Reading Uphill Lately

I've been readin things! Honest!

Alfred, Lord Tennyson: Juvenilia

I'm not sure whether this collection of Tennyson's poetry is genuinely worse, or if I simply have been in a critical mood. No matter; here's my reaction. The inconsistent meter which seems to contribute to Tennyson's later works seems simply lazy here. With the possible exception of "Mariana," the first lines of which every gay man will recognize, not much here kept my eye. Nonetheless, it is interesting to see the seeds of Tennyson's characteristic themes, brotherly love and the poetic mind, in such poems as "The Gardener's Daughter," and the revealingly titled, "The Poet's Mind."

Bel and the Dragon, Susanna

These apocryphal books are a nice, if merengue in their insubstantiality, addition to the story of Daniel, who seems rather poorly characterized in his own book. Nonetheless, I can't quite give them credence. They clearly don't belong to the same author as that book, and have an almost renaissance feel to them.

Lately

Plato: Euthyrpho, Crito, Phaedo

Surprisingly accesible. Although I can't really decide whether to attribute the ideas to Plato or Socrates, I agree with them nonetheless. I especially like that the discussion of Piety ends abruptly and without resolution. I suspect Platocrates is positing that 'Piety' is a meaningless word, in that it cannot be defined satisfactorily, and that its only use is demagoguery.

Abelard and Heloise: collected letters

Disappointing. What's the big deal? Romeo, Tristan, and Troilus he ain't. His supposedly romantic letters are rude, terse, misogynist, and altogether free from beauty. She is a bit more savory, and the tension between religious restraint and amorous desperation is palpable, but still does not live up to the hype.

unless . . .

Also included in this collection were excerpts from anonymous letters sent by a similar couple in the twelfth century. Scholars have suggested based on usage and grammar analysis that the anonymous letters are actually written by Abelard and Heloise. If this is so, Wow! Zing! The smoldering poetry and exhausting lust in these few fragments is zesty indeed, and would change my opinion entirely if they were indeed the authors in their precloistering.

On a personal note, I certainly can relate to Abelard's choice of monkhood after his disfigurement. I feel the same way myself lately. Of course, I'm far too impatient for the monastic life, but I have considered it. And I wonder if he would have maintained his affection for Heloise if he still had his cock.

Christopher Marlowe: Edward II

All you Marlovian conspiracy theorists out there can go sit on your thumbs. Shakespeare he ain't. For all my issues with Willy, he blows this sucker out of the water. I'm sure Edward II, supposedly his most dramatically advanced work, is nice to see on stage, but even the worst of Shakespeare (probably Twelfth Night, although you will disagree) outstrips him mightily in content, flow and especially language. I can't think of a single speech from Edward that made me want to reread, digest and memorize it, while every page of Shakespeare inspires that response.

Sirach, Baruch, The Letter of Jeremiah, The Song of Azariah.

Fascinating as far as Apochrypha go, but still lacking the gravitas of the rest of the Bible. Sirach himself notes that his book is not to be taken as scripture. Filled as it is with valid observations (and the occasional distaff blunder), Solomon he ain't. Personal note: Azariah has long been one of my favorite characters in the Bible. This little fragment reinforces that stand.

Miscellaneous

Deepak Chopra: The Path to Love

Not the sort of thing I would usually pick up, but interesting nonetheless. Chopra has a real knack for putting complex metaphysical truths simply without being condescending or diluting them beyond usefullness. At the same time, so much of the book was written to those who already have significant others and wish to improve their relationships, I didn't feel like I got as much out of it as I might have.

Tacitus: The Annals

Something tells me I have read this book out of sequence. I was able to follow the successions and personal dramas easily, but my incomplete grasp of Roman politics and government made certain of the other details difficult to grasp. I has to invent mnemonics to remind myself that a Quaestor was less important than an Aedile, who was less important than a Praetor, who was less important than a Consul, and so on. Still, eventually I will return to this (and to Plutarch) and refine my inderstanding. Also, some of the most fascinating sections of The Annals are lost to prosperity: Caligula's reign, and the last two years of Nero's.

Federico Garcia Lorca: Selected Poems

I find that I have learned something about poetry during this little translation kick on which I have been. Part of the reason it was such an easy undertaking to translate Borges, as I have mentioned, is that his poetic vocabulary is rather limited. Once I learned the words for nightingale, mirror, and labyrinth, I was set. Of course, it also helped that Borges is, as poets go, remarkably consistent in terms of theme, but that's another essay altogether.

The same is true of Lorca. Now that I have learned the words for gypsy, mud, and putrid, and have become fluent in the conjugation of the verbs 'to groan' and 'to wail', I find that the going is a bit smoother. Of course, it was at first confusing that he makes such extensive use of the imperfect indicitave and subjunctive tenses, which are scarcely used in English, but I adapted.

I am certain therefore, that the same will be true as I undertake the reading of Octavio Paz, and furthermore that the same is true of poetry in all languages, including my own. My English lexicon is simply so comfortable that I don't notice when a poet uses the same word repeatedly. By contrast, I never learned the words for 'carnation' or 'iodine' in High School Spanish class, so their repetition in Lorca is startling, memorable and telling. I intend to revisit some of my poetry and see what words have established squatting rights in my verse. Perhaps it will be equally illuminating.

Another aspect of Lorca's work that makes it more complicated than Borges' is his inconsistency of theme. Although his tone never wavers from the passionate disillusionment and reminiscence of a Marica out of place, he draws constantly from folk tradition that is only indirectly revealing of his intent. Many of his poems are not only in the form of traditional Andalusian or Gypsy songs, but they also draw from those themes. Therefore, when the married woman has an affair on the bank of a river as in La Casada Infiel, one really must dig to extract Lorca's meaning--which I take to be the disconnect between the pleasure of pale thighs and the dawn.

The central poem of the collection, Oda A Walt Whitman, is the key to unlocking Lorca. The raillery he here unleashes against gay culture underlies most of his other work, especially when it touches upon the subject of erotic love. He declares, "No Haya Cuartel!" against those "Madres de lodo, arpias, enemigas sin sueno (where's a tilde when I need it?)" I have personally met those men! "Asesininos de palomas! . . . emboscadas en yertos paisajes de cicuta (one of Lorca's favorite words)." By contrast, there exist "los clasicos, los senelados, los suplicantes / os cierran las puertas de la bacanal." These are the real men, those who can live with such poetry as Lorca reveals in his later work, especially the volume "Divan Del Tamarit." The Gacelas held here (about which form I need to learn more) made me gasp with amazement and cry flavorless tears, neither of joy or sorrow. The desperate love, the men pierced by fountains who spill their blood in in a widening shadow on the silk of their divans, the reclining nights of a single golden moment, this is the world I am terrified and ecstatic to inhabit. There are no gay bars here.

You know the drill by now.

Wisdom of Solomon

I expected this to be an apocryphal version of Proverbs, but no! Rather, it reminds me of Boethius' Consolation of Philosophy. It is not a sequence of pithy epigrams, but rather a panegyric to Wisdom herself. Very nice.

Bret Easton Ellis: Glamorama

I respected Robert far more before he suggested this book to me. It was nice, but why is it his favorite? Just because people's vaginas fall out of the bodies in response to virulent poisons and others' intestines shoot out of their rectums in a purple foam while being electrocuted does not make it a classic. Funny, but not a classic.

Augustine: Confessions

I can relate, Augustine, old boy. I have, like you, been a slut, a prey to my baser--if not basest--instincts. Like you, I have grown tired with it, but found myself unable to give it up entirely. And like you, I have searched for meaning in religion and found it wanting. What was it that made you change your mind? Did you have an epiphany? If so, where can I get one? You make it sound like you simply decided on a purely rational basis that devotion was the way to go, but I have reasoned myself to a different--if compatible--conclusion. Where did our paths diverge?

Oh, and the commentary on Genesis? Boooooring.

Jorge Luis Borges: Selected Poems

I have been working on this for years. I started by reading the English translations on the converse and looking for inaccuracies. Gradually, I would read the Spanish obverse in its entirety By the time I got to Dos Versiones De "Ritter, Tod und Teufel," I barely looked at the English. Now I move on to do the same with Lorca, Quevedo and Neruda.

Part of what made Borges such a provident beginning to this project was his apparent amnesia. He wrote only a handful of poems, as prolific as he was. Uns Rosa Amarilla is the same poem as El Golem, and Mi Ultimo Tigre, from his penultimate volume Atlas, is a prosaic version of El Otro Tigre from his early El Hacedor. I henceforth use the translated versions of the texts to spare myself the effort importing tildes.

Every poem seems to ask and answer the questions, "What am I? Am I nothing or everything?", the answer to which is a guarded yes. In his underrated short story, Pierre Menard, Author of Don Quixote, Borges makes it clear that all literature ceases to belong to the author as soon as it is read. This volume now belongs to and was authored by Brandon Payne, who spilled a casserole in the margins to notarize his ownership. In his poetry, Borges expands on the idea; not only literature, but all sensation and experience is owned by and composes myself. Borges never wanders far from the banks of Heraclitus' river, which wears labyrinthine arroyos into experience, and faces itself to reflect an endless succession of mirrors. Things and people float on the surface of this river, on which we bump into each other like driftwood, and often Borges poems are simple lists of the things he is:

The Colors of a Turner when the lights
Are turned out in the narrow gallery
And not a footstep sounds in the deep night.
The other side of the dreary map of the world.
The tenuous spiderweb in the pyramid.
The sightless stone and the inquiring hand. (Cosas)
My cane, my pocket change, this ring of keys,
The obedient lock, the belated notes,(Las Cosas)
The circular time of the stoics,
The coin in the mouth of the dead man,
The sword's weight on the scale, (Las Causas)
Death, the weight of dawn, the endless plain
And the intricacy of stars,
And to have seen nothing or almost nothing
But the face of a young girl in Buenos Aires. (Elegia)

I feel like cutting the titles out of all the poems and conflating them into a prose work of remarkable depth, insight, and repetitiveness. Perhaps Borges simply became senile and forgot what he had written (he suggests as much in the prologue to El Oto, El Mismo), but I suspect that he simply had succumbed to the knowledge that all thoughts, all poems are one:

Soon, I shall know what I am.

Philip Levine: Breath

To quote a Poem by Borges, the title of which I forget, "Soon I will know who I am." And as Philip Levine might say, I am in the process of naming myself, of discovering, "What did I bring to the dance?" (Gospel).

In what I consider the central poem of this collection, Naming, Levine endeavors to define himself via a series of Joycian vignettes from his life. In this poem, he shows the reader, "All the small secrets that contain [him]." He and his Brother go through life, "growing into the names they answered to / until they thought they were those names," in other words, without authentic names of their own. It is only through the act of experiencing life that Levine, and the human for which he speaks, actually develops a name, an identity.

That defining moment comes

. . . outside the Avalon at 2 A.M.
when the lights blink off, the kids leave in pairs,
to be alone then, hearing only breath,
your own breath rising to answer with words
you didn't know you knew the pale questions
of the full moon, to know for the first time
you are a name without a number.

I have had this very moment. If you scour my other blog, you will be able to locate it under the entry, "Please, Blue Fairy, Make Me A Real Boy."

The Pages Creep on Apace

Books I've read since last posting:

Haggai-Malachi

Didn't take much away with me here.

Tobit, Judith, Esther (Greek version)

Fascinating as these stories are, I can understand why they are considered Apocryphal. They just don't live, they don't cut the way the rest of the bible does. Whether this makes them better or worse is open to interpretation, but they are clearly of a different species, more akin to The Decameron than The rest of the Hebrew Scriptures.

Charles Dickens: Nicholas Nickelby

I read this monster simply out of arrogance. I couldn't stand knowing that Mark Hennesy, that bag of wind, had read an iportant book I had not. And glad I am to have read it. That Complete Oxford Illustrated Dickens I bought on a whim five years ago has been gathering far too much dust. And it was enjoyable as well. I disagree with the common complaint that young Nicholas is too perfect, too earnest. He is as tragically flawed as any well written hero in literature, a hot-headed, impetuous, thoughtless, if loyal and stalwart figure.

Interestingly, I believe I have now read as many books so far this year as I did all year 2005.

Quickies

Books I've read since my last post but, for whatever reason, don't feel like writing about:

Harper Lee: To Kill A Mockingbird

I am wholly inadequate to the task of analyzing this book based on only one reading. I'll revisit later.

Stephen Chapman: The 5 Love Languages

Jason recommended this to me with nearly the same breath as, "Just friends." Taking that as feedback, I have now read it and, as with on other topics, Jason was right.

Jim Wallis: God's Politics

A thought-provoking, if repetitive and pedantic, book on the intersection between religion and politics. I was almost convinced.

William Shakespeare: Measure for Measure

M4M, as we have taken to calling it, was surprisingly cogent for a Shakespeare comedy. More readable and entertaining, in my opinion, than Twelfth Night or As You Like It. Read in preparation for a theatrical performance, which was worth the $10 student price, but not the $40 full price. Prudent of me to have kept my ID, no?

Obadiah-Zephaniah

Sadly, not much worth reporting here, save that Schadenfreude is frowned upon.

Amos

I have reclaimed my interest in the Bible. After, as per my previous post, being unimpressed with what was formerly my favorite section, I felt like replacing it on the dust shelf. I figured, however, that Amos was only nine chapters, and that I should make a bit more progress before moving on. Wow.

It is provident that I read it immediately after reading a relevant portion of Jim Wallis' God's Politics, with which I have been so far only mildly impressed. Amos, as it happens, speaks precisely to Wallis' message of social justice. Take this striking example: "Hear this word, you cows of Bashan / who are on Mount Samaria, / who oppress the poor, who crush the needy, / who say to their husbands, / "Bring something to drink!" (4:1). I know these women! They often, even , claim to be liberal activists, while shopping at Terra Verde and spending obscene amounts on flowing garments. Or this: "Alas for those who lie on beds of ivory, / and lounge on their couches, / eat lambs from the flock, / and calves from the stall; who sing idle songs to the harp . . . who drink wine from bowls, and anoint themselves with finest oils" (6:4-6). I also know these men. Surely it is an obscenity in the face of God to spend vast sums on moisturizer, even thousands of dollars on decorative acoutrements for the house and yard, while even a single soul is hungry.

It is therefore a credit to me that I own nothing but what the universe has dropped on me, and it is a shame on me that I have been so phenomenally ungrateful. Thank you to God, Tao, JEHOVAH, the universe, whoever you are today. I have a new appreciciation for what Amos means when he identifies you repeatedly as "The God of hosts." Surely we are your guests, each and every one of us, and should behave accordingly. And you are only our God to the extent to which we ourselves are hosts, to the level of our hospitality for our fellow guests.

Not Illiterate; Honest.

Just lazy. I've been reading at my usual rate, or perhaps even a little more, but I simply haven't felt like writing about any of them. Here is a rundown: Daniel (formerly my favorite Bible book) Hosea, Joel, none of which I felt interested in. Bulfinch's mythology, from which I gained considerable perspective and knowledge, but writing about which I don't feel competent to perform. And Gabriel Garcia Marquez' Chronicle of a Death Foretold, which was amazing, but which I need to read again to do justice.

Ezekiel

I know how the residents of Jerusalem must have felt. As Ezekiel took one third of his hair and burned it, struck one third with a sword (a comical image, if you ask me), and threw the remaining third to the wind, what could they possibly think except, "What the fuck is he doing?" The book which bears Ezekiel's name is bookended by two scrupulously detailed and mind-bogglingly pointless accounts of prophetic vision. Normally, description is used to highlight meaning, not to replace it. But by the eighth chapter of temple measurements, "From the gate to the vestibule was fifty cubits," and so on sin terminus, I had given up waiting for him to get to the point. He seems to expect that the distance from the nave to the pilaster is sufficiently interesting by itself. I disagree.

Which is not to say the meat in this boredom sandwich was not highly comestible. If one discards the aforementioned beginning and ending narratives, Ezekiel actually borders on the inspiring. For instance, JEHOVAH promises through Ezekiel, "A new heart I will give you, and a new spirit I will put within you; and I will remove from your body the heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh" (36:26). "Please!" was my spontaneously verbal response upon reading this passage. How nice it would be for God to grab me by the leg and shake me until all my broken ideas and feelings spill out of my pockets. He then could fill his promise, "I will take you . . . and bring you into your own land. I will sprinkle clean water upon you" 36: 24,25). Please, Show me where that land is, and I shall meet you there.

Terry McAdam: Very Much Alive

At first, I resisted reading this book on principle. My Grandfather presumed to recommend it to me on the assumption that I needed bolstering after my accident. The author happens to have been a professor of his forty-odd years ago at Washburn University, and also happens to have been a parapalegic. My immediate reaction was to assure myself that I didn't need any power of positive thinking, Lifetime made for TV movie, inspirational recounting of some guy's pathetic life. But eventually I relented on the grounds that the book is only 150 pages long.

Hidden between the invective about funding for veteran's hospitals and stern admonition to do one's best and keep a stiff upper lip, there is one chapter that I actually found relevant and touching. It seems that one nurse in his recovery ward was particularly beautiful and inaccessible. Wonder of wonders! She fell in love with and married one of the patients, a parapalegic. She actually managed to convince the man that she was attracted to him, and didn't care a sow's nipple about his infirmity. Those of you who know me or have read some of my blog may realize how nice I would think it if a man were to say sincerely, "Now, no more foolishness about [being damaged goods]" (121). I wonder if I will believe him.

Zora Neale Hurston: Their Eyes Were Watching God

This is what Toni Morrison would like to write when she grows up. It has all the rich characterization and colloquial creativity of Beloved or Song of Solomon, but--will wonders never cease--with thematic continuity. One would think, with Hurston's background in antrhopology, that it would be she who errs on the side of interesting, but disjointed, ethnic folk-tale. Not so. Regardless of the turns the novel takes, she keeps one finger pressed on the heart of Janie's quest.

It is this quest which gives this novel its soul. Janie "had found a jewel down inside herself and she had wanted to walk where people could see her and gleam it around" (90). I can think of no embellishment that would make this a better mission in life, except perhaps to say that the jewel at each of our centers could also use polishing on occassion.

The chief scholarly curiosity of Hurston's work lies in its ill-reception during her life. Modern theorists decry Langston Hughes and his cadre of so-called progressive black intellectuals, but I can see their point. Hurston is (I decline to write 'was', for she is more alive today than many with whom I have daily contact) a woman out of her time, and as such she certainly had no place in their Harlem Reidentification. She did not belong in the 20's, and if I had my druthers I would resurrect her and watch gleefully as she snatches Tyra Banks' weave off of her insincere head, and tells Maya Angelou to lighten up, for God's sake.

Sun Tzu: The Art of War

I suppose if I was into fighting, this would be a remarkably useful book. It manages to avoid confinement to Warring States period China, and could certainly be applied to modern warfare. In fact, given the tendency to turn everything into a battle, it could also find a home in the boardroom, on the football field, in various political think-tanks, even on the nightstands of married couples. I resent, however, the implication that "War is the road to survival or ruin . . . It is mandatory that it be thoroughly studied" (I.1). Although this is a common modern notion, namely that "freedom ain't free" and "someone's gotta fight fer our liberty," I contest it. I happen to think that an impressive military is not necessary for any nation, especially in our world of devastating missiles and other unmanned weapons. The entire culture of war is corrosive to the universe. It perpetuates a win-lose mentality that leaves mankind far short of its potential.

Which is not to say that I didn't glean anything whatsoever from "The Art of War." Sun Tzu does not pull his strategies out of thin air; they are based on a solid observation of what works--not only in war, but in general life. Therfore, when he says, "Weigh the situation, and then move" (VII.15), he could just as well be speaking of marriage or finance as of battle. He returns often to the idea that a battle must be won before it is engaged. "A victorious army wins its victories before seeking battle" (VI.14). What could be truer of life than that one must avoid instant gratification and weigh choices well in advance? Likewise, Sun advocates constant change. And in life, one must always be prepared to use cheng, normal forces, as well as ch'i, extraordinary ones, and to shift from one to the other at a moment's notice. One must be prepared for constantly shifting circumstances, and also to change approaches the moment they become ineffective.

Perhaps life is a battle. Perhaps the point is, after all, to win. But for now, I choose to see life as a journey, a path upon which all can walk simultaneously without competition. For to reach the end alone doesn't seem like any victory at all.

Erasmus: The Praise of Folly

The problem with the blissfullnes of ignorance is that cognizance is a one-way street. Once aware, one cannot squeeze back through the keyhole to the gleeful land of Ignorasia, where there are no taxes and the streets are made of Turkish Delight.

Do not despair, though. Once one has become disignorant, there is still the option of being foolish. That is to say, one can still behave as if not knowing any better. Erasmus raises the question, "Is foolishness as blissful as ignorance?", and answers, "Yes."

Whether he means, in earnest, to suppose that the life of a fool is rewarding is open to debate. At times, his reasoning is so flimsy one has to assume he argues in jest. Most of this may be attributable to the conflation of natural fools, the ignorant, with those who act foolishly. This is no mean distinction; what is bliss for one is often secret death for the other. While the natural fool behaves foolishly, he does so through little fault of his own, and tends not to berate himself, perhaps not even recognizing the folly of his actions. The foolish man, as opposed to the fool, acts foolishly through conceit, laziness, fear, or hedonism. As such, his spirit withers on the vine every time the virtuous choice is before him and he ignores it.

Erasmus isolates the true issue when he asks, "Isn't it true that the happiest creatures are those which are least artificial and most natural?" (72). When he stipulates that fools are to be envied, he does not mean the stupid, but the simple. While it not possible for a cognizant person to behave foolishly without injuring his spirit, for the same man to live simply is not only healthy, but preferable. This solves a difficult dilemma which faces those gifted with intelligence. Often, a little bit of wisdom (which is all any human can be had to say) is more dangerous than none at all. Awareness without understanding of the primal functioning of the universe could, if dwelt upon, drive a man into a cyclone of turbulent and circular thought. All such analysis does is confuse and frustrate the would-be sage, for he always reasons himself back to his starting point. "Those who have a foretaste of [wisdom]--and it comes to very few--experience something very like madness" (131). And what good would it be to understand completely, even if such a thing were possible? None whatsoever. Therefore let the truly wise man discard all wisdom, especially that labelled 'learning,' and pursue simplicity--not foolishness--as the highest of virtues.

Lamentations

I was right to dread reading this book. Although my Dad insists that the lament of the author is answered in the end by faith, such is clearly not the case. The book begins and ends with despair, which exactly mirrors my current state of mind. "They heard how I was groaning," I seem to hear myself say, "with no one to comfort me" (1:21). "Why have you forgotten [me] completely?" I ask (5:20).

It is only for the briefest of moments that the writer's wail is lifted long enough for him to realize, "The Lord will not reject forever" (3:31). For a mere seventeen verses of the book, hope shines through the desperate circumstances of Israel at that time, and the lesson is an interesting one. Although the recurring message is that the affliction of the nation is due to the fact that they "have transgressed and rebelled,"(3:42) the author stops feeling sorry for himself long enough to recognize that, even though sins must be repaid, once they are there is no need to reconsider them. The mercies of JEHOVAH "are new every morning," he insists (3:23). Once one has paid for his sins, there is a new moment granted, and new choices can be made to reach a different outcome. I don't happen to subscribe to the ideas of atonement and retribution for sins, but what the author of Lamentations suggests rings true: beat yourself up until midnight if you must, but once a new day arrives move on.

Sin-Leqi-Unninnĩ: Gilgamesh

There are two parts to this review, and they could not disagree with one another more. To begin with, I would like to voice my frustration with the choices of the editors, Gardner and Maier, who have managed to turn a vibrant, exotic story completely sterile. The edition I chose to read was so needlessly scholarly as to be nearly unreadable.

Fortunately, enough of the story's beauty and passion made its way through to spite the editors that I fell completely in love with it. I want to find (or create) a version which conflates the Babylonian, Sumerian and akkadian versions of the story to create a flowing narrative uninterrupted by missing fragments or editorial commentary.

Of course, the theme I found most personally relevant was that of brotherly love. The connection between Gilgamesh and Enkidu, the passion they felt for each other, was intoxicating. Likewise, I relate to Gilgamesh's quest for immortality, but do not agree with the editorial conclusion that he exhausted all means of escaping death and failed at each. Surely, his pursuit of love, conquest, offspring, worship and even his journey to the bottom of the abyss to retrieve a life-sustaining plant were all unsuccessful attempts to live indefinitely.

But if he can reach across the page and touch me, especially among general scholarly agreement that his story is based on actual events, does he not still live? Furthermore, are not his experiences reflective of Biblical stories--the flood, the life-giving plant stolen by a snake, etc.--and therefore practically still occurring?

Jeremiah

It is a real struggle to view this, or any revered religious book, with strict objectivity. In reading a novel or an essay, I expect the work to convince me of its merit. With the Bible, however, I choose to read on the assumption that the burden of proof lies on me, the reader. It is my task to sift through the archaic societal baggage, potential mistranslations and disjointed narative to walk away with a jewel of understanding.

There is good news and bad news, therefore, in the reading of Jeremiah. The good news: The book has a recognizable line, a consistent tone, and seems to have been written primarily by one individual with one message. All of this makes it inifinitely more readable than its forbearer, Isaiah. The bad news: It is infinitely more readable than Isaiah. Whereas Isaiah's mixed messages actually contributed to the meaning and interest of the book, Jeremiah asks far less from the reader in terms of thought, and correspondingly is less interesting.

Which frustrates me, a reader determined to make some sense out of it. Yes, JEHOVAH is mad at Israel, and yes, he is then even madder at Babylon, but very little is revealed in the delivery of these judgement messages about his nature or personality. In fact, judgment is the one consistently interesting topic in Jeremiah. Perhaps most intersting is the presentation of the writer's judgment against the God he is worshipping. He actually dares to present a case against God, and God deigns to listen. "You will be in the right, O JEHOVAH, when I lay charges against you;" he acknowledges, "but let me put my case to you" (12:1). JEHOVAH's answer does much to explain the seeming indecision with which he was painted in Jeremiah. "After I have plucked them up," he says of evildoers, "I will again have compassion on them, and I will bring them again to their heritage and to their land: (12:15). God compares humans to "The vessel he was making of clay [which] was spoiled in the potter's hand." Instead of discarding it, however, "he reworked it into another vessel, as seemed good to him"(18:4). The judgment of God is thorough; "JEHOVAH test[s] the mind and search[es] the heart, to give to them according to their ways" (17:10). Heart, mind and actions are all taken into account. This is appropriate, for God alone has the perspective that comes with physical expansiveness. "Who can hide in secret places?" he asks, "Do I not fill heaven and Earth?" (23:23). But his judgment is also fluid; fate is always in the hands of the judged.

Which is not to say that God is indecisive, as seemed to be the case in Isaiah. He acts with great pith and moment, if not absolute finality. It is significant that each prophetic utterance begins with the phrase, "The word of JEHOVAH came to me, saying . . ." or some variation thereof. It is the word of God, his very speaking, which contains his power and through which he levels nations. Repeatedly, God's judgment is expressed in terms of vocalization: "JEHOVAH will roar from on high, and from his holy habitation utter his voice" (25:30). And, perhaps more significantly, the power of God's word is a negotiable document; it is transferrable. "Now I have put my words in your mouth. See, today I appoint you over nations and kingdoms, to pluck up and to pull down, to destroy and to overthrow, to build and to plant" (1:9-10). It is, therefore, not an act of scholarly ingenuousness to approach so-called holy books with a certain level of reverence and an assumption of value. The word of God--in any of its forms--is not only a thunder, but an electric current which runs through the spirit and activates it in ways human authors can only reflect, not capture.

Alexander Pushkin: Eugene Onegin

I can think of no other book that, while almost entirely free of plot and characterization, nonetheless manages to be an enjoyable and useful read. Pushkin skeletonizes his characters to the point where one cannot help but assume that he is making a point. They are more figurines than people, and by the same token the story itself is nothing more than a series of frequently and lengthily interrupted brief episodes--hardly enough to qualify as a plot. To summarize, Eugene refuses Tatyana and kills his friend Lensky. Years later, it is Tatyana's turn to refuse Eugene. That's it, the sum total.

What makes Eugene Onegin such a worthwhile project is the commentary of the Narrator, the only fully developed character in the work. Pushkin's narrator hovers aloofly over the story, more interested in talking about himself than about any of the characters. It is almost as if Pushkin is drawing a parallel between his narrator and the moon, who also dispassionately observes the goings-on at strategic places throughout the novel, as in 6.II:

"Only Tatyana does not sleep,
but at the window, in the splendid
radiance of Dian, sits in pain
and looks out on the darkened plain."

The narrator is either a renaissance man or a dilletante, and drops names with a heaviness that informs the reader of his concern with their impression of him. He talks far more about his life and opinions than anyones else's, and his expostulatory intrusions into the story are enough to make William Thackeray seem detached and aloof. As he refers to himself, he is "the sober head, detesting each / human reaction, every speech / as the translation of our being . . ." (4.LI).

Wherein lies the power of the (quasi) novel. Pushkin's removal from his characters--even though he claims personal ownership of them--gives him free rein to make commentary on their choices as types, rather than as individuals. Tatyana is a typical starry-eyed maiden, and Pushkin's authorial advice to her is really directed at the reader:

"Don't let a ghost be your bear-leader,
don't waste your efforts on the air.
Just let yourself be your whole care,
your loved one, honorable reader!" (4.XXII)

Pushkin's disdain for all forms of affectation, both from the disenfranchised poet and the society Grand Dame, serves as a cautionary tale. Tatyana's and Lensky's passionate romanticism lead to heartbreak and/or death. And Onegin's capricious life of leisure offers no better. The key to fulfillment lies in truth to one's own self. And concern for one's image--even an affected disconcern for one's image--is iron pyrite.