
3. How do I feel when I think this? (irritated and superior)
4. Whom would I be without this thought? (My real self. Calm and forgiving.)
And then I would turn it around--My sister is not a selfish imbecile; she simply seems to be that person when we all get together, because that is the role she accustomed to playing and the way in which we are accustomed to see her. My Brother is not the selfish dick; I am (true!).
We all have terrible, foolish, or outright false thoughts. That can't be avoided. The trick, as Katie points out, is not to believe them solely on their having been thought. Any thought that cause discomfort or annoyance, flip it around. See if it's really true. Then believe it or don't, as you see fit. Be critical of your thoughts. And it worked.
Suetonius: The Twelve Caesars
Wow, this fucks Tacitus in the Ass! Succinct, epigrammatic, engaging and accessible. A must read.
Charles Dickens: Master Humphrey's Clock
Interesting mostly from a contextual standpoint, except for one little item that begs to be scholarized. "A Confession Found in a Prison in the Time of Charles II" is about a man who kills and buries his nephew, whose penetrating gaze is unnerves him into a first-degree homicidal mania. Sound familiar? Just wait. He buries the child, and seemingly gets away with the perfect crime. When the Gendarmes come to question him about the boys disappearance, he hubristically sets his chair on the very spot where the boy is buried. Alas, the murderers nerves give him away, and the body is discovered. By now, you should be asking yourself whether Poe copied Dickens or the other way around. As far as I can tell, this has not been discussed in scholarly circles, and I could make my name on it . . .
1 and 2 Chronicles
This is like 1 and 2 Kings for beginners. Clearer and more linear. Sadly, it eliminates most of the negative parts. I feel like it was written by Israel's publicist. And every time I read "And as for the rest of the affairs of (King's name) are they not written in (Name of undiscovered apocryphal book)?" I wonder where all these other books are. Except for the "Prayer of Manasseh", I have never heard of any of them.
William Shakespeare: Timon of Athens
Clearly a "problem play", but one with a lot of potential. When I first started reading Shakespeare-- around 22 years ago?--I was smitten with the smart, engaging characters. Here were people to whom I could relate! As I grew up, my understanding deepened. I began to appreciate the language, the theatricality, the thematic integrity just as much. In college, however, I came to the ultimate understanding of Shakespeare--he writes Science Fiction. In each play, he invents a parallel world, one that mirrors ours, but imperfectly. In the alternate universe where Timon takes place, the byword is "pretense". Every character, down to the assorted one-line merchants and rabble, has his persona on, but just askew enough to let us see that it is a persona. How cool would it be to produce Timon with elaborate masks? Favorite line: "O, my good lord! The world is but a word. / Were it all yours to give it with a breath, / how quickly were it gone!" (II.2.162-4).
Philip K. Dick: Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?
I look forward to teaching this. It has such lovely levels. I wish I wasn't so damned tired; I might have more to say.
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
What do mustard, the manuscript of "On The Road" and I have in common?
All three are on a roll.
C.S. Lewis: The Screwtape Letters
I think I agree with Lewis when he writes, "Though I had never written anything more easily, I never wrote with less enjoyment." He compares the concept of Screwtape to Gulliver's Travels and Erewhon: once the idea has been conceived, they write themselves: "It would run away with you if you gave it its head." By the same token, the letters are a fun idea, but grow tiresome quickly, mostly due to their baldly pedantic manner.
Stanley Weinbaum: The Mad Moon
In order to teach Sci-Fi literature effectively, I think I shall need to limit variables. That is to say, I shall teach a story where the key element is the danger of power or the allure of the fantastic journey, but not both. Each element needs to be a separate lesson, and this story is disqualified on that count. It is mildly entertaining, and even has something to say about the rise and fall of civilizations. There is somply too much going on at one time to make it easily teachable.
1 and 2 Samuel
Well, this clears up the mystery at the end of Judges a bit. When last we left our friends the Israelites, the city of Jabesh-Gilead had been decimated to procure brides for the tribe of Benjamin, which had, in turn, been slaughtered to punish the sins of Gibeah. What a nasty business that was. What a lot of karma must had resulted; however was JEHOVAH going to balance the scales on these horrible atrocities?
Years later, the Israelites clamor for a king and Saul is chosen, seemingly at random. Where does he set up his kingdom? Gibeah. Where is he buried? Jabesh-Gilead. How wonderful that one city has closed the book an the atrocities that were set in motion by another, even if it is generations later. This is the sort of stuff I love discovering in books, and I have never heard of this connection being drawn before.
By the same token, other interesting things have revealed themselves to me now that I am seeing the bible with clean glasses. For instance, what fascinating characters David and his Captain Joab are. Little incidents of their peccadiloes went largely unstudied during my youthful Biblefication. I look forward to continuing this section through Chronicles. Surely it is all downhill after Deuteronomy.
BTD: 27ish
C.S. Lewis: The Screwtape Letters
I think I agree with Lewis when he writes, "Though I had never written anything more easily, I never wrote with less enjoyment." He compares the concept of Screwtape to Gulliver's Travels and Erewhon: once the idea has been conceived, they write themselves: "It would run away with you if you gave it its head." By the same token, the letters are a fun idea, but grow tiresome quickly, mostly due to their baldly pedantic manner.
Stanley Weinbaum: The Mad Moon
In order to teach Sci-Fi literature effectively, I think I shall need to limit variables. That is to say, I shall teach a story where the key element is the danger of power or the allure of the fantastic journey, but not both. Each element needs to be a separate lesson, and this story is disqualified on that count. It is mildly entertaining, and even has something to say about the rise and fall of civilizations. There is somply too much going on at one time to make it easily teachable.
1 and 2 Samuel
Well, this clears up the mystery at the end of Judges a bit. When last we left our friends the Israelites, the city of Jabesh-Gilead had been decimated to procure brides for the tribe of Benjamin, which had, in turn, been slaughtered to punish the sins of Gibeah. What a nasty business that was. What a lot of karma must had resulted; however was JEHOVAH going to balance the scales on these horrible atrocities?
Years later, the Israelites clamor for a king and Saul is chosen, seemingly at random. Where does he set up his kingdom? Gibeah. Where is he buried? Jabesh-Gilead. How wonderful that one city has closed the book an the atrocities that were set in motion by another, even if it is generations later. This is the sort of stuff I love discovering in books, and I have never heard of this connection being drawn before.
By the same token, other interesting things have revealed themselves to me now that I am seeing the bible with clean glasses. For instance, what fascinating characters David and his Captain Joab are. Little incidents of their peccadiloes went largely unstudied during my youthful Biblefication. I look forward to continuing this section through Chronicles. Surely it is all downhill after Deuteronomy.
BTD: 27ish
Sunday, June 10, 2007
Recently Consumed:
Tacitus: The Histories
As tedious and uninteresting as I found Tacitus' annals, I was surprised to become so involved in this volume. I attribute this to several factors:
Tacitus died writing the Histories. They are therefore shorter.
My attention span has improved since I read the Annals one year ago.
I came up with a cool pnemonic for the order of the Caesars: All the Caesars can never grow old! I intended to continue the sentence to include the entire parade of Caesars, until I realized that there were hundreds of them. These are the important ones, and I got bored, so I stopped.
Unlike the Annals, the History fits into my historical database nicely. As a child, I had certain dates and names drummed into my head, as they pertained to Biblical content. For instance, Sergius Paulus laid siege to Jerusalem, only to be called away.This gave the Christians, who were privy to prophecy, time to escape before Titus came back and levelled the place. What I didn't know at the time was the historical context of these events. The gherman tribes were rebelling, and the troops wree needed elsewhere. After Vespasian consolidated his power, his son (and successor) Titus was at liberty to deal with the Jews, of whom Tacitus say, ". . . their other customs, which are at once perverse and disgusting [no doubt referring primarily to the act of circumcision], owe their strength to their very badness" (V.5). Not only does Tacitus demonstrate the light in which the Romans held the Jews, he also sheds a bit of light on the enduring puzzle of Moses' punishment int he wilderness. In relating the history of the Jews, he records, " . . . they had sunk in all directions over the plain, when a herd of wild asses was seen to retire from their pasture to a rock shaded by trees. Moyses [sic] followed them, and, guided by the appearance of a grassy spot, discovered an abundant spring of water" (V.4). Although this does not entirely clear up the matter, it adds valuable information that was inconveniently left out of Genesis.
Tom Stoppard: Dirty Linen/ New Found Land, Dogg's Hamlet/Cahoot's Macbeth
I can think of no better description of Dirty Linen and the play within it, New Found Land, than Stoppard's own, which I have previously used to frame his entire oeuvre: " . . . the thing defines itself in practice first and foremost as recreation. This seems satisfactory."
As for the latter pair, It feels as though Neil Simon had a love child with Vaclav Havel. Stoppard's brilliant idea of taking Wittgenstein's theories about language to thier natural conclusion exemplifies what I think of his best work. In this and such other plays as Hapgood and Jumpers, he pokes fun at Philosophy while explicating philosophy in a genial and hilarious manner. Also of interest is his habit of plays within or beside plays, unrelated to each other and yet complementary. It is just simple entertainment, after all.
Alfred, Lord Tennyson: The Princess
Oh, William Schwenk Gilbert, you old rascal. Who else would think to dramatize a poem of Tennyson's? And I didn't even realize until I read it that "The Princess" is the source of Gilbert's "Princess Ida". However, as much as I love Gilbert and Sullivan--more than sushi, but not as much as sour cream--it is more Neil Simon than William Shakespeare: cute but shallow. This source material, on the other hand, could keep me busy for months. I could write a term paper on this. In fact, I give Princess Ida credit for rekindling a love of reading in me, as opposed to reading something simply to have read it.
Whenever I read Tennyson, my cheeks flush as though I've been drinking Port and suddenly tried to stand up. The lines are so delicious, so rich, than I can only take so much before it goes to my head and my faculties dull. The lines are addictive, however, so I continue to read, filling up with ideas that may never fully find expression. For instance, three things caught my eye about "The Princess". For one thing, Tennyson goes to great lengths to set things in threes. To a certain extent, One feels it is natural. there are, after all, three graces, three fates, etc. so it does not feel out of place at first. But Tennyson takes it beyond simple congruity. The lady Psyche inherits three castles. The students take a three year vow. Homer, Plato and Verulam are compared with Elizabeth, Joan and Sappho. "With Ida, Ida, Ida rang the woods" (IV.413). "On me, me, me the storm first breaks" (IV.478). The pattern is so recurrent as to border on the heavy handed, and one cannot help but wonder what Tennyson's point is.
Likewise, the the musical interludes that punctuate the various sections of the poem seem out of place. While the narrators iterate the virtues of women, their female counterparts sing mainly of childbirth, a topic barely touched in the body of the poem. What could be the point of that? And what is the recurring image of the fountain about?
The answer to all of this comes in another seemingly out of place item. WherIn fact, the answer almost always comes from something that seems out of place. I think I'll teach that to my students: if you trust the author, look for something that doesn't fit in. Herein lies the key to "The Princess":
"At last
[Ida] rose upon a wind of prohecy
Dilating on the future: 'everywhere
Two heads in council, two beside the hearth,
Two in the tangled business of the world,
Two in the liberal offices of life,
Two plummets dropt for one to sound the abyss
Of science and the secrets of the mind" II.153-160).
Heretofore, Tennyson has been seemingly obsessed with threes. They have been everywhere, seriously. And now he switches to twos for one brief moment; surely, meaning is afoot! Examining Ida's little speech more closely, one realizes that she thinks of perfection as an equal partnership, a duo, a team of two. Perhaps Tennyson disagrees with his eponymous creation. Perhaps he thinks of perfection, not as a sterile coupling, but as a trio: woman, man and child. The unnamed Prince (Gilbert christens him Hilarion) suggests as much to Ida when he speaks of "what every woman counts her due, / Love, children, happiness" (III.229ish-- I lost count). Ida's response is to call him a savage, but Tennyson is clearly on Hilarion's side throughout. Ida is a sympathetic, well-meaning but misguided character. Hilarion is the real hero. After all, what is a fountain without issue?
While these themes are interlaced throughout the poem, they are by no means the only thing wirth noting. I could write a treatise on this, easily. The idea of love dwelling in the valleys, in the shadows of life smells particularlly rich at first glance. But I am not in college right now, so nyah. Write it yourself.
BTD: 24, although this measure has become a bit meaningless.
As tedious and uninteresting as I found Tacitus' annals, I was surprised to become so involved in this volume. I attribute this to several factors:
Tacitus died writing the Histories. They are therefore shorter.
My attention span has improved since I read the Annals one year ago.
I came up with a cool pnemonic for the order of the Caesars: All the Caesars can never grow old! I intended to continue the sentence to include the entire parade of Caesars, until I realized that there were hundreds of them. These are the important ones, and I got bored, so I stopped.
Unlike the Annals, the History fits into my historical database nicely. As a child, I had certain dates and names drummed into my head, as they pertained to Biblical content. For instance, Sergius Paulus laid siege to Jerusalem, only to be called away.This gave the Christians, who were privy to prophecy, time to escape before Titus came back and levelled the place. What I didn't know at the time was the historical context of these events. The gherman tribes were rebelling, and the troops wree needed elsewhere. After Vespasian consolidated his power, his son (and successor) Titus was at liberty to deal with the Jews, of whom Tacitus say, ". . . their other customs, which are at once perverse and disgusting [no doubt referring primarily to the act of circumcision], owe their strength to their very badness" (V.5). Not only does Tacitus demonstrate the light in which the Romans held the Jews, he also sheds a bit of light on the enduring puzzle of Moses' punishment int he wilderness. In relating the history of the Jews, he records, " . . . they had sunk in all directions over the plain, when a herd of wild asses was seen to retire from their pasture to a rock shaded by trees. Moyses [sic] followed them, and, guided by the appearance of a grassy spot, discovered an abundant spring of water" (V.4). Although this does not entirely clear up the matter, it adds valuable information that was inconveniently left out of Genesis.
Tom Stoppard: Dirty Linen/ New Found Land, Dogg's Hamlet/Cahoot's Macbeth
I can think of no better description of Dirty Linen and the play within it, New Found Land, than Stoppard's own, which I have previously used to frame his entire oeuvre: " . . . the thing defines itself in practice first and foremost as recreation. This seems satisfactory."
As for the latter pair, It feels as though Neil Simon had a love child with Vaclav Havel. Stoppard's brilliant idea of taking Wittgenstein's theories about language to thier natural conclusion exemplifies what I think of his best work. In this and such other plays as Hapgood and Jumpers, he pokes fun at Philosophy while explicating philosophy in a genial and hilarious manner. Also of interest is his habit of plays within or beside plays, unrelated to each other and yet complementary. It is just simple entertainment, after all.
Alfred, Lord Tennyson: The Princess
Oh, William Schwenk Gilbert, you old rascal. Who else would think to dramatize a poem of Tennyson's? And I didn't even realize until I read it that "The Princess" is the source of Gilbert's "Princess Ida". However, as much as I love Gilbert and Sullivan--more than sushi, but not as much as sour cream--it is more Neil Simon than William Shakespeare: cute but shallow. This source material, on the other hand, could keep me busy for months. I could write a term paper on this. In fact, I give Princess Ida credit for rekindling a love of reading in me, as opposed to reading something simply to have read it.
Whenever I read Tennyson, my cheeks flush as though I've been drinking Port and suddenly tried to stand up. The lines are so delicious, so rich, than I can only take so much before it goes to my head and my faculties dull. The lines are addictive, however, so I continue to read, filling up with ideas that may never fully find expression. For instance, three things caught my eye about "The Princess". For one thing, Tennyson goes to great lengths to set things in threes. To a certain extent, One feels it is natural. there are, after all, three graces, three fates, etc. so it does not feel out of place at first. But Tennyson takes it beyond simple congruity. The lady Psyche inherits three castles. The students take a three year vow. Homer, Plato and Verulam are compared with Elizabeth, Joan and Sappho. "With Ida, Ida, Ida rang the woods" (IV.413). "On me, me, me the storm first breaks" (IV.478). The pattern is so recurrent as to border on the heavy handed, and one cannot help but wonder what Tennyson's point is.
Likewise, the the musical interludes that punctuate the various sections of the poem seem out of place. While the narrators iterate the virtues of women, their female counterparts sing mainly of childbirth, a topic barely touched in the body of the poem. What could be the point of that? And what is the recurring image of the fountain about?
The answer to all of this comes in another seemingly out of place item. WherIn fact, the answer almost always comes from something that seems out of place. I think I'll teach that to my students: if you trust the author, look for something that doesn't fit in. Herein lies the key to "The Princess":
"At last
[Ida] rose upon a wind of prohecy
Dilating on the future: 'everywhere
Two heads in council, two beside the hearth,
Two in the tangled business of the world,
Two in the liberal offices of life,
Two plummets dropt for one to sound the abyss
Of science and the secrets of the mind" II.153-160).
Heretofore, Tennyson has been seemingly obsessed with threes. They have been everywhere, seriously. And now he switches to twos for one brief moment; surely, meaning is afoot! Examining Ida's little speech more closely, one realizes that she thinks of perfection as an equal partnership, a duo, a team of two. Perhaps Tennyson disagrees with his eponymous creation. Perhaps he thinks of perfection, not as a sterile coupling, but as a trio: woman, man and child. The unnamed Prince (Gilbert christens him Hilarion) suggests as much to Ida when he speaks of "what every woman counts her due, / Love, children, happiness" (III.229ish-- I lost count). Ida's response is to call him a savage, but Tennyson is clearly on Hilarion's side throughout. Ida is a sympathetic, well-meaning but misguided character. Hilarion is the real hero. After all, what is a fountain without issue?
While these themes are interlaced throughout the poem, they are by no means the only thing wirth noting. I could write a treatise on this, easily. The idea of love dwelling in the valleys, in the shadows of life smells particularlly rich at first glance. But I am not in college right now, so nyah. Write it yourself.
BTD: 24, although this measure has become a bit meaningless.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
The Letters of Vincent Van Gogh
This daunting epistolary turned out to be far better than expected. Although Van Gogh 's detailed descriptions of the paintings he was working on are not of particular interest to me, his thoughts on the books he read are quite enjoyable. As it happens, Van Gogh was quite a scholar, reading French and English authors, as well as his native Dutch, untranslated.
Among his favorites are my favorite author (although her hegemony is not as concrete as it once was), George Eliot, and Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress. Eliot makes perfect sense. She fits right in with his favorite painters Millet and Delacroix, a portrayer of unassuming provincial life. But Bunyan is a more interesting choice. It is tempting, if Van Gogh had a taste for allegory, to look for allegory in his own work. This is especially true given the symbolic importance he gave to certain objects: sunflowers represented gratitude to Van Gogh, for instance. But if the paintings are to viewed as a "Pilgrim's Progress" of corts, as an allegorical journey, where is the pilgrim? It is Van Gogh himself. the vast majority of his paintings have the feeling of being visual snapshots, glances from the eye of a real person, and not artificial contsructs. These are things he saw and painted, his room, his bed, his chair, his boots, and they are loaded with allegorical symbolism. In fact, Van Gogh himself identified one of his chair still lifes as an allegorical portrait of Gaugin.
It is often mistakenly said that Van Gogh's last painting was "Wheat Field With Crows", an understandable mistake given the ominous tone of that painting. The truth is that many paintings were completed at the same time that final month of his life, and I prefer to think that the final--or at least the most relevant--of that group is "The Reaper". On his path, Van Gogh met many people, but it is this character whom he met last.
Among his favorites are my favorite author (although her hegemony is not as concrete as it once was), George Eliot, and Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress. Eliot makes perfect sense. She fits right in with his favorite painters Millet and Delacroix, a portrayer of unassuming provincial life. But Bunyan is a more interesting choice. It is tempting, if Van Gogh had a taste for allegory, to look for allegory in his own work. This is especially true given the symbolic importance he gave to certain objects: sunflowers represented gratitude to Van Gogh, for instance. But if the paintings are to viewed as a "Pilgrim's Progress" of corts, as an allegorical journey, where is the pilgrim? It is Van Gogh himself. the vast majority of his paintings have the feeling of being visual snapshots, glances from the eye of a real person, and not artificial contsructs. These are things he saw and painted, his room, his bed, his chair, his boots, and they are loaded with allegorical symbolism. In fact, Van Gogh himself identified one of his chair still lifes as an allegorical portrait of Gaugin.
It is often mistakenly said that Van Gogh's last painting was "Wheat Field With Crows", an understandable mistake given the ominous tone of that painting. The truth is that many paintings were completed at the same time that final month of his life, and I prefer to think that the final--or at least the most relevant--of that group is "The Reaper". On his path, Van Gogh met many people, but it is this character whom he met last.
The Best American Short Stories of 2006
I think Ann Patchett put her finger on something here when she writes that "the short story is in need of a scandal." What she means, of course, is that it is in need of a publicist. The short story is treated as the ugly stepsister of the novel, but totally without cause. As Patchett observes, the quality of published short stories is generally stronger than that of novels, simply because it is less painful to abandon an unsuccessful short story than it is to give up on a novel you've been writing for years. Nonetheless, short stories are looked upon with a condescending eye, and I feel like subscribing to at least one short story/literary journal to make up for my haughtiness.
As for this particular collection, Patchett has made some nice shoices as editor. I don't feel like writing about each one, but here are the ones worth particular note:
Mark Slouka: "Dominion"
Benjamin Percy: "Refresh, Refresh" (My favorite of the volume)
Alice Munro: "The View From Castle Rock"
Kevin Moffett: "Tattooizm"
Robert Coover: "Grandmother's Nose" (worth teaching to my students)
As for this particular collection, Patchett has made some nice shoices as editor. I don't feel like writing about each one, but here are the ones worth particular note:
Mark Slouka: "Dominion"
Benjamin Percy: "Refresh, Refresh" (My favorite of the volume)
Alice Munro: "The View From Castle Rock"
Kevin Moffett: "Tattooizm"
Robert Coover: "Grandmother's Nose" (worth teaching to my students)
Adventures in Bible-reading
Judges
Whoa, did this book take a wrong turn around chapter 17. For the first two thirds, the book is as I remembered. Israel starts worshipping foreign gods. JEHOVAH gets irritated and sells them into captivity. Then he changes his mind and brings them a deliverer, a Judge. After Samson, however, they seem to have run out of heroes. The last section feels like another book entirely, as explained in the last verse: "In those days, there was no king in Israel; all the people did what was right in their own eyes" (21:25). And oy gevalt, "what was right in their own eyes" tuns out to have been bizarre indeed!
As it turns out, a certain Levite's concubine "became angry with him, and she went away from him to her father's house" (19:2). He fetched her from Dad's house and they headed back home. On the way, they stopped in Gibeah, and a resident there offered to take them in. In the middle of the night, the residents of Gibeah banged on the door and demanded that the Levite come out so they could rape him. "Hell to the no!" he says. "Take my concubine instead. She was becoming a pain anyway."
"In the morning her master got up, opened the doors of the house, and when he wentout to go on his way, there was his concubine lying on the door of the house, with her hands on the threshold. "[Oh. You. I almost forgot.] Get up," he said to her, 'we are going." But there was no answer" (19:27-28).
This little scenario sounds familiar, but I'll get back to that. This was clearly an asshole thing to do. But what does he do? He cuts her up into 12 pieces and sends one to each of the tribal heads, whining, "Look what Gibeah did! Those jerks. Let's do something about it! What, my fault? Nonsense." So the other eleven tribes go down to Gibeah and fight against the Benjaminites, who defend their own. They lure the men out of the city, double back and kill all the women and children. To finalize everything, they all swear a curse upon anyone who gives a daughter in marriage to the tribe of Benjamin.
Of course, then Israel feels guilty because their little patriarchal society has been messed up by the elimination of a whole tribe. What to do? Repopulate it. After all, the men were not killed, just the women. Oh, wait. There is that little oath we took. Is there anyone who didn't take it? Aha! Jabesh-Gilead. There wasn't anybody here from Jabesh-Gilead. We can get wives for the Benjaminites from them!
So Israel goes to Jabesh-Gilead to get wives for the men whose wives they killed. They kill everyone in the city except all the young virgins, about 400 of them. Keep in mind that Jabesh-Gilead is one of their own cities. And 400 virgins is not enough for a whole tribe. So they go and steal the women of Shechem. And they all lived happily ever after.
That is about the most disgusting, bloodthirsty, misogynist thing I ever read. And the whole thing evidently happened "because the LORD had made a breach in the tribes of Israel" (21:15). I feel more strongly than ever that I cannot worship this LORD of whom they write. But from a literary perspective, I find it interesting the flavor of mythology that surrounds the whole book. It feels like the Israelites had a tough time and made up a narrative about it afterward. It almost like a Robert Louis Stevenson story. The elephant's nose is long, because an alligator pulled on it. The Leopard is spotted because he wrestled with the painted man. The Israelites were always in trouble because of the LORD's doing, not because they were assholes and shit happens. Related to this is the fact that at least part of this story overlaps with/cannibalizes the other story I hate, that of Lot. A pre-existing, well-known story nestled within a story is a sure sign of myth-making in my book.
Ruth
By way of contrast, this little book is a real delight. Ruth's song to Naomi is touching, and I may add it to my marriage ceremony if I ever go that route again. And the love admiration of Boaz for Ruth seems as genuine as any other in literature.
Whoa, did this book take a wrong turn around chapter 17. For the first two thirds, the book is as I remembered. Israel starts worshipping foreign gods. JEHOVAH gets irritated and sells them into captivity. Then he changes his mind and brings them a deliverer, a Judge. After Samson, however, they seem to have run out of heroes. The last section feels like another book entirely, as explained in the last verse: "In those days, there was no king in Israel; all the people did what was right in their own eyes" (21:25). And oy gevalt, "what was right in their own eyes" tuns out to have been bizarre indeed!
As it turns out, a certain Levite's concubine "became angry with him, and she went away from him to her father's house" (19:2). He fetched her from Dad's house and they headed back home. On the way, they stopped in Gibeah, and a resident there offered to take them in. In the middle of the night, the residents of Gibeah banged on the door and demanded that the Levite come out so they could rape him. "Hell to the no!" he says. "Take my concubine instead. She was becoming a pain anyway."
"In the morning her master got up, opened the doors of the house, and when he wentout to go on his way, there was his concubine lying on the door of the house, with her hands on the threshold. "[Oh. You. I almost forgot.] Get up," he said to her, 'we are going." But there was no answer" (19:27-28).
This little scenario sounds familiar, but I'll get back to that. This was clearly an asshole thing to do. But what does he do? He cuts her up into 12 pieces and sends one to each of the tribal heads, whining, "Look what Gibeah did! Those jerks. Let's do something about it! What, my fault? Nonsense." So the other eleven tribes go down to Gibeah and fight against the Benjaminites, who defend their own. They lure the men out of the city, double back and kill all the women and children. To finalize everything, they all swear a curse upon anyone who gives a daughter in marriage to the tribe of Benjamin.
Of course, then Israel feels guilty because their little patriarchal society has been messed up by the elimination of a whole tribe. What to do? Repopulate it. After all, the men were not killed, just the women. Oh, wait. There is that little oath we took. Is there anyone who didn't take it? Aha! Jabesh-Gilead. There wasn't anybody here from Jabesh-Gilead. We can get wives for the Benjaminites from them!
So Israel goes to Jabesh-Gilead to get wives for the men whose wives they killed. They kill everyone in the city except all the young virgins, about 400 of them. Keep in mind that Jabesh-Gilead is one of their own cities. And 400 virgins is not enough for a whole tribe. So they go and steal the women of Shechem. And they all lived happily ever after.
That is about the most disgusting, bloodthirsty, misogynist thing I ever read. And the whole thing evidently happened "because the LORD had made a breach in the tribes of Israel" (21:15). I feel more strongly than ever that I cannot worship this LORD of whom they write. But from a literary perspective, I find it interesting the flavor of mythology that surrounds the whole book. It feels like the Israelites had a tough time and made up a narrative about it afterward. It almost like a Robert Louis Stevenson story. The elephant's nose is long, because an alligator pulled on it. The Leopard is spotted because he wrestled with the painted man. The Israelites were always in trouble because of the LORD's doing, not because they were assholes and shit happens. Related to this is the fact that at least part of this story overlaps with/cannibalizes the other story I hate, that of Lot. A pre-existing, well-known story nestled within a story is a sure sign of myth-making in my book.
Ruth
By way of contrast, this little book is a real delight. Ruth's song to Naomi is touching, and I may add it to my marriage ceremony if I ever go that route again. And the love admiration of Boaz for Ruth seems as genuine as any other in literature.
Discount Grab Bag Assortment
The following were read in preparation for teaching a Science Fiction Literature course next semester.
Jules Verne: "Master Zacharius"
Seminal and engaging, but difficult to follow at points. This would be a good text to introduce the idea of "playing God" as it appears in sci-fi lit.
H.G. Wells: "The Crystal Egg"
The "incredible device" genre is one that seems to pop up frequently, and this is a quick and easy example. One approach to sci-fi is to look it as a way of questioning society's assumptions and asking "What if?" This would be a good choice for that aproach.
Arthur Conan Doyle, "The Disintegration Machine"
Another "incredible device," this would be nice to teach side by side with "The Crystal Egg" to show how sci-fi was changed by WWI. All of a sudden, knowledge is dangerous, another recurring theme. Just wait until Hiroshima, bitches.
Jack Williamson: "The Metal Man" I wouldn't teach this. It's interesting, but not clear. These are high school students, after all.
Jules Verne: "Master Zacharius"
Seminal and engaging, but difficult to follow at points. This would be a good text to introduce the idea of "playing God" as it appears in sci-fi lit.
H.G. Wells: "The Crystal Egg"
The "incredible device" genre is one that seems to pop up frequently, and this is a quick and easy example. One approach to sci-fi is to look it as a way of questioning society's assumptions and asking "What if?" This would be a good choice for that aproach.
Arthur Conan Doyle, "The Disintegration Machine"
Another "incredible device," this would be nice to teach side by side with "The Crystal Egg" to show how sci-fi was changed by WWI. All of a sudden, knowledge is dangerous, another recurring theme. Just wait until Hiroshima, bitches.
Jack Williamson: "The Metal Man" I wouldn't teach this. It's interesting, but not clear. These are high school students, after all.
Monday, May 07, 2007
For my next trick . . .
I shall try something I have not done since College: try to tie three completely different books together thematically: Joshua, Mark Doty: My Alexandria, and John Coetzee: Waiting for the Barbarians.
***
Resistance is futile. You will be assimilated. Not only you, but your relationship, your nation, each worldly possession and whatever you're feeling at this very moment will melt, thaw and resolve itself into a dew. All flesh is grass. This too shall pass.
This is why Empire is a terrible idea, as Coetzee observes: "What has made it impossible for us to live like fish in water, like birds in air, like children? It is the fault of Empire! . . . Empire has located its existence, not in the smooth recurrent spinning time of the cycle of the seasons but in the jagged time of rise and fall. Of beginning and end, of catastrophe" (131). In Waiting for the Barbarians, Coetzee creates an allegorical world where The Empire, as empires do, tries to strengthen its borders as proof against the foe of any empire, The Barbarians. But this Empire discovers exactly what America has: the more one attacks, the more one is attacked; the very action of attack is destructive to oneself. In fact, The Barbarians really have nothing to do with the fall of The Empire in Coetzee's book. Its demise is completely self-inflicted.
And one wonders if the same is not true of the nation of Israel--not just in modern times, but even at its heyday as a power. By Coetzee's reasoning, "Every place that the sole of your feet shall tread upon I have given to you. . . No one shall be able to stand against you." turns out to be pretty rotten advice (Joshua 1:3-4). For one thing, the prediction was false. Certain tribes resisted the Israelites; their conquest was not the blowout they had been promised. "They did not, however drive out the Canaanites who lived in Gezer: so the Canaanites have lived wihtin Ephraim to this day," a fact which is a pity for modern Israel; the Canaanites were the forerunners of modern Palsetinians (16:10). Neither did they drive out the Geshurites, the Maacathites or the Jebusites. And yet, the writer of Joshua claims that "The LORD gave them rest on every side, just as he had sworn to their ancestors; not one of all their enemies had withstood them for the LORD had given all their enemies into their hands" (21:44). If only. For the Judean Empire is a classic example of "the jagged time of rise and fall" Coetzee describes. As I prepare to reread Judges, I remember its contents: Israel is rescued by the LORD. Israel sins. Israel is reconquered (as punishment). Repeat ad infinitum. What Joshua takes for a tesimony to Israel's power, I take as a seal on their doom: "[The LORD] gave you a land on which you had not labored, and towns that you had not built, and you live in them; you eat the fruit of vineyards and oliveyards that you did not plant" (24:13). Such an empire can not only be expected to return tot he dust, it should be encouraged to do so.
And what is true for political empire is true for the little empires we build around ourselves as well. Mark Doty does an excellent job of describing this in My Alexandria, a delightfully cohesive volume that makes and destroys little cities on every page. I almost wrote an entire post on "Demolition," I found it so dense and layered. It took me actual research and rereading to extract its full efect, an effort to which I am not used. The poem describes a building that the author is watching fall, but is peppered with seemingly random episodes that I was at first unable to tie together. What do Oscar Wilde, Robert Lowell, and the monument to General Shaw (which I have actually seen) have to do with this building? The key, after the fourth or so reading, came in the seemingly out of place word, "we". "Waitaminnit," I realized, "Who's we?" As it turns out, the entire thing is about watching the last pieces of a failed relationship fall, and in retrosopect it is too obvious. If you read the poem, you may understand the difficulty of analysis and forgive me my thickheadedness. Most poems in this volume bear up under similar scrutiny, and I will take time out from my topic to just mention that "Difference" is one of the best poems I have ever read, but what it says cannot be communicated in words, at least not by me. Read it. In its way, though, it is also about the undulating pulse of the universe, against which it is futile, but more importantly desstructive, to resist. We are all slowly "becoming a meadow," ebbing and flowing through our existence, which doesn't belong to us at all (Becoming a Meadow). We are all music, " gather[ing] and tumbl[ing] / like water collecting in a fountain / all hesitation and sudden release" (Lament-Heaven). But nonetheless, we all--even those of us who know better--try to build empires. "If we are all continuous," Doty observes, "rippling from nothing into being / why can't we let ourselves go?" (Lament-Heaven).
BTD 16
***
Resistance is futile. You will be assimilated. Not only you, but your relationship, your nation, each worldly possession and whatever you're feeling at this very moment will melt, thaw and resolve itself into a dew. All flesh is grass. This too shall pass.
This is why Empire is a terrible idea, as Coetzee observes: "What has made it impossible for us to live like fish in water, like birds in air, like children? It is the fault of Empire! . . . Empire has located its existence, not in the smooth recurrent spinning time of the cycle of the seasons but in the jagged time of rise and fall. Of beginning and end, of catastrophe" (131). In Waiting for the Barbarians, Coetzee creates an allegorical world where The Empire, as empires do, tries to strengthen its borders as proof against the foe of any empire, The Barbarians. But this Empire discovers exactly what America has: the more one attacks, the more one is attacked; the very action of attack is destructive to oneself. In fact, The Barbarians really have nothing to do with the fall of The Empire in Coetzee's book. Its demise is completely self-inflicted.
And one wonders if the same is not true of the nation of Israel--not just in modern times, but even at its heyday as a power. By Coetzee's reasoning, "Every place that the sole of your feet shall tread upon I have given to you. . . No one shall be able to stand against you." turns out to be pretty rotten advice (Joshua 1:3-4). For one thing, the prediction was false. Certain tribes resisted the Israelites; their conquest was not the blowout they had been promised. "They did not, however drive out the Canaanites who lived in Gezer: so the Canaanites have lived wihtin Ephraim to this day," a fact which is a pity for modern Israel; the Canaanites were the forerunners of modern Palsetinians (16:10). Neither did they drive out the Geshurites, the Maacathites or the Jebusites. And yet, the writer of Joshua claims that "The LORD gave them rest on every side, just as he had sworn to their ancestors; not one of all their enemies had withstood them for the LORD had given all their enemies into their hands" (21:44). If only. For the Judean Empire is a classic example of "the jagged time of rise and fall" Coetzee describes. As I prepare to reread Judges, I remember its contents: Israel is rescued by the LORD. Israel sins. Israel is reconquered (as punishment). Repeat ad infinitum. What Joshua takes for a tesimony to Israel's power, I take as a seal on their doom: "[The LORD] gave you a land on which you had not labored, and towns that you had not built, and you live in them; you eat the fruit of vineyards and oliveyards that you did not plant" (24:13). Such an empire can not only be expected to return tot he dust, it should be encouraged to do so.
And what is true for political empire is true for the little empires we build around ourselves as well. Mark Doty does an excellent job of describing this in My Alexandria, a delightfully cohesive volume that makes and destroys little cities on every page. I almost wrote an entire post on "Demolition," I found it so dense and layered. It took me actual research and rereading to extract its full efect, an effort to which I am not used. The poem describes a building that the author is watching fall, but is peppered with seemingly random episodes that I was at first unable to tie together. What do Oscar Wilde, Robert Lowell, and the monument to General Shaw (which I have actually seen) have to do with this building? The key, after the fourth or so reading, came in the seemingly out of place word, "we". "Waitaminnit," I realized, "Who's we?" As it turns out, the entire thing is about watching the last pieces of a failed relationship fall, and in retrosopect it is too obvious. If you read the poem, you may understand the difficulty of analysis and forgive me my thickheadedness. Most poems in this volume bear up under similar scrutiny, and I will take time out from my topic to just mention that "Difference" is one of the best poems I have ever read, but what it says cannot be communicated in words, at least not by me. Read it. In its way, though, it is also about the undulating pulse of the universe, against which it is futile, but more importantly desstructive, to resist. We are all slowly "becoming a meadow," ebbing and flowing through our existence, which doesn't belong to us at all (Becoming a Meadow). We are all music, " gather[ing] and tumbl[ing] / like water collecting in a fountain / all hesitation and sudden release" (Lament-Heaven). But nonetheless, we all--even those of us who know better--try to build empires. "If we are all continuous," Doty observes, "rippling from nothing into being / why can't we let ourselves go?" (Lament-Heaven).
BTD 16
Sunday, April 08, 2007
recent acquisitions
My to read stack has been growing at far too rapid a pace.
Aeshylus: The Oresteia
I had read Agamemnon halfheartedly in college, so I didn't realize just how rich it is. Even in what is no doubt an imperfect translation, Aeschylus' thematic unity and imagery is thickly layered and the very model of what I call "Literary". If I was still in college, I would probably be inspired to write my paper on the symbolical use of raiment, but I'm not, so pbblt.
Gabriel Garcia Marquez: Memories of my Melancholy Whores
This book took me for a ride in more than one way. It was, as expected, an adventure in characterization as only Marquez can do it. After "One Hundred Years of Solitude", I wondered whether he could ever create men as memorable as the women in that book. Here is the proof. But the ride was also one of expectation postponed. The book is umistakably leading up to the main character's death. It opens on his ninetieth birthday, and winds up on his niety-first. As he ages another year, the world falls apart around him--his cat, his house, his workplace--seemingly in preparation for his death. It is characteristically appropriate that the year's adventure revolves around his courtship of a fourteen-year-old virgin, whom sleeps with only literally, never taking her virginity, while the man himself is born on August 29,th a Virgo. Anyone who has reada books could see the signs: the man is journeying inevitably to his death. It almost becomes another "Chronicle of a Death Foretold".
But it turns out to be a Chronicle of a Death Forestalled. I had to reread the last page several times to assure myself that the man had not died after all. He didn't die. Miraculously, in the last paragraph, the house was restored, the cat recovered, and he set out looking forward to his one hunderedth birthday. Why? Why Had Marquez not done what every other author would have done (except that every other author would have done it)? Why had he spent an entire book preparing the reader for a death that never happened?
"I . . . measure my life, not in years, but in decades," he says at one point. Every tenth birthday, beginning with his fiftieth, he has been struck by a deep sense of his mortality. The book, then becomes, not a chronicle of death, but of mortality--a subtle distinction--the mortality of birthdays. Each decade is indeed, as Marquez observes, a moment of pause, of recognition. And it is that pause which Marquez is chronicling, although he doesn't tip his hand until the last page.
The Way of Chuang Tzu (Edited by Thomas Merton)
Hui Chi said to Chuang Tzu:
"All your teaching is centered on what has no use" (153).
Herein lies the charm of this book. How useful it is to be useless indeed.
Aeshylus: The Oresteia
I had read Agamemnon halfheartedly in college, so I didn't realize just how rich it is. Even in what is no doubt an imperfect translation, Aeschylus' thematic unity and imagery is thickly layered and the very model of what I call "Literary". If I was still in college, I would probably be inspired to write my paper on the symbolical use of raiment, but I'm not, so pbblt.
Gabriel Garcia Marquez: Memories of my Melancholy Whores
This book took me for a ride in more than one way. It was, as expected, an adventure in characterization as only Marquez can do it. After "One Hundred Years of Solitude", I wondered whether he could ever create men as memorable as the women in that book. Here is the proof. But the ride was also one of expectation postponed. The book is umistakably leading up to the main character's death. It opens on his ninetieth birthday, and winds up on his niety-first. As he ages another year, the world falls apart around him--his cat, his house, his workplace--seemingly in preparation for his death. It is characteristically appropriate that the year's adventure revolves around his courtship of a fourteen-year-old virgin, whom sleeps with only literally, never taking her virginity, while the man himself is born on August 29,th a Virgo. Anyone who has reada books could see the signs: the man is journeying inevitably to his death. It almost becomes another "Chronicle of a Death Foretold".
But it turns out to be a Chronicle of a Death Forestalled. I had to reread the last page several times to assure myself that the man had not died after all. He didn't die. Miraculously, in the last paragraph, the house was restored, the cat recovered, and he set out looking forward to his one hunderedth birthday. Why? Why Had Marquez not done what every other author would have done (except that every other author would have done it)? Why had he spent an entire book preparing the reader for a death that never happened?
"I . . . measure my life, not in years, but in decades," he says at one point. Every tenth birthday, beginning with his fiftieth, he has been struck by a deep sense of his mortality. The book, then becomes, not a chronicle of death, but of mortality--a subtle distinction--the mortality of birthdays. Each decade is indeed, as Marquez observes, a moment of pause, of recognition. And it is that pause which Marquez is chronicling, although he doesn't tip his hand until the last page.
The Way of Chuang Tzu (Edited by Thomas Merton)
Hui Chi said to Chuang Tzu:
"All your teaching is centered on what has no use" (153).
Herein lies the charm of this book. How useful it is to be useless indeed.
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