Monday, January 16, 2023

Ramón Gómez de la Serna: Las Proximas Greguerías hasta 600

 

Esas bombillas que se encienden y se apagan parecen castañuelas de luz.

These bulbs that flicker on and off seem to be castanets of light.

 

Todo el drama de algunos films es que la doncella se olvidó de cerrar las persianas y se vio todo desde la calle o desde el jardín.

The entire drama of some films is that the maiden forgot to close the blinds was seen by all from the street or the garden.

 

Los que van mucho al cine acaban teniendo un párpado nictitante.

Those who go o the cinema a lot end up having nictating membranes for eyelids.

 

El alabastro es tan carnal, que podría gastar camisa.

The alabaster is so fleshly that it could wear a shirt.

 

El murciélago está hecho con alambre y con piel de ratón.

The bat is made from wire and the skin of a rat.

 

Cuando con la pluma se hace un enredijo de líneas sale una masa encefálica.

When one makes a squiggle of lines with a pen, brain matter appears.

 

Los lirios crecen en bandada y vuelan de valle en valle.

The lilies grow in a flock, and fly from valley to valley.

El mono tiene su humorismo en el rabo.

The monkey’s humor is in its tail.

 

Optimista es el que toma judías con chorizo y no le pasa nada.

An otimist is one who eats beans with sausage, and nothing happens to him.

 

La eternidad envidia a lo mortal.

Eternity envies the mortal.

 

Trigonometría es andar por el más difícil de los alambres y el más peligroso de los trapecios.

Trigonometryy is walking the most difficult of tightropes, and the mos dangerous of trapezes.

 

La pulga hace guitarrista al perro.

The flea turns a guitarist into a dog.

 

Con el margen blanco y engomado que sobra a los sellos debían franquearse los anónimos.

We must seal anonymous letters with the blank margins and leftover paste of stamps.

 

El que grita en la conferencia: «¡Más fuerte, que no se oye!» no se sabe si es un saboteador, un sordo, o un admirador excesivo.

We don’t know if he who shouts, “Louder! I can’t hear!” at the conference is a saboteur, deaf, or a crazed fan.

 

El plátano es el único pez sin espinas.

The banana is the only fish without bones.

 

Los cementerios están llenos de panteones de los que «serieron los últimos».

Cemeteries are filled with the mausoleums of those who “laughed last.”

No se puede citar la ostra como modelo de aburrimiento,  porque siempre está muy entretenida esperando que le crezco una perla.

We can’t use the oyster as a model of boredom, for it is always fun waiting for a pearl to be formed.

 

El lector--como la mujer--ama más a quien le ha engañado más.

The read--like a woman--always loves they who deceive the the most.

 

El tiempo sabe a agua seca.

Time tastes like dry water.

 

El besugo parece haber salido del mar con el limón debajo del brazo.

The sea bream seems to have come out of the sea with a lemon under its arm.

 

--¿Por qué corren tanto las nubes al mediodía?

--Porque van a su casa a comer.

--Why do the clouds run so at noon?

--Because they’re going home to eat.

 

El gran conflicto medicinal es cuando no se sabe si esas píldoras son para tomadas antes o después de comer.

The greatest conflict in medicine is when one doesn’t know whether to take those pills before or after eating.

 

Al prender el fotógrafo el magnesio, el humo que asciende parece la subida al cielo del alma inmortalizada en la fotografia.

When to photographer lights the magnesium, the rising smoke seems to be the rising of the immortal soul lin the photograph to the heavens.

 

El poeta puede decir: «El pájaro que canta quisiera saber de quién es el cielo.»

The poet can say, The singing bird would like to know to whom the heavens belong.

 

Pañuelo en el violín, violín de peluquería.

Handkerchief in the violin, violin of a hairdresser.

 

El limpiabotas nos ofrece catafalco para los zapatos.

The shoe shiner offers us a bier for our shoes.

 

La frase que más reúne la vida y la muerte es la de: «¡Estoy hecho polvo!»

The phrase that best unites life and death is, I am worn to dust.

 

Era tan susceptible que creía que se reían de él las dentaduras postizas de los escaparates.

It would be as gullible as believing the dentures in the shop window were laughing at you.

 

El látigo traza en el aire la rúbica del tirano.

The whip traces the tyrants signature in the air.

 

El verdugo es igual al antropófago: los dos matan para comer.

The executioner is the same as the cannibal: both kill to eat.

 

«¿En la muerte se sueña?»: he aquí el terrible problema.

Does one dream in death? Herein lies a terrible problem.

 

Un caballo blanco desnudo de arreos parece estar ya en la explanada de la muerte.

A white horse without a harness seems still to be in the esplanade of death.

 

Es bonito ese gesto con que la mujer, cuando enhebra la aguja, le retuerce el bigote al hilo.

Its beautiful, that gesture of a woman threading a needle, twisting the moustache into a point.

Hay una paloma extraviada que se creyó paloma mensajera y a mitad de camino se dio cuenta de que se había equivocado.

There is a lost dove that thinks itself a homing pigeon and, midway on its path, realizes that it has made a mistake.

 

El estornudo es la interjección del silencio.

The sneeze is the interjection of silence.

 

La mariposa, posándose en todas las flores, es la mecanógrafa del jardín.

The butterfly, posing on each of the flowers, is the typographer of the garden.

 

En las órbitas de la calavera se ocultan los ratones de la muerte.

In the eye sockets of the skull, the mice of death hide themselves.

 

Dormía con la boca abierta como si fuera un paleto de los sueños.

He slept with an open mouth, as if a redneck of dreamland.

 

El murciélago hace parpadear la luz de atardecer.

The bat makes the light of dusk flicker.

 

Los ángeles de la guarda de los músicos debían pasarles las hojas de las partituras.

The guardian angels of musicians have to turn the pages of the music.

 

Las golondrinas abren las hojas del libro de la tarde como incesatnes cortapapeles que nos han traído de Alejandria.

The swallows open the pages of the book of the afternoon like unending paper knives brought to us from Alexandria.

 

El rico y el pobre hacen un gesto similar los dos, como si sacaran la cartera; pero ¡con qué diferente significado, sin embargo!

The rich and the poor both make a similar gesture, as if to take out their wallet, but with what different meaning!

 

Siempre que nos enfurruñamos nos sale un pelo en el entrecejo.

When we sulk, we leave a hair in the middle of our brow.

 

Los pasodobles debían tener dos autores.

The pasodoble needs two authors.

 

Si el ascensor no estuviese prendido a su cordón umbilical, se evadiría de la casa.

If the elevator was not connected to its umbilical cord, it would leave its house.

 

La señal más verídica del buen tiempo es ver a un alemán con un divieso en la nuca.

The surest sign of a good time is to see a German with a blister on the nape of his neck.

 

Lo más tierno del cuarto de toilette es ver al peine cardado en el cepillo.

The tenderest thing in the powder room is seeing a comb nestled on a brush.

 

Terrible día ese al que se podría llamar «el día de la inauguración de la diabetes».

Such a terrible day that one could call it The first day of diabetes.

 

El pan duro es como un fósil recién nacido.

Hard bread is like a recently born fossil.

 

El paraguas puesto a secar abierto en el suelo parece una tortuga de luto.

The umbrella set to dry on the floor looks like a tortoise in mourning.

 

Las hojas que caen son participaciones que el otoño nos regala para su rifa.

The falling leavaes are tickets the autumn gives us for its lottery.

 

El fotógrafo de jardin toma aspecto de toro bravo cuando se mete debajo del paño negro y parece embestir con el unicornio del objetivo.  Un día sucederá que el matador de toros aproveche ese momento y se tire el lance de matarle a bastón.

The photographer under his black cloth looks like a bull charging the unicorn of his objective.  One day a matador might take advantage of this moment to try and throw his cane to kill him.

 

Esas dos letras de la máquina de escribir que se enlazan y se montan en el aire revelan que se aman.

Those two letters on the typewriter that entwine and mount each other in the air reveal that they love each other.

 

Al fruncir el entrecejo parece que nos ponemos los lentes invisibles de la perscpicacia y de la gravedad.

To furrow ones brows seems like wearing the invisible glasses of insight and gravity.

 

El cabello con la cabeza baja mientras pace parece estar leyendo el paisaje como un corto de vista.

The horse with its head down grazing looks like it is reading the landscape while shortsighted.

 

La ñ dice adiós con su pañuelo a los niños y a los ñoños.

The ñ bids farewell to the children and dull-witted with its handkerchief.

 

--¿Los peces lloran?

--Los peces no necesitan llorar, porque el mar es pura y salada lágrima.

Do fish cry

Fish do not need to cry, for the ocean is already a perfect, salty tear.

 

La ü con diéresis es como la letra malabarista del abecedario.

The ü with its dieresis is like the juggler of the alphabet.

 

El termómetro parece haber sido hecho con la mala intención de que no veamos la línea de la temperatura. ¡Qué bromista!

The thermometer seems to have been made with the bad intention of not letting us see the line of the temperature.  What a jokester!

 

 Las costillas nos sirven para situar los dolores.  «Me duele entre ésta y ésta.»

Ribs let us locate our pain.  It hurts between here and here.

 

Esos puros que van dentro de un estuche de celuloide son como cepillos de dientes.

Those cigars that come in celluloid cases are like toothbrushes.

 

 La bata de baño hace frailes a las mujeres, ¡pero en seguida cuelgan los hábitos!

The bathrobe turns women into monks.  But they immediately hang up their habits!

 

Cuando recogemos el guante caído, damos la mano a la muerte.

When we pick up a fallen glove, we give our hand to death.

 

No sé por qué la I mayúscula ha de quedarse sin su punto.

I dont know why the capital I had to leave itself without its dot.

 

 Las camelias son condecoraciones más que flores.

Camelias are more decorations than they are flowers.

 

 

 El pingüino, con la servilleta puesta, está esperando la hora de la sopa del Juicio Final en las playas antárticas.

The penguin, with its napkin ready, is waiting for the the hour of the soup pf the final judgement on Antarctic beaches.

 

Los arcos de triunfo son elefantes petrificados.

Triumphal arches are petrified elephants

 

Lo peor de los médicos es que le miran a uno como si uno no fuera uno mismo.

The worst thing about doctors is that they look at you as if you were not yourself.

 

Los barcos llevan la chimenea ladeada, como si se hubiesen puesto la chistera a lo chulo.

Ships carry their smokestacks tilted to the side, as if wearing a top hat set at a jaunty angle.

 

El que aprende qué hora es las «diecinueve y cuarenta y tres» puede viajar lo que se le antoje.

He who learns what time 19 and 14 and 3 is can travel wherever he wants.

 

Hay nubes que llevan una carta urgente y otras que van a la batalla de las Termópilas sin saber que llegan tarde.

Some clouds bring an urgent message, and others arrive at the battle of Thermopylae without realizing they are late.

 

El desierto se peina con peine de viento; la playa, con peine de agua.

The desert combs its hair with the wind; the beach, with the water.

 

Las gallinas picotean el suelo como si comiesen pedazos de estrellas que cayeran del cielo.

Hens pick at the ground as if eating pieces of stars fallen from the sky.

 

Que pequeño era el tiempo en su reloj de pulsera, que nunca tenía tiempo para nada.

The times on ones wristwatch are so tiny that one will never have time for anything.

 

Las golondrinas entrecomillan el cielo.

The swallows put the sky in quotation marks.

 

La luna tiene un deseo voraz de gastar monóculo, y ya ha pensado en el anillo de Saturno, que ella no sabe que la iba a venir grande.

The moon has a voracious desire to use a monocle, and has thought of Saturns ring, that she doesnt know it was going to be too big.

 

Sillas de tubo metálico; sillas para esqueletos.

Chairs of metal tubes: chairs for skeletons.

 

El que pide un vaso de agua en las visitas es un conferenciante fracasado.

He who asks for a glass of water when he visits is a failed conference speaker.

 

Los atriles están indignados por cómo los maltrata con la batuta el director de orquestra.

Podiums are indignant at the mistreatment they get from the conductors baton.

 

Todos los días del Limbo son domingo.

Every day in Limbo is Sunday.

 

Un automóvil pintado blanco no es un automóvil, es un curato de baño.

An automobile painted white is not an automobile, but a bathroom.

 

Los que matan a una mujer y después se suicidan debían variar el sistema: suicidarse antes y matarla después.

Those who kill a woman and the themselves need to vary their technique: first kill themselves, and then the woman after.

 

No hay nada que enfrié más las manos que el saber que no hemos olvidado los guantes.

There is nothing that freezes the hands more than knowing you have forgotten your gloves.

 

El camello es el animal más orgulloso de la creación, orgulloso hasta de su joroba.

The camel is the most arrogant animal in all of creation, proud even of its hump.

Toda gota nace para estalactita, pero cae sólo como mortal gota.

All drops are born to be a stalagtite,  but fall only as a fatal drop.

 

Las conchas de las playas son los restos de los arroces que se come Neptuno.

Seashells on the beach are the husks of the rice that Neptune has eaten.

 

El Creador guarda las llaves do todos los ombligos.

The Creator holds the keys to all navels.

 

Hay los escritores de títulos largos, y los de títulos cortos.  Los que titulan una cosa Él, y los que la titulan El hombre que sacaba el reloj y después comía sentado.

There are writers who use long titles, and those who use short ones.  Those who title something He and those title it The man who took out his watch and then sat down to eat.

 

No conviene pintar ya a las brujas montadas en una de aquellas escobas ordinarias que, generalmente, eran escobas que habían barrido mucho.  Las brujas modernas deben ser representadas sobre una escoba aviónica, con el volante de la dirección en el mango y la hélice al final.

Its not advisable to these days to paint witches riding on one of those brooms which, generally, have swept a lot.  Modern witches should be depicted on a avionic broom, with a steering wheel on the handle and a propeller in the rear.

 

La gasolina es el incienso de la civilización.

Gasoline is the incense of civilization.

 

Tenía orejas ideales para sostener el lápiz, y por eso hubo que dedicarle al comercio.

He had ears perfect for holding a pencil, and for that reason had to dedicate himself to commerce.

 

El que lleva su taza para repetir es como un pobre que pide con platillo.

He who brings his cup for a refill is like a beggar with a platter.

 

 

Los animales de la selva, cuando hablan de los que están en los parques zoológicos, los llaman, despectivamente, «burócratas».

The animals of the forest, when they speak of those in zoos, call them desparagingly, burueacrats.

 

Al pintarse los labios con la barra ce carmín parecía encerrar entre paréntesis un beso posible.

To pant ones lips is to enclose a possible kiss in parenthesis.

 

Los pájaros de pico largo parece que están fumando el cigarro de su pico.

Birds with a long beak seem to be smoking it like a cigarette.

 

El bebedor con paja se va tornando pájaro, y hay un momento a últimos de verano en que ya lo es realmente.

The drinker with a straw has turned into a bird, and there is a moment at the end of summer when that becomes reality.

 

Hay unos peces flechas en el mar que señalan a los grandes peces el camino que deben seguir.

There are arrow fish in the sea that signal to the larger fish which way to go.

 

El defecto de los pisos interiores es que los cuchillos están siempre sin filo, porque no se puede llamar al afilador que pasa.

The problem with interior floors is that the knives (struts) are always dull because they cannot call out to the sharpener passing by.

 

Era una noche con medias de seda negra.

It was a night with black silk stockings on.

 

Las chimeneas eran el confesionario del corazón de las mujeres; pero ahora, con los radioadores, no se confiesan nunca.

Chimneys were the confessionals of women, but nowadays, with radiators, they never go to confessional.

Sunday, January 01, 2023

Mo Yan: Shifu, You'll Do Anything for a Laugh

 I am reminded of a moment in the otherwise forgettable movie Art School Confidential.  The center of the narrative is jealous of the attention being given to another artist, one who produces startling simple and childish pictures that scarcely seem to be pictures, let alone Art.  Another character gives him the paraphrased explanation, "Yes, your work is good, but this other guy--it's as though he's never even seen a painting before."  

Mo Yan does not seem to have read a book before.  Nothing that one expects from Literature is present in this collection, no narrative, no plot, no theme.  The characters are vivid but distant, and the events are indelible but meaningless.  What is this even?  What am I reading?  What is the author saying?

And it is presumably for this reason that he won the Nobel Prize.  If nothing else, it is new and unbound by the rules of literature.  But it is not nothing else. Yan is not an innocent, unsullied novice; he knows exactly what he is doing.  "Facts," he asserts in "Man and Beast", "are superior to eloquence, and lies cannot cover up facts" (66).  He abandons both style (eloquence), and truth in the pursuit of something deeper: life.

The result is the very pinnacle of deconstructionist fiction.  It doesn't mean anything, and defies the very notion of meaning.  "I could find no such symbol on which to pin my sorrow and bring this chapter to an end,"  observes the narrator in "Abandoned Child". "The sunflowers?  The locusts? The ants? Crickets?  Worms?  Absurd, all of them.  None of them represented the true face of life" (188).  Life has no symbols, and neither does Art.  The only way to capture life is to present it as it is, filled with lies and fantastic invention, unadorned by "the shallow, insipid business of writing" ("Abandoned Child", 159).

Ransom Riggs: Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children

 The title gives it away.  This book is a home for peculiar children only.  Children who can use kerfuffle in a sentence.  Children who can parse sentences with twenty clauses, strung together in complicated necklaces of semicolons and dashes.  Children who can navigate circular and overlapping timelines.  Students who would be interested to know whether this string of incomplete clauses is an example of paradeigma, or of schesis onomaton.

My students were largely not of the aforementioned variety.  They did not appreciate the gratuitously intricate vocabulary, nor did they enjoy the flashily convoluted syntax.  I felt that the author was just showing off.  They simply gave up.

Henry M. Mason and Brittani Petrofsky: Crystal Grids

I had great hopes for this book.  The idea of using crystals to enhance one's life and experience is appealing on a human level--everyone wants to believe that it is so simple--and a personal one; I am particularly drawn to crystals and their energetic properties, both aesthetically and philosophically.  The conceit of this book, namely that the internal chemical structure of the crystals and the arrangement in which they are lain are an important part of their power, promised to clear up the general vagueness and hearsay that has always been an obstacle to me.  

Alas, it did not live up to its promise.  The scientific inquiry and analysis that it promised were merely a veneer of nacre over yet another inconsistent, contradictory casserole.  Assertions about the properties of various crystal structures made here are not only unsupported by even anecdotal evidence, but also in conflict with the effort to make the color and lore of each crystal part of the equation. The descriptions of the various properties come across as entirely arbitrary, and unreliable.  It is no wonder that my efforts to apply the ideas in this book did not seem to bear any fruit.

Of course, the argument could be made that it is my own skepticism that is blocking me from achieving the sort of spiritual development that I seek.  It is a problem I encounter with most ideas in this genre; every psychic, healer, or mystic has a different idea about the nature of reality, and speaks with absolute conviction on the subject.  It feels little different from the casserole of religions that are offering themselves as guides to the unknown.  How easy it would be to just pick one and run with it! Easy and impossible.

Gene Stratton Porter: The Magic Garden

 Every time I visit my sister, I find myself in a liminal time.  My nephews, her husband, her job, her various extra involvements, conspire to keep her occupied in a way that leaves me alone with nothing to do and no tasks to perform.  If I were at my own house, I'd find something to tidy, some task that needs done, or something to worry about.  In her space, though, there is nothing that needs done, and there are shelves filled with books.  At my own house, the books stare at me accusingly, demanding to be read, heavy with "should", just like the house itself.  At my sisters', the books are friendlier, inviting rather than insisting.  "Wouldn't you like to relax for a change?" they say, "Let us help you with that."

And this book was a perfect example of one that offers, rather than demands.  The English teacher in me insists that a narrative require a conflict to be interesting.  "A story where everyone is just happy and wonderful things happen is boring," I would tell my students, but this item belies that dictum.  Certainly, there are moments that one could label "conflict" if necessary.  The book begins with the characters already in melancholy, filled with longing, an exposition that feels much like the middle of a Dickens novel.  Porter takes a decidedly un-Dickensian path with these characters, though.  She starts at the end of such a novel, just as circumstances turn around and the characters' virtues are rewarded with idyllic bliss.  The entire book is then spent reveling in that bliss, somehow avoiding becoming saccharine, and spins around in a dance that is almost pure joy.

Naturally, she needs to introduce a bittering agent near the end, and seemingly pull the rug out from her characters.  Another author might have made this tragedy the entire conflict of the book, but for Porter it is only a tease.  Of course the lovers would be given their paradise, their Magic Garden, eventually. That is the entire point of the book: to give the reader--and presumably the writer--the chance to ask, "What if life were actually good?"

Sunday, August 21, 2022

Günter Grass: My century

 Life sure seems like a series of pronoun referent errors sometimes.  Am I, as Descartes would suppose?  Or is Sartre to be believed, and is what seems to be I really a He?  Perhaps I am really a we, a near infinity of selves, overlapping at points to create the illusion of existence.  It gets even more dizzying when grammatical case is applied.  Am I or is Me?  Subject or Object?  

Grass here throws the entire question into the blender by slapping the genitive case on the title, and then doggedly refusing to clarify.  One would assume that the century in question belongs to the author, and for large stretches of the book that is true.  He, or some version of him, is the I of many of the chapters, and there is an air of straightforwardness to those years that leads the reader to trust their account.  

More often, however, "I" is as far removed from Grass himself as possible.  Presumably fictional characters, historical figures, and often narrators without any perceptible identity at all.  The book culminates in a Gordian knot of identity, where I is not only a real person--the author's mother--but also quite explicitly dead while narrating.  

While Grass leaves us in this pronominal quandary, however, he at least does so knowingly.  "I'm He now," says the narrator in "1972".  "He--no longer I--never had an easy time of it" (191).  The I, the narrator of the story, is in this section explicitly as fluid as the narrator of the whole book is implicitly.  The genitive, eponymous owner of the century is both I and They and, to the extent possible, You.  It is only in this way that Grass can capture the most turbulent 100 years that humans had known up until that time in ". . . rhymed and unrhymed poems and short stories and overly long chapters representing 1) work currently in progress on both sides of the wall, and 2) the world in miniature" ("1975", 202).

Nathaniel: Psychic Development Simplified

 Simple is different than easy.  While this was certainly straightforward and clear, as advertised in the title, it was no small or light task to get through.  It took me years, peppered with setbacks, recidivism, and distraction, to finish the lengthy and involved exercises herein.  It would have taken less than a day to simply read.

And what did I get for my trouble?  Clarity, certainty, and direction?  Far from it.  As with every other thing I've read or practiced in the line of Spirit and Religion, the results are unclear at best, and possibly even misleading.  When I feel or see some energy that is not discretely quantifiable, do I really?  Reality and experience have a convenient way of lining up with whatever one has already decided.  The placebo effect is just as real in theology as in medicine.  Is my intuition leading me this way or that?  Or is it my ego?  My desire to believe, and to be special? I have demonstrated time and again that I cannot be trusted to make that determination.  

There are certain concrete moments that I cling to as evidence of spirit, of an underlying force moving and stirring reality.  Viewed objectively, though, such moments would not pass peer review.  There has never been a moment where I can objectively say, "Yes, this is true.  This works."  

his would not be so discouraging if I were not surrounded by people who testify to a different experience.  Nobody seems as unsure of their reality as I am.  My family, of course, are deluded and wishful in their beliefs.  But I know plenty of people who follow a religious tradition that I consider wrongheaded, who testify to demonstrable proofs in their own lives.  The same is true of the people I know who follow something resembling Nathaniel's path.  They all seem so sure.  They actually see spirits.  They actually hear messages.  Either reality is closed to me and me alone for some reason, or all of these people are insane.  Neither prospect is edifying.

For now, however, I will continue to search.  Just as most of my religious friends are laughably deluded, so too are those of my friends who pooh-pooh anything remotely supernatural.  There must be something greater than me; I can feel it, and I can sometimes see and hear it even.  Or am I merely in the control group of a double-blind metaphysical trial?

Wang Ch'ung: Lun Heng

 I've been seeing clouds differently lately.  Every sky has been so vivid, so entrancingly, hypnotically lovely.  Nearly every day, I've been awe-stopped in my tracks by the formations, never the same, never boring, never staying put for even an instant.

It is not in my nature, however, to leave such feelings of awe and gratitude alone.  My mind invariably tries to pour those feelings into little test tubes and swirl them around with reactants to see what they mean, or portend, or reveal.  In this case, the result has been the question, "What must the ancestors have thought when they had moments like this?  What were clouds to them?"

Old paintings show a version of clouds with puffing cheeks, bringing the wind, themselves agents of change and movement.  I can't put myself in the mind that would have interpreted them this way though.  I can't see that version of clouds.  To me, and maybe to whatever ancestors gave me this way of thinking, they are more like flowers, growing, budding, blooming and disappearing in a time-lapsed, aerial Spring. 

Of course whatever version of clouds the ancestors knew, it was wrong.  Clouds are not now the mystery that they once must have been.  Whatever was said about clouds--and about blood, and rain, and water, and fire, for that matter--is now manifestly ridiculous.  If my ancestors had spoken up and said, "Clouds are not like gods; they are more like plants," they might have been seen as visionaries, or at the very least iconoclasts.  But their version would have been as wrong as the one they purported to correct.

Which is the only way to see Wang Ch'ung.  A beacon of clarity, he dared to contravert the contemporary understanding of the natural world.  He saw inconsistency, and where others were content to leave it in a limbo of cognitive dissonance, he was not; he dragged reality flailing into the light, submitted it to rigorous questioning, and left it in what was to him a purer form.  

It's easy for us to look back at his writing and see that, for all his questioning of convention, he was never really escaped it.  He may have poked a few tiny holes in the assumptions of his time, but remains encased in inconsistent, ludicrous, or circular reasoning.  In the section 雷虛篇, for example, he interrogates the idea that lightning strikes are the result of divine anger, and comes to the conclusion that lightning and thunder are indiscriminate, and not tied to anyone's good or bad behavior.  This is demonstrably true, and far ahead of its time.  Well done.  For every misguided understanding that he untangles, however, he replaces it with another, equally tangled one.  In the case of lightning and thunder, and with fate in general, he cannot free himself from his assumptions and asserts that they are the result of to much or too little of the heavenly liquid.  He has reasoned himself out of a blind well, and stumbled immediately into another.  Perhaps more accurately, he has escaped one box and satisfied himself that the larger box he finds himself in does not exist.  

It is frustrating to the reader to witness.  "You are so close!  Keep going!  Keep questioning!" I found myself cheering.  But he never does.  The version of reality that Wang Ch'ung posits is just as convoluted as the one he criticizes.  Clouds are not huffing and puffing gods, but neither are they flowers, and wrong is wrong.  

As I look at my path, the myriad things I have unlearned, and the things with which I have replaced them, I cannot help but assume the same of myself.  The religion I escaped has no power over me.  But are the beliefs and perceptions with which I have replaced it any different?  In how many boxes am I sealed, and is there any escape possible?

Wednesday, August 10, 2022

Kurt Vonnegut: Cat's Cradle

 Revisiting this book took a bit of the sheen off of it for me.  When I first read it [checks blog] 13 years ago, I was smitten with the philosophy of Bokononism, and even now cheekily identify myself as a Bokononist when people have the temerity to ask after my religious beliefs.  On this reading, however, I find myself jaded even to that belief system.  

Instead of gazing starry-eyed at Vonnegut's philosophy, this time I was more aware of his craft.  All of the elements were there in fine form: the metaliterary structure, the book in my hand eventually revealed to be nothing more than a pillow; the orthographic innovations, in this case the calypso interludes; and of course the kernel of truth.

What is the truth here though?  If it is not the religion itself, nor even the wider ideas about religion, which reveal themselves to be shallower than I remembered, then what?  It is revealed in the title, naturally.  The Cat's Cradle is the real religion here.  Everything, including this book, is an elaborate twisting of yarn, one upon which we project our own forms.  There is no such thing as a Karass, sadly, likewise society, love, and culture.  This is the ultimate in string theory: the seemingly intricate connections that make up our reality are but one knotted line, revealed as flaccid and formless with a simple tug. 

Agatha Christie: The Murder of Roger Ackroyd

I don't suppose it's entirely fair of me to say that I got the best of Agatha this time.  While true that I guessed at her tricks well ahead of the ending, I was aided by two things: the endorsement on the back cover that promised "an ingenious and surprising twist," and my knowledge of her tendency to choose the most surprising outcome possible.  Thus forewarned, who else but the narrator could it have been?  what other ending would satisfy those criteria?  

My own cleverness in predicting the ending, however, pales in comparison to that of the writer in constructing it.  The mechanism of the book in one's hand being the very book mentioned in the story is a favorite mechanism of mine, and Christie executes the trick as deftly as, if not more so than, Vonnegut in Cat's Cradle.  Christie had to speak with two voices here, the writer's and the narrator's, and keep them both firmly in hand throughout.  The balancing act between revealing what the writer would want without confounding the narrator is so deft as to be invisible.  It is especially satisfying as a feat that would be utterly unsuitable for other media, and I can only imagine that any filmed version is a pale shadow of the printed.

Add that to Christie's gift for characterization, mastery of pacing, and playful misdirection, and one has a book that transcends her others and, by my definition at least, becomes something very like literature.

Sunday, March 27, 2022

Tanizaki Jun'ichirō: The Makioka Sisters (Sasameyuki)

 Often I pause to wonder of the author, "I wonder what he was thinking," but I cannot recall ever before wondering, "What was he thinking?!?" in quite the way I did after finishing this book.  I was worried at first about finding myself in the midst of another Buddenbrooks, just a story of the inevitable decline of a family, the unsustainability of the status quo, and a bunch of generally unpleasant people.  Gradually I unclenched, however, and began to trust the author to do right by these charming characters.  Each had her faults, of course, but thoroughly realistic ones, subtle, forgivable, and human.  Each of them was simply being herself, inconvenient though that made life at times.  Though Sachiko was clearly the protagonist, I found myself rooting for Taeko.  No doubt my Western paradigm conditions me to applaud her pointedly Western virtues. True to his Japanese roots, Tanizaki was not telling a story so much as painting a picture, and it was lovely and comfortable.

And then things turned.  The third section so abruptly shifted in tone and trajectory that I wondered if I was missing something.  Was this even the same book?  Were these even the same people?  The pace seemed to quicken, the narration grew offhanded, and it seemed like the author had grown tired of writing it.  Yukiko's traditional virtues grew from troublesome to infuriating.  Taeko was turned from an independent, capable, modern woman into nearly a whore. The trust I had developed for the author was shattered, and I braced for a melodramatic, cynical bloodbath.  I should have been so lucky!  The only ending the reader is given is a bowel movement.  

What could possibly have happened? What on Earth could have occurred between the writing of the first two sections in 1943 and the third in 1948?  If only there were something in history that could reveal why the author so completely reversed his opinion on the various Eastern and Western qualities on display in the book.  It is conjecture, of course, to suppose that such a thing could explain the sudden shift.  Perhaps he intended all along to end by literarily shitting on everything.  Perhaps nothing changed at all in Japan during that time and I'm reading too much into it.  We may never know.

King John

 I.1.5-16: Already Shakespeare has established the various characters and their foils.  I remain of the opinion that this efficiency and clarity is one of his most singular gifts.

23-28: Perhaps setting up a conflict between sight and sound in this play?

31-42: If so, then Eleanor is decidedly on the side of Sound.

57-58: And John on the side of Sight.

88-91: I am already excited to find evidence for my reading.  "Accent," draws Eleanor's attention, while John trusts only his "eye".

141-151: Philip seems to plead the case of Sight.

174: Likely to be important later in the case of  Chance v. Truth.

160, 205: Philip/Bastard/Richard has adopted a policy of "No, after you."

245-280: For Richard, and perhaps he is the voice of this play, sound follows sight, and voice follows countenance, as in nature.  The Truth, of which he speaks, however, is still of unknown provenance.

 

II.1.15-16: Perhaps another dichotomy, heart and hand?

33: If so, we know where Constance and Austria fall.

50-51: The opposite order than that John predicted.  Constance's voice travels quickly.

58-59: But John's presence, even more so.

66-68: Are more than Richard here described?

79: Unlooked for, but not unheard.

121-134: Twas ever so between daughters and mothers in law.  Interesting that the "blot" is upon the supposed bastards here, and not upon the sires--the opposite of a similar conversation in I.1.

180-181: Slander and injury, sound and sight.

206-207: The trumpet and the tongue, to follow that which has already been decided in the eye.

235-239: Bullets against words.

285: What signifies this interjection? Not clear yet of what it presages.

300-304: A hilarious dig at Austria, and well suited to Richard's character.  He is his father's son withal.

312-336: Little difference between the two "trumpets".

365-375: One king is very like another.  Only the battle of confusion against peace will determine the outcome.

389-412: A confusion that Richard diffuses, to reveal a peace of his own making.

425-432: Which leaves Richard to claim the East.

474-488: A victory for Sound?

526-531: Ay,no, for Sight indeed!

 533-544: Blanche hedges her bets, whether it be sight or sound that prevails.

588-626: A new contestant: Commodity!  One whom Richard has already disavowed, but is prepared to embrace should the feeling be mutual.

 614-615: My favorite lines so far in this play: 

    And why rail I on this Commodity?

    But for because he hath not wooed me yet.


III.i.13-16 A nice summary of Constance's character, emphasized by ending four lines in a row with the same "fears", something that Shakespeare never does without cause.

32-34: One wonders whether it will be possible to find the overlap of this conflict between belief and life resonate with that between sight and sound.

39: If so, it is this: that belief and sound have triumphed, remaking life and sight in their image.

54-60: And this is reflected in the workings of Nature and Fortune as well. Any other author, one might be attempted to accuse of namedropping philosophical constructs in the hopes of appearing deeper to shallow ears.  It is already clear here, though, that the parallels are consistent and prefigure something even truer ahead. The battle, at least in Constance's eyes, rages between sight, life, and Nature on the one side, and sound, belief, and Fortune on the other with the latter currently prevailing.

78-86: And whose declaration, whose version of reality, will prevail?  If sound exert its authority over sight, then Constance has the upper hand.

137: Philip the Bastard may be the best role here, if not the juiciest.

153-166: John declares himself for sight, and laughs at words.

170: The connection made between Commodity and sight, adding the former to the ranks of the latter.

216-220: Blanche pipes up ever so briefly, to declare herself for sight, and in a way that reveals her beautifully.

219-226: The addition of faith and need crowds the battlefield.

234-262: Philip knows not how to declare, revealing the conflict between sight and sound to be unclear in his mind.  The vow of friendship and marriage, the curse of the Pope, both are of the latter materiel after all.  Perhaps all is sound, and sight is merely what we make of it.  If so, then the loudest voice shall prevail.

263: Is this, then, the thesis?  All form is formless, order orderless.

273-308: Pandulph's word salad may seem purposefully dizzying, as befits a man of the cloth, but is at least consistent with his allegiance to Commodity.

335: My reading is suddenly trembling under its own weight.  Philip here seems to declare for sound, the pleadings of chatterboxes, and the first-sworn oath, rather than the very literal hand that he holds, John's temporal threat, and furthermore of practical gain.  If this play ends badly for John, then my reading is correct.  If not, the obverse.

III.ii: It doesn't look good for Philip, and by extension for my reading.

 

III.iii.27, 35: How telling.  Twice John forbears to speak.  What does this forbear?

50-53: Aha!  sight and sound are not enemies after all, at least in John's estimation.  They are both of them lying offshoots of Sense.

70: And John is revealed in a word.  Sense is treacherous to him because he makes it so.

 

III.iv.21: Constance is surely determined to be right.  Her recent advice proving fatal, she falls back upon her former words.

39-40: Constance's complaint is that her voice was not strong enough to shape reality.

94: Philip is on to something here.  Constance may simply like to grieve.

115-126: It remains to be seen is Pandulph is the voice of fate here, or an empty cleric.

128-143: Thus far, at least, he speaks practical truth.

161-162: The imagery here calls me back to my earlier reading.  The judgement of heaven is phrased in terms of sound, whatever that may end up meaning.

186-187: Again, sound is thought to shape reality. We shall definitely see. 

 







Sunday, March 06, 2022

Al-An'am

 Again we begin with the letter بِ, and cannot resist invoking the power of that letter.  I have even gone so far as to inscribe it on an amulet.

1: I much prefer this to the opening of Genesis.  Allah grants that there be darkness, the void, as well as light.

2-3: Only one of the translations--I am now considering four simultaneously--seems to note the second "term" mentioned here.  One term for this life, and another for the next.

4-6: Hulusi's interpretation of رَبِّهِم is thoroughly integrated into my readings now.  The Lord here is the higher self, and it would be difficult to convince me otherwise.

7-9: Especially because the challenge here is not to believe what one sees from without, but to perceive and act according to the dictates from within.  Hulusi's translation "doubt-dilemma" is undeniably a liberty, but an apt one.

10: I wonder if we will be seeing a lot of this structure: they will be confused by that which they confuse.  they will be mock by that which they mock.

11: Sadly, this does not hold up with reality.  The fate of the deniers on this earth is little different than the fate of any others.

12: Whenever the question of who rules reality is raised, it is usually followed by a reminder such as in 1: that both the dark and the light are both ruled by Allah.

13: Sure enough.

14: The eponymous أَسلَمَ takes center stage again, and this surah already feels more coherent than any of the others so far.

15-18: More reinforcements of the themes submission to one's highest self and embrace of the void as well as the light.

19: The equation between idolatry and duality is not self-evident.

20-24: Rather difficult to break this section into smaller parts; it continues until at least 49, which is another sign that this book is more linear and coherent than the previous.  These four verses seem to be merely the first beat, the first of their errors: to ascribe equals to Allah.

25: The expected argument seems rather more applicable to the dualists themselves.

26-28: No Holy text would be complete without unverifiable threats.

29-32: The next related mistake: to believe in this as the final reality.  So foolish by any measure.  Even were there no afterlife, the idea that one is their own body is ludicrous.

33-36: Rather a cheeky suggestion: "If you really want to convince them, go ahead.  Show them a miracle.  I'll wait."

37-38: Them: "Gib miracal pleez" Him: [gestures broadly]

39: this remains the most troubling part of the Quran so far.  To what end would Allah purposefully lead some astray?

40-41: From an organizational standpoint, however, it makes sense as a hedge against the fact that it doesn't always work out the way we would expect.  It is the equivalent of "God works in mysterious ways," which I have also always hated.  What nonsense.

42-45: This also reeks of entrapment, and furthermore as gilding the lily.  Why would it be necessary for Allah to torment wrongdoers in this life, if the ultimate judgement is inescapable?

46-47: Furthermore, why would it be necessary for Allah to test their hearts in this way?  the only possible conclusion is that there are those whose hearts are intractable and those whose hearts are locked open, but also those in the middle who can be influenced one way or another.  It is to these latter that the Quran--and one would assume most sacred texts--is addressed.

48-49: Further support for the above.  It is something of a comfort, in fact, to be told that there is hope even for those of us who are not holy by instinct.

50-51: The blind are lost to their own blindness.  But if you can see even a little, there is hope.

52: I have trouble with this verse, and the inconsistency of the various translations shows that I am not alone.  The admonition here seems to be to the Prophet himself, rather than to the reader.  Why would the Prophet need to be reminded not to turn away the devout?

53-55: Perhaps it is related to the natural tendency of humans to see only with their eyes, and say "Those who are poor must be doing something wrong." The admonition is to resist that urge, and embrace the lowest among us.

56-58: "Y'all better be glad that it is Allah who decides things and not me [shakes fist]."

59-60: The only mention I have seen in any sacred text of the mystery of sleep.

61-62: The Golden Thread is visible in the tapestry here.  The Prophet is in agreement with Lao Tze, Confucius, Solomon, Epicurus . . . there are bigger things to worry about than your death.

63-64: This is manifestly untrue, especially considering 52-55.  Allah rescues on this plane, but he also deigns not to, and it is seemingly arbitrary which way he will treat you.

65-67: Difficult to escape the inconsistency here.  In one breath, Allah rescues those who humbly beseech Him.  In the next breath, he afflicts them for seemingly no reason.

68-69: Don't associate with dualists.  In case you do by accident, don't get sucked in to the trap of feeling responsible for them.

70: You can remind them of the reality, but let it end there.

71: I cannot help but wonder, when a verse like this seems cloudy to me, whether I am one of those whom Allah has intentionally blinded.

72-73: The power of sound underlies these verses, and reminds one of Hulusi's obsession with certain syllables.  All creation is merely a word, and the sound of the trumpet is all that will be necessary to end it.

74-79: Where is this amazing account in the Bible or Torah? It beautifully captures the moment of enlightenment, whether metaphorical or not, much better than Newton's apple.

80-81: The truth was revealed to Abraham only in that it was there all along and he saw it for the first time.  The book of reality remains the best evidence, as in 37-38.  The fact applies to me today as well.  I search for signs, and marvels, but perhaps my eyes are still blinded.

82-83: The problem lies here.  According to this, Abraham's eyes were opened by the whims of a capricious deity.  It is no use to seek enlightenment, for it is either given to you or not.

84-87: Oh, to be so chosen!

88-90: There must be some way of reconciling these ideas.  Some are chosen, but clearly not for their own willingness to believe, for even among those chosen some deny what is revealed.  In their place, still others are chosen, from among whom even more deny.  One must have both luck and virtue to attain enlightenment, a horrifying parallel to material success.

91-92: How many times must this pattern be repeated? And what of any books revealed after the Quran?  

93-94: Where are your gods now?  Your material goods and all your worldly success?  

95-97: Indeed, the book of reality is more than enough.  Life and death, light and darkness, all are revealed.

98: Lots of disagreement on this verse, but the most straightforward interpretation in context is that the self is given a body, and then a grave.

99-102: Very rational and intuitive.  The acrobatics required to maintain a doctrine of Jesus' godhood are indeed ridiculous.

103-105: Does He actually make it clear, though?  Or does he purposefully blind some, and reveal himself to others?  The repetition of these contradictions reveals no new key to a blinded one such as I am.

106-107: This, at least, I see clearly.  The core is unity, and submission to that unity.

108: Another admonition that goes ignored today.  

109-111: this might be a glimmer of the key to unlocking the problem  of Allah "lock[ing] their hearts."  It is not that He has locked their hearts actively, perhaps, merely that he refuses to play their pointless game and answer their meaningless demands.

112-113: But this belies that interpretation.  Has Allah really actively recruited deceivers?  Is He not content to follow his own advice here?

114-115: This is poignant advice to me now.  The Book of reality is clear.  The filigrees of jinns and prophets are a distraction.

116-118: i hope for more elaboration about what to "eat," especially insofar as it is open to metaphor.

119-122: The connection requires some disentanglement here.  There are those who say, "why not eat what is dead?" Allah replies, "Because it is better to eat that which is alive."  I am emboldened by Hulusi to take serious liberties with this interpretation, admittedly.

123-125: It is a stretch, but an extrapolation is possible here: Allah has not shrunk the hearts of some actively; He has merely created reality, and reality is such that those who cannot submit are unable to understand.

126-127: The simple path is the true one, but it is tempting to take the intricate path instead.  Very opposed to the corresponding Christian doctrine.

128-134: I wonder what happens to the jinn on this day, though.  They were merely serving their function, after all.

135-136:A subtle but important bit of metaphysics: If one's worship is divided, it all goes to the lowest destination.

137-140: Here is where a metaphor is irresistible.  If the cattle here is not literal meat, but truth, then truth in and of itself is useless without submission, and sacrifice for the sake of sacrifice is delusion.

141-142: Accordingly, certain animals are not forbidden because they are unclean, but merely because to eat them is wasteful.

143-145: I wonder if modern Muslims allow for he eating of pork if forced out of need, as indicated here.  The verses are clear: this is not pedantry, but practicality.

146: A more detailed list than I recall from the Torah.

147-150: Underneath this is a principle that could be applied elsewhere.  The dualists say, "There is no law against adding to the law." The Prophet is instructed to reply, "Your default position should be to stick to what is revealed, not to add random nonsense. When in doubt, keep it simple."

151-153: Speaking of simple.  The straight path is consistently emphasized in this book.

154-156: I get the feeling of "As per the email I already sent you,".

157-158: The Quran can well make this claim.  It is indeed clearer and more straightforward, especially in this surah, than what has gone before.

159: Including divisions between Sunni and Shia?

160: This is indeed a comfort.  I have done bad in life, but just maybe I have done enough good to have not been a complete waste of life.

161-165: An excellent, and uncharacteristic, summary. 

 




 

Sunday, February 27, 2022

Aleister Crowley: The Drug & Other Stories

 No doubt I should have tempered my expectations with the fact that this is a collection of lesser-known or previously unpublished stories.  My hunger for the arcane, however, led me to seek more in this book than was there.  Surely in 600 pages there would have been at least one that was worth remembering--rereading even.  Sadly, not to my mind.  I suppose I'll have to read Crowley's more famous works eventually, but I will do so with a more cautious eye, one too often fooled recently by books that promise to pierce the veil, but only scatter the cards.  The question seems to be whether Crowley was a genuine mystic, or an imaginative con man.  For now, I am in the latter camp.

Félix Lope de Vega y Carpio: Peribáñez y el Comendador de Ocaña

There is so much lost in the reading of a work meant for stage.  Not only the sets, lighting, and costumes, but the work the actors do in bringing a character to life with only what is written--all of that is left to the reader to supply.  More often than not, I am left with an appreciation for a few moments or ideas, but altogether unaffected.  

The exceptions, of course, those plays which come to the reader as full-fleshed works of human experience even without all of the bells and whistles, deserve their place as the greatest of all time.  Shakespeare, Chekhov, and Ibsen are among those who are able to effect me, though hobbled by the page.

How great must a work be, then, to do the same but in a language removed from the reader both by time and place?  My Spanish is progressing (and working my way through this section of Ward's Lifetime of Reading has helped), but it is still only my third language.  On top of that are the archaic spellings and usages one would expect of a 16th century work, with which a dictionary is little help.  The fact that I'm still not confident enough to write this review in Spanish is submitted to evidence.

Nonetheless, twice in the reading I was moved to tears by the beauty and truthfulness of the language.  Act I scene IXespecially, with the ABCs of love and marriage, could stand as one of the most endearing love poems ever.  I stanned them so hard that when all was resolved in the final scene, I once again was moved to tears.  Who knows what jewels are hidden under the language and still obscure to me.

What a triumph for Lope de Vega.  What a masterpiece, no doubt the pinnacle of his achievements, a labor that consumed his life and holy fuck he wrote 636 other plays?!? As well as poetry and novels? Even this one is enough to earn him his nickname: Fénix de los Ingenios.  I am incapable of grasping the fact that he wrote even more and need to lie down.

The Deer Hunter

 Am I imagining it?  Am I simply displacing my own thoughts and experiences onto the work that I just witnessed?  Let us examine the facts.

Various synopses of the movie state that both Nick and Michael were in love with Linda.  I can find no evidence for this in the film itself, however.  Nick's engagement to Linda is definitely not a romance, but rather an offhanded suggestion.  Michael can barely be bothered to touch her, though she is gorgeous, fun, and obviously in love with both of them.  

Nick and Michael live together, and Michael says that he doesn't want anyone but Nick--albeit in the context of hunting.  

Stan says that he has repeatedly fixed Michael up with women, but that nothing has ever happened, whereupon he accuses him of being a faggot.

The gazes that the two share are too many to enumerate, and every other relationship in the movie is flat and sterile, if mentioned at all.

Michael suddenly strips off all his clothes and runs naked through the streets with Nick chasing him?  WTF?

As Nick dies, Michael declares his love in a way that could be homosocial, but at this point that is more of a stretch than the other conclusion.  I feel like I am trapped in an alternate reality where I even have to make this case.  The opposite should be true. Ink should be spilled by those who wish to see the relationship as platonic, brotherly love, not the other way around. On top of which, we can layer writer and director Cimino's life as a confirmed old bachelor with no record that I could find of relationships hetero or otherwise, and a super gay presentation.  One could argue that it is just how a Hollywood director presents himself, but nuh-uh.  Not the straight ones.  Have you seen how they look?

It's all speculation, of course, and furthermore irrelevant.  The movie was good, if flawed, and it means to people whatever it means to them.  I am reminded of other times, however, that there was something in a work that I felt insane for seeing: Mrs. Dalloway, for one.  That book was gay as fuck, and only later did I learn that Virgnia Woolfe was an initiated Sapphist.  Maybe this will be another example and I'll get to be, if not right, at least sane.