Mathieu Ricard: Why Meditate?

It seems enough to say that my Dad gave me this book. As could be inferred from that statement, it has little to recommend it.

Useless though the book is, however, reading it served to remind me that January is an excellent time to give my personal meditation practice a shot in the arm. In 2010, I have been meditating along the lines of Ernest Holmes' model, but I cannot say that I have put much effort into it or been very consistent.

Since reading Ricard's book, on the other hand, I have managed to meditate--fruitfully, I might add--every day. I guess it did its job after all.

Aleksandr Ostrovsky: The Storm

In the preface to this edition (Bibliobazaar, for those interested), the editor makes two comments, either of which would have sufficed to lower my expectations for this play. Firstly, she or he (identified only as E.G. for some reason) identifies Ostrovsky as " . . . the greatest of the Russian dramatists." On what authority is this ludicrous statement made? What makes Ostrovsky (largely unknown outside of Russia) better than Chekov or Gorki? Ridiculous. Secondly, "All the reproach that lives for us in the word theatrical is worlds removed from 'The Storm'. . . people who like 'farcical comedy' and social melodrama, and 'musical sketches' will find 'The Storm' deep, forbidding and gloomy." Of course, I am one of those people, so I didn't expect much to like this play.

I was not wrong, but my distaste for it did not arise from the editor's expected causes. For one thing, it was indeed gloomy, but not particularly deep. In fact, in a play where the heroine hurls herself to her death after her affair is discovered, the above assertion that the play is not theatrical seems patently absurd. Rather than overly dramatic, I found the play too simple for my taste. The plot is uninventive, and the characters uninteresting. This first item from the sixth year of Ward's Lifetime of Reading has been a disappointment, but he fails me so rarely, and plays take so little time to read, that I forgive him.

Doris Lessing: The Cleft

LOL I knew Lessing was a feminist when I picked up this book, so I really should have guessed the subject from the title. Still, in spite of basically being about pussies and how men are stupid, but women are stupid for liking them, it was a fun book. The structure kept it from becoming didactic, and Lessing has a way with narrative. If there is something hidden in these few pages, I suspect that the clue lies in the narrator's reference to Artemis and Diana as two different gods, even though that has no saliency for me. The story is clearly set in Rome, so why would he even mention Diana? There is something here that is occurring to me, even as I write it down, about how our modern myths are just more mature versions of older ones--including the myth of where men and women came from. I bet, if I were a feminist critic instead of merely a personal one, I would take that ball and run with it.

Won H. Kim: Water of Life, A Cure for our Bodies

Results don't lie. If I read this book in a vacuum, I would have discounted it as so-called quack science. It is written and organized in such a way that the science behind it seems fuzzy at best, and even wishful at times. Part of this may be due to translation, but surely not all of it.

However, I did not read it in a vacuum. The author's daughter is a very close friend of mine, and her story plays a large part in the book itself. The seemingly ridiculous health claims made in the book, about how her need for troublesome and ineffective hormone supplements was nearly eliminated by mere water, are not exaggerated in the least. Crystal really has been taking specially treated water instead of medicine for years.

Which is the only reason I don't laugh at the later parts of the book, where the science gets even fuzzier, and the claims even more outlandish. Could it be true? Can we really be cured of deadly diseases so easily? The fact that Crystal's Dad is under investigation for his claims strengthens his credibility, rather than weakening it. Of course such discoveries would come under attack. At any rate, I am at least half convinced that what he describes is true, and am willing to at least consider the possibility of the other half--and believe me, it's pretty strange. . .

Romans II

9:1 Paul seems more to be convincing himself than his audience

9:2-5 What an interesting source of anguish. He almost wishes he didn't know the truth so as not to be alienated from his own people.

9:9 but he justifies it by claiming that Christians are the real holders of Abraham's legacy.

9:14-16 Paul takes this as an example of God's justice, but it certainly seems to be otherwise. If God's mercy is arbitrary, as was his selection of Jacob over Esau, what could be less just?

9:17 and here he invokes another example, but weakens his point. Surely god set Pharoah up, hardening his heart just to make a point. Was this just?

9:20 and the only answer that can be made, "well, his ways are a mystery" is utterly unsatisfactory.

9:23 it is well and good that god should use the objects of wrath to make known the riches of mercy--unless you happen to be one of those objects of wrath, in which case it is bound to seem unfair.

9:33 and here god has said with his own voice that he purposefully set some up to take a fall.

This whole chapter has left me feeling quite melancholy. If one is to believe the Bible at all, this book, but especially the Hebrew Scriptures, then I am most certainly one of those "objects of wrath that are made for destruction." I am by Biblical standards, quite flawed. The funny thing is, so was Paul. What is the difference? Why has he been "saved" and I have not?

10:1 and what good are Paul's prayers that so and so be saved, if god's decision on these matters is arbitrary and irreversible?

10:3 and he seems to be talking about the Nation of Israel as a whole here--no wonder he is in such anguish writing these words. It is his own people that have been set aside for destruction.

10:13 and yet, is this all that is necessary? If so, Paul is contradicting himself rather seriously . . . of course, his theology is sound if one applies only to the specific case of Israelites who have heard the word of Christ. For the rest of us, though, what application is to be made of these words? We have neither law nor faith by which to be saved? We have not been born into law, like Israel, nor have we been called to faith, for, as Paul describes in ch.9, this call is arbitrary. Paul is not addressing such cases here, of course, but if the theology is sound, then how can it fit?

11:1 It is telling that Paul cannot help but refer to the Israelites as "God's People", even though he well knows that the appellation no longer really fits.

11:4 In what sense did Go keep these 7,000 for himself? Did he actively intervene in their exercise of free choice? Is this what we are calling, "Grace"?

11:7 More and more, this book takes on the flavor of a convulsing dialectic, one that may never reach synthesis. When Paul asks, "What then?" it doesn't seem rhetorical anymore. He seems to realize that he has reasoned himself into a corner, and doesn't know what's next.

11:11 A terrible proposition: that the Gentiles are God's backup date, intended to make Israel jealous.

11:16 This metaphor takes some of the sting out of that though. Nicely played. The question is, in the metaphor what is the root? Israel, or God?

11:25 And what is that "full number"? Does that mean that a limited number of Gentiles can be saved?

11:26 Is all Israel intended for salvation in the sense that Gentiles will fill the empty places, and so the number will be unchanged, or the entrance of Gentiles will inspire the nation as a whole to repentance (whereupon Paul seems to thing the Gentiles would become irrelevant)?

11:28-32 Okay it's about to get really twisted; let's see if I can make sense of Paul's reasoning here: The Jews are still elect, but were disobedient so the Gentiles have received mercy. What is not clear is in v.31 how the mercy shown to the Gentiles opens mercy up to the repentant Jews. I suppose the connection must be made to v.23 where branches that have been cut off can be grafted back on--in this sens the mercy of the grafting process is made possible for the Jews after is has been made necessary for the Gentiles.

11:33 Did Paul just give up understanding this muddle? This wasn't even the worst one; I thought I untied it rather nicely above.

12:3 "According to the measure of faith that God has assigned" is an interesting phrase. Is Paul indicating that, as grace is in ch.11, so faith is portioned out administratively?

12:6 But Paul makes that sound like such a good thing: very ecumenical. Even just being cheerful is a gift of spirit--kind of like, "Well, she has a great personality. . ."

12:16 The only one in this list of usual exhortations that caught my eye: "Do not claim to be wiser than you are" as opposed to "Do not claim to be wiser than another". This makes me giggle inside.

12:19 I like this expression: "Leave room for the wrath of God". Don't avenge yourselves, not because it is wrong, but because if you avenge yourselves then God won't do it.

13:1 This certainly seems to be an untenable argument--that no authority exists that God has not instituted. Surely Paul realizes that it is a ridiculous proposition; could he be covering his ass here? Paul asserts that the governmental authorities are no impediment to good, which is manifestly and immediately disprovable.

In all, this chapter is really nice though. Sweet, poetic, and meaningful.

14:15 Paul takes a bold step here, one that elevates this chapter from mere proverbs to real theology. He takes aim here, not at flawed ideas, but at the stony, proud hearts of mankind, who insist on their "rights" and especially on being "right". It is the natural path of any religion, as it develops, to begin with a focus on righteousness, and end up in a pit of rightness. What Paul proposes here is revolutionary: let yourself be wrong--not wronged, but actually be wrong--for the sake of your brother. That may be a gift more subtle and more profound than giving one's life.

15:1 and doing so, don't clap yourself on the back either. The noble thing that Paul proposes is to let yourself be wrong, and let your brother whom you know to be wrong--albeit harmlessly--think himself right. So difficult . . .

15:17 Rather an unorthodox thing to dwell on for half a chapter . . .

15:27 another untenable position--surely meant more with a smirk than as actual theology.

16:1 this chapter reads like a postscript, or a list of attachments.

16:22 This Tertius is a potentially fascinating character. I wonder what else is known about him. Seems to be a psuedonym, especially when considering that he calls his bother Quartus.

Joseph Conrad: Under Western Eyes

"Speech has been given to us for the purpose of concealing our thoughts." (136)

It takes Conrad a while, but with this quote he reveals his purpose, much like he did in The Secret Agent. On the surface, this is yet another spy novel, but underneath is the painful thesis that people never really know one another, especially those separated by culture on top of our already insurmountable isolation. I have treated this theme already in the aforementioned book of Conrad's, so why not touch on a more personal application of this idea, one to which I am beginning to subscribe . . .

Let's call this fellow Jay. Why not? That's what he calls himself, and the fact that it is not his real name should already be revealing. Jay is a Korean man who has lived in the United States for 15 years, and speaks nearly perfect English. Jay and I have remarkably similar values and religious beliefs--startlingly so. We also share several interests, not the least of which are opera and cuddling. On top of these overlapping features, he also has a powerful set of relationship skills, with which I continue to be impressed. In short, Jay and I should be able to communicate well, as well as can be expected of any two people, let alone two people of different nationalities.

Be we do not. Even in flawless English, I find that our messages are muddied somehow, misinterpreted and transformed into something offensive. Conrad would not be surprised, of course, so why should I be? I already know that one never knows another, not measurably, yet I find myself startled each time. To avoid wallowing, let me conclude by saying that it is a source of wonder and fear that, in each mind that passes my way, there is an entire universe every bit as strange and complicated as the one in my own mind, and it would take a lifetime to understand, even I did have access to it. Which I do not.

Albert Camus: The Fall

I can think of no better endorsement of this novelette than to announce that I have found the epigraph for my memoir:

"But what do I care? Don't all lies eventually lead to the truth? And don't all stories, true or false, tend toward the same conclusion? . . . Sometimes it is easier to see clearly into the liar than into the man who tells the truth. Truth, like light, blinds. Falsehood, on the contrary, is a beautiful twlight that enhances every object. Well, take it how you like, I was named Pope in a prison camp" (340,41).

Aside from being a riveting panegyric thinly disguised as a narrative, this book has one other distinguishing feature: it is the only fiction work I can think of that is written in the second person. The possibilities that such a format offers opened before me as I read it, and they are considerable. It is strange that more authors don't make use of it--only Browning even toyed with it that I know of. Even here, Conrad only scratches the surface of the possibilities. So, I shall take more than Conrad's words for my memoir. I shall write it, at least partly, in the second person. It was never going to get published anyway--maybe not even written.

Albert Camus: The Plague

As strong is this book, it could stand on its on simply on its surface merit. That is to say, a riveting if morbid account of the spread of Bubonic Plague through a small town in Africa. The characterization and pacing are especially strong, and the work is a refined piece of literature. So strong, in fact, that it is tempting to leave it there and move on.

Which may be why Camus chose to tip his hand in the epigraph and encourage the reader to look a little closer:

"It is as reasonable to represent one kind of imprisonment by another, as it is to represent anything that really exists by what which exists not!" ~ Daniel Defoe

Thus does Camus to declare his ambition to write more than a flawless narrative, and dive into an allegorical representation. Simply replace "imprisonment" in Defoe's words with "plague," and you have nearly unraveled Camus' meaning.

But the question remains, for what sort of plague is his literal plague a metaphor? It is pretty evident from his focus throughout that he means to represent the fatal separation of all mankind from each other, for it is that psychological aspect of the event that he treats, almost to the exclusion of all others. The word "isolation" is ubiquitous, clearly not due to Camus' limited lexicon.

And it is revealed over the course of the story that the plague does not cause the isolation; it simply reveals an isolation that already existed in the lives of all. The conscience of the story, Tarrou, remarks, "everyone's always cut off from everyone else", not as a result of the plague, but of their consciences (172). Later, this same character cements the connection between plague and isolation in his final diatribe, as he uses "plague" to describe his entire life, irrespective of the literal disease. "I, anyhow, had had plague through all those long years," he observes, recounting his life. "What does that mean--'plague'--just life. No more than that" (222, 270).

And so it is in Camus' world. Men are incurably isolated from one another--not by choice, but from birth. Those to whom we think we are connected, with whom we experience the illusion of intimacy, are always separated from us. We never truly know another, and sadly, there is some truth in what he proposes. I, for one, take Woolf's view that we are indeed leaves floating blinding in a stream, but that we occasionally, in blessed moments, manage to bump into each other (A Room of One's Own).

Hermann hesse: The Glass Bead Game

This book certainly lends itself to literary analysis. I could write paper upon paper about it, never repeating myself, about the parallels between Ludi's life and his fictional autobiographies, about the homosexual undercurrent, about the underdevelopment of female characters, especially about the books dazzling ending. But I shall not.

As tempting as it is to grind out one of those sort of essays, it is even more tempting to make some unlooked for connections between the book and other recent projects of mine. There is a fortuitous and obscure common thread between this novel, Doctor Zhivago, and the letters of Pliny the Younger, very nearly all of my recent literary consumption. The thread is The Plight of the Amateur Poet. Doesn't that have a nice ring to it? I'm sure the theme has not been touched, and I would do it justice. But I shall not.

Instead, I am compelled to write that least reputable of literary analyses, the personal reaction. As dense as The Glass Bead Game is with content, and as ripe as it is for analysis, I am holding a personal grief which the book has brought to a boil. It concerns Robert, also technically a contributor to this blog, but I think there is little danger of his reading it. If he does happen upon it, I think that itself an indicator that he might be feeling similarly.

The eponymous game of Hesse's is not a game at all, of course. This is true not only in the sense that it is a metaphor, but also that it is a way of thinking--not a competition. The player connects and orders symbols to create a systematic and harmonius train of thought. The trick lies in the fact that each symbol has sundried meanings, perhaps a musical theme of Bach's alongside a correlating astronomical equation, a passage of Homeric Latin, and perhaps a mathematical theorem. The idea is that all fields of thought are connected, and what is true for music is true for Astronomy, literature and indeed all of reality. The protagonist's contention is that each "game" points to a kernel of truth at the center of all reality, and spends the book searching for . . . well, that's another essay.

It is this very game that Robert and I used to play, connecting his ideas about movies or science to mine about philosophy or literature, and often vice versa. These are easily the most stimulating interactions I've ever had with another human, and I miss them. It's a pity that our paths have forked--or rather that such an amazing interchange has disappeared along with the very love that it fertilized. Is there a way for me to play the glass bead game again? with Robert or with someone else?

Pliny Secundus: Letters

As is sometimes the case, I have something to say about this particular edition of Pliny's Letters before I ever touch the content of them. Rare as it is that I read a book twice, I naturally purchased the cheapest version available online, in this case one from General Books. When it arrived I was horrified by the quality of the editing. This is not to say only that there were typos, a fault of which even Oxford University Press is guilty as well, but that the formatting and indentation made the text entirely unintelligible at points. Never had I seen a text so savagely manhandled at an editor's hand. I naturally looked to the frontispiece to see who was responsible for such sacrilege. My indignation was almost instantly transformed into wonder. I quote in part:

"We automated the typing, proof reading and design of this book using Optical Character Recognition software on a scanned copy of the original rare book. That allowed us to keep your cost as low as possible . . . If you would prefer that we manually type, proofread and deisgn your book so that it's perfect, we are happy to do that. Simply contact us via our website for the cost."

Such an interesting product, and so diplomatically defended.

Now to the meat of the matter. Pliny's epistles are easily divided into two parts. The first consists mostly of commendations to his friends, descriptions of his estates, and political gossip. In his personal letters, Pliny was seemingly obsessed with his eternal fame, and discussed it at length with his friend and peer Tacitus. It must have been a source of deep pain for a man so obsessed with his legacy to have been denied offspring--and a letter to his Grandfather in law describing his beloved wife's miscarriage is indeed heartbreaking. No doubt to a historian, these are precious jewels. To me, they were tedious. No doubt to his friends they were charmingly witty, and the flavor of his wit could be discerned, but posterity could have wished that they be more instructive--or at least epigrammatic.

The second part of his letters is even more grating, and possibly thereby more instructive. In his personal correspondence, Pliny always seemed to be smirking a bit at either his reader or his topic. In the second part of his letters, which consist entirely of letters to and from the Emperor Trajan, Pliny is servile--even mewling--needy and passive-aggressive. If I were Trajan, I would not have been able to stomach reading this nonsense, except of course for the fact that all correspondence to me would probably be of that flavor. Not knowing anything about other official documents of the time, I built a narrative in my mind wherein Pliny was desperate for the approval of Trajan for personal, rather than political reasons. Orphaned early and raised by an Uncle who also died while he was young--under heroic circumstances at the eruption of Pompeii, by the way--Pliny may well have yearned for something of a father figure. The tone of his letters to his wife's grandfather might be seen to bear a trace of this desire.

It seems admissible therefore, from a readerly, though not from a scholarly viewpoint, to wonder if he did not come to think of Trajan in a paternal capacity. We often take such a needy, whiny tone with those whose approval we most desire.

Richard Adams: Watership Down

The peril of allegory is manifestly its tendency to be obvious. Animal Farm, charming though it is, is a great example of this. The animals are all clear archetypes, and their activities have clear human parallels, and everybody gets a kick out of being in on a big open joke. It's funny, but not that stimulating. And don't even mention Pilgrim's Progress . . .

Watership Down manages to avoid this pitfall, which makes it a far more enjoyable read. The activities of the rabbits never feel too human, and the animals are always themselves, never mere masks for human characteristics. An allegorical reading is clearly possible, even intended, but any such interpretations are bound to be less than watertight.

I would love the opportunity to teach kids who can read again. This would be must--if they could handle the vocabulary. I could kill the Mock Epic (I hate "The Rape of the Lock") and Allegory with one stone, and think of all the activities this would engender. Sigh. Where is A.J.K. when you need him?

George Eliot: The Mill on the Floss

I am agog; simply agog. I knew that this book was a special one when I couldn't put it down and tried to read it while walking (something that never ends well). I even went further, and tried to read it during my workout, holding it as I did sit-ups. Eliot succeeded as she never did in other books in creating true suspense; I was terrified for Maggie that she might choose Charles, completely believing that she could choose either path. So real and three-dimensional were Eliot's characters that I not only was invested in their choices, but really was unsure what their choices would be. I simply couldn't put it down, something that has been true of only one other book in my adult life: Ender's Game by Orson Scott Card.

Which was not the only similarity between my reactions to those two books. Ender's Game left me weeping longingly due to its resonance with my particular childhood. The Mill on the Floss, as I read the very last pages, left me not only weeping but wracked with sobs, gasping for purchase. I have never reacted that way to a book, and I have read many.

Perhaps it is a function of my current vulnerability, or the lovely scenery around me as I read it, or the happiness that comes with having smoked a few cigarettes, but to be sure it is largely attributable to Eliot's skill as a writer. She has always been amond my favorites, and on occasion has topped the list. In this instance, however, she has outdone herself. The Mill on the Floss is a book out of time, one that defies prediction in a way that her contemporaries would surely covet. Telling without being didactic, wise without being self-important, colorful and scenic without being florid, and touching without being pathetic. It is-and I do not say this lightly, as any follower (of which there are none, I am sure) of this blog will know--one of the best books ever written.

Boris Pasternak: Doctor Zhivago

This is the first novel in a while that I have allowed myself to simply enjoy, to--as Barthes would put it--be seduced by, to simply read and fall in love with. This is partly due to my frame of mind, I suppose. My mantra lately has been "this moment is just as beautiful as any there has ever been," by which I mean that each moment is possessed of infinite small beauties and happinesses, and he is a fool who fails to see them. This sentiment naturally put me in compliance with Pasternak's novel, which is almost more of a painting than a book, so seamlessly does one beautiful picture morph into and meld with the next.

The English Major is incorrigible, of course, and refuses to be entirely dormant, so I naturally have a dissertation's worth to say about theme, style and especially Pasternak's uniquely charming use of pathetic fallacy. I will limit myself, however, to the observation that each of the characters is chasing, in her or his own way, that elusive divine light for which we all search. For some, the light is found, for some not. For Yurii, most tragically, the light is found--in Lara, who seems to hold it within herself--and lost. He holds onto it only long enough to write it down, and then withers away for want of it. All of this is supported and elaborated upon with one beautiful passage after another, but I'll save it for grad school. Suffice it to say that I have been successfully "cruised" by Doctor Zhivago (thanks Barthes) and now need a cigarette.

BTD 16

Joseph Conrad: The Secret Agent

Early in this short novel, Conrad describes what, for lack of a more accurate term, we may call his protagonist as "constitutionally averse to every superfluous exertion" (9). As I continued to read, I seldom went a page without wishing that Conrad, or at least his narrator, had the same tendency. This book needed Strunk and White to take a chisel to it, and winnow it down by half. Let's select a random page and see if I can't find you a good example, shall we? Here's one from page 49:

He walked with the nerveless gait of a tramp going on, still going on, indifferent to rain or sun in a sinister detachment from the aspects of sky and earth. Chief inspector Heat, on the other hand, after watching him a while, stepped out with the purposeful briskness of a man disregarding indeed the inclemencies of the weather, but conscious of having an authorized mission on this earth and the moral support of his kind.

Belch. The passage, as a microcosm of the entire book, overflows with "superfluous exertion". This is only two sentences, mind you. Can't you see Mark Twain spinning in his grave, perhaps wishing he were a lathe upon which to shear down Conrad's pointlessly flowery tone?

Whatever the flaws of this particular book, however, Conrad is still canonical for a reason. Even in the midst of all this diarrhoea, he manages to reach a mental study that would have merited Dostoevsky's admiration. When he confines his love of detail solely to the inner workings of his characters, he shines. Just as his "superfluous effort" is in startling contrast to Mr. Verloc's hatred of the same, so does his conscientious probity of his characters' minds stand in contrast to Mrs. Verloc's "belief that things did not stand being looked into" (89). Now that I mention it, perhaps he needn't be chastised quite so rashly for his loquacity after all . . .
 

Francois Marie Arouet: Zadig and L'Ingenu

As fairly enjoyable as these two tales were, their chief interest to me was as reflections of that better known of Voltaire's works, Candide. Zadig, written at at the beginning of his career, and L'Ingenu, written at the end, create a sandwich of sorts, that I'm sure has been written about consistently. Unlike Candide, which seems to rotate around external circumstances, these two stories pivot on the title characters themselves. Where Candide is simpleminded, some might even say a caricature, both Zadig and Hercules, the so-called Ingenu, are noble, sophisticated, caricatures in their own way.

These relatively flat characters could cause one to assume that Voltaire is not in earnest, that the stories are cheeky or satirical--and this is the customary approach to Candide especially. My personal affection for Candide lies in my belief that Voltaire secretly meant it in earnest, that for all the scorn he heaped upon Pangloss, this really is the best of all possible worlds, and our only choice is to be content in it. With this perspective on Candide, it is only natural to wonder if the other two stand up to the same literal lens. In Zadig, Voltaire seems to earnestly believe that all is for the best, that whatever terrible thing happens there is some greater good behind it. By the time of Candide, he has clearly altered his view somewhat, but only insofar as to remove God from the equation. Where in Zadig we should accept the terrible in life because it leads to the good, in Candide we should accept it because there is no better alternative. This puts him on a rather cynical trajectory, and sure enough, by the time of L'Ingenu the terrible in life doesn't give rise to any particular philosophy, and the book ends with a flat thud where one has come to expect something rather more pithy--both in Voltaire, and in literature generally

Reiner Kunze: The Lovely Years

Many thanks, once again, to Philip Ward for setting me on the track of this remarkable author. This book possessed every virtue that I normally look for in a book--layered, metaliterary, resonant and epigrammatic, to name a few--and one that I don't normally look for, that of brevity. In form and texture, the book was very Joyceian. It's simply a collection of vignettes, some startlingly short, that serve to convey the feel of East Germany and Czechoslovakia during the cold war. Often, Kunze uses the perspective of a father observing the maturation of his daughter, and it is these scenes that feel like the center, the pivot of the book. He often returns to this character--which may or may not be the same father--as he treads the line between wanting the daughter to escape youth unscathed, and wanting her to think honestly about the political situation. the daughter, of course, chooses her own path as the father watches helplessly.

When not in this mode, Kunze often adopts the character of a publisher visiting Czechoslovakia as tensions over the partially East German invasion mount. Through him, Kunze introduces a string of obscure Czech poetry. At first I thought he might be pulling the Borgesian move of writing poems in the voice of a fictional writer, but research revealed that the writers were real, and this makes Kunze's choice decidedly more political than Borges'.

Peppered among these narratives are seemingly unconnected glimpses into the lives of others affected by Cold War politics in the countries of the Warsaw Pact. The narrator of these scenes usually is anonymous, which makes it only natural to hear them in Kunze's own voice. The arrangement of the stories is fluid, rhythmic, almost musical in its artistry.

Which brings us to the element which sets the book in an entirely different bracket. I always train my students to look for the things that don't fit, and trust the writer that they are often the keys to the entire book. Kunze does not disappoint. The scene "Organ Recital (Toccata and Fugue)" is set apart by its form-- the paragraphs line up on the left margin. This seemingly insignificant formatting choice cues the reader to look more deeply at this scene than at the others, and is rewarded for that inspection with he revelation that it is really almost an "Easter Wings" style shape poem, a pipe organ spread over four pages.

Although superficially prose, the refrain "all organs--" gives it a poetic rhythm that build as the clause is left dangling, setting in the mind like an unresolved chord. After wondering what the narrator is trying to say about "all organs" for three pages, the reader is rewarded with " . . . should all suddenly burst into sound, sweeping away the lies with which the air is so thick that those striving for honesty can scarcely breathe . . . at least one single time, at least one Wednesday evening" (70). The Lovely Years is that single time, the moment when all pipes of all organs, "those thirty feet tall, and with the highest those measured in inches" let loose a simultaneous blast, and clear the air--if only for an instant (69). The voices of The Lovely Years, window washers, teenagers, soldiers, fathers and others of all flavor, including of no flavor, roar out and "thunderously [dispel] the terror of the spirit" (70). A poignant message, and written with such musical artistry that one must be seduced by it.

Keith L. Pratt: Everlasting Flower

Perhaps I'm just burnt out on reading Korean history after this, my third in as many months. I normally read no history whatsoever, so this certainly represents a saturation bombing. Whatever the reason, I found little to remember about this book, compared to the other two. It felt perfunctory and lacking subtlety. Of the three, I definitely enjoyed Cumings' Korea's Place in the Sun the most, although it was also the lengthiest, and the least broad. Perhaps if I had read Everlasting Flower first, I would have enjoyed it more, but after the other two it just felt too fluffy.

The one element that I might have enjoyed if it were done in more detail was the series of photo essays, which were really just glamorized captions. They serviceably set a bit of context onto the narrative, but, like the rest of the book, felt lacking. I think it safe to say that I am done with Korean history for a while.

It's a Wonderful Life

Although they have little in common, I find myself comparing this movie to On the Waterfront in my mind. The latter became known for Brando's virtuoso performance, and the former for it's maudlin sentiment. Nonetheless, in my mind, it is Jimmy Stewart's performance that stands out in my mind, and Brando's pales in comparison. Heresy? Perhaps, but as with most of my heresies, I stand by it.

And, of course, I cried. The movie was beautiful, flawless and I do not wonder that it is so widely considered a classic, or that so many people never tire of it (again, in contrast to Waterfront). I felt a personal resonance (perhaps the source of my praise) with Stewart's character, for he is what I imagine my paternal grandfather to have been like. I did not know Henry Payne well, but this is exactly what I picture, down tot he raging outbursts. I found myself feeling a retroactive sympathy for him, as he was never much of a sympathetic character in life. Both for artistic and sentimental reasons, therefore, I would watch this movie again. I do that so rarely, that you may consider it my version of an Academy Award.

Next up: Sunset Boulevard!

Schindler's List

This movie, number 9 on AFI's list of 100 best American movies, made me think little about movie-making, and much about other things. As for it's place on the list, yes, I suppose I can agree with it. It's lovely at points, but merely serviceable in others, and occasionally lacks vision. It seems safe to say that its power comes largely from its topic and its startling treatment of that topic, rather than its masterfulness.

By which topic, I mean the single most important event of the twentieth century, the systematic mass murder of millions of people. Certainly there have been other genocides and mass murders--including that at Hiroshima, but none to my knowledge has been so mechanical, so calculating as what is commonly but incorrectly called The Holocaust. Any reflective human should take its mention as an opportunity to reflect on her or his own life. Is it really so astonishing? Or is it more astonishing for the ease with which it was perpetrated? Is it out of the realm of possibility to think that such a thing could happen again? By no means. Even the seemingly most liberal, evolved of nations are not immune to the power of group mentality. Even the seemingly most evolved humans are not immune. In Schindler's circumstnace, what would I have done? Would it have been to difficult? Would I have taken a stand? I would like to think so, but I am well aware of my ability to fall in with the thinking of my peers.

Were I to take a stand, and let's assume that I would, I am certain I would go about it differently. If the movie's portrayal is accurate (doubtful), Schindler's personality was ill-suited to the business of fighting. Emotional, impetuous, and occasionally silly, it is a wonder that he wasn't caught and executed long before doing any good. In my capacity as an armchair savior, I picture turning my heart completely off. So you want to rescue a particular person? Tough. One person is not more valuable than another; we are all God's children, of equal value in his eyes, and if would draw attention to our dangerous work, forget it. Mourn heartily. Also, no matter that you are uncomfortable. Suffer and live, or whine and die. Your choice.

The question is, would this work? In life, I care about people's welfare, not their feelings. I will do what is in the common interest, and think what you will. It's not pleasant. Perhaps I could learn a thing from Oskar Schindler. Can one do a large good and still worry about small kindnesses?

On The Waterfront

The natural conversation to come out of an analysis of the AFI's 100 greatest American movies is one about what makes a movie great--but the question is grammatically vague. Is the question what about a movie makes it great? Or what magical thing, in the creation of a movie, results in greatness, in legendary status?

In On the Waterfront, the answer to the first question is obvious. First, and most unanimously, is Brando's performance. It is not my favorite performance of his--which may be Streetcar or Guys and Dolls--but it is a believable and reflective one, with a much-deserved reputation. The answer to the second question, which might be more accurately phrased, "where did the greatness come from?", is clearly the director. Kazan brought sensitivity and subtlety to what could have easily been a maudlin melodrama. His hand is usually invisible, as it usually with directors whose charm lay in their subtlety, but it is the director alone that is responsible for the treatment of the scene where Brando reveals to Eva Marie Saint his role in her brother's death. The power of that scene all lay in the placement of the camera, the sound, the creative way that Kazan makes the audience an outsider to the entire thing. Brando has little power here.

The question, "What makes a movie great?" is only incompletely answered by Waterfront, however. Although there is greatness in a movie, I can't say that I consider it great, in the sense that AFI is meaning. If not an answer, though, that is at least part of an answer: if we don't quite know what makes a movie great--in either sense of the question--at least we know that the presence of greatness is not enough.