Tuesday, June 25, 2024

Ramón Gómez de la Serna: Las Proximas Greguerías hasta 900

 

Si hubiese habido fotógrafo en el Paraíso, habría sido bochornoso el retrato de bodas de Adán y Eva.

If there had been a photographer in Eden, Adam and Eves wedding portrait would have been embarrassing.

 

El beso es hambre de inmortalidad.

The kiss is hunger for immortality.

 

--¿Vino alguien?

--Sí. Vino el vino.

Did someone come?

Yes, the wine came.

 

De mucho comer «sesos a la romana» le puede sailr a uno casco de centurión.

If you eat a lot of lambs brains, you can leave with a centurions helmet.

 

Hay nubes que son como alas extraviadas.

There are clouds which look like lost wings.

 

El mono no entiende, pero está siempre queriendo entender.

The monkey doesnt understand, but it always wants to.

 

La eñe tiene el ceño fruncido.

The ñ has a frown.

 

En la orquestra, sólo el violón ve la función.

In the orchestra, only the viola watches the show.

 

Era tan mal guitarrista, que se le escapó la guitarra con otro.

The guitarist was so bad the guitar ran away with someone else.

 

La luna llena que aparece después de la tormenta es un huevo pasado por agua.

The full moon appearing afer the storm is an egg passed through the water.

 

Al desfundar el plátano nos saca la lengua.

When we peel a plantain, we stick out our tongue.

 

La B es el ama de cría del alfabeto.

The B is the wet nurse of the alphabet.

 

El ademán que hace el  que limpia sus gafas, levantándolas hacia el cielo, es un ademán de astrónomo.

The gesture of he who raises his glasses to the sky to clean them is that of an astronomer.

 

La alquimia que tiene preocupados a algunos hombres es la de convertir a su cuñada en su mujer y a su mujer en su cuñada.

The alchemy that fascinates some men is that of turning ones sister-in-law into ones wife, and vice versa.

 

La memoria en la mujer es una caja de sombreros en que quedan unos sombreros viejos.

Womens memory is a hat box in which some old hats are waiting.

 

Cuando el sociólogo habla de la moda es cuando más pierde el tiempo, pues la moda está hecha sólo para despistar a los sociólogos.

When the sociologist qpeaks in the curent style, time is most lost, but the current style was made specifically to confound sociologists.

 

En el ocaso se recuecen los ladrillos para la construcción del día de mañana.

At sunset, the bricks reheat themselves for the construction of tomorrow.

 

El que escribe a máquina con rapidez de motociclista es que quiere llegar antes al sábado.

He who types with the speed of a motorcyclist is he who wants to arrive quickest at Saturday.

 

La gaviota da la orden del amanecer costero.

The seagull gives the order to the coastal sunrise.

 

Las moscas parece que han escondido la tapa del azucarero.

The flies seem like they have hidden the lid of the sugar bowl.

 

Cuando desparece la imagen que veíamos en la pantalla del cine y pasamos a otra escena, nos vendan los ojos un momento.

When the scene changes on the movie screen, we are blindfolded for a moment.

 

Tocar el arpa es tener el arte delicioso de las caricias y los pellizcos.

To play the harp is to have the declisious art of caresses and pinches.

 

La copa del premio es la ponchera del éxito.

The award cup is the punch bowl of success.

 

Las palomas blancas parecen siempre escapadas del templo de Venus.

White doves always seem to have escaped from the temple of Venus.

 

Los poetas del pasado ya parecían haberse adelantado a los que hablan por radio, porque leían sus poesías ante el micrófono de una rosa en el búcaro.

The poets of the past still seem to be ahead of those who speak on the radio, because they read their poems into the microphone of a rose in a vase.

 

Cuando al ciervo le salgan rosas en el rosal de sus cuernos es que habrá llegado el día de la resurrección de la carne.

When the deer carries roses in its horns, it is as if the day of resurrection has come.

 

Las golondrinas son los pájaros vestidos de etiqueta.

Swallows are birds dressed with manners.

 

Se ve que el queso Gruyére ha sido señalado por muchos dedos, como diciendo: «De ése.»

The Gruyere seems to have been pointed at by many fingers, saying This one.

 

Pescar es un aperitivo para comer después pollo con arroz.

Fishing is an appetizer for eating chicken and rice later.

 

No hay que hacerse los desentendidos.  Las espinas de las rosas están hechas para que se pinche el hombre.

It is not necessary to be ignorant. The roses thorns are made to pinch men.

 

El murciélago es un mandadero que no encuentra al que tiene que dar el recado.

The bat is a messenger who cannot find the recipient of his message.

 

Cuando la mujer se da polvos después de la entrevista, parece queborra todo lo dicho.

When a woman powders herself after a visit, is it as though she erases all that was said.

 

El beso es la burla del soplo.

The kiss is a mockery of breath.

 

Cuando la mujer nos ayuda con el secante a preparar el final del trabajo urgente, vuelve a ser la Verónica.

When a woman helps us with the drying at the end of an urgent project, she again becomes a Veronica.

 

La alcachofa se muestra dura por fuera, pero tiene dulce corazón.

The artichoke seems to be tough on the outside, but has a sweet heart.

 

El cuchillo del cocinero hace una flor de un rábano.

The chefs knife makes flowers out of radishes.

 

El Polo siempre está preparado para tomarse un whisky.

Polo is always ready to have a whiskey. [unclear meaning]

 

Cae la niebla sobre la ciudad para ver si consigue que el hombre se olvide un poco de la realidad.

The fog descended on the city to see if man managed to forget a little of reality.

 

El indice del libro no tiene réplica: lo que no esté en él no estará en el libro. ¡Terrible!

There is nothing like the index of a book.  That which isnt there, isnt in the book.  Terrible!

 

Dentro de los turbantes llevan los orientales sus metáforas poéticas.

The Orientals carry their poetic metaphors inside their turbans.

 

El capital de la columna luce la ondulación permanente de la piedra.

The capital of the colum shows the permanent ripples of the stone.

 

Cuando el guardia de la circulación se comienza a quitar un guante, multa fatal.

When the traffic guard begins to take off his glove, its a deadly fine.

 

La ola muere en espuma de impotencia al no poder pasar tierra adentro.

At not being able to pass onto land, the wave dies in a spurt of impotence.

 

El día de su presentación en sociedad es cuando la oruga se convierte en mariposa.

The day of ones presentation to society is when the worm becomes a butterfly.

 

Monólogo quiere decir el mono que habla solo.

A monologue is that which a monkey wishes to say alone.

 

Un burgués flaco revela lo que de calumnioso tiene la palabra «burguesía».

The skinny bourgeois reveals how what slander is in the word bourgeoisie.

 

Cierta mujer no es todas las mujeres, ni todas las mujeres son cierta mujer.  Esa es la tragedia de la vida.

Any one woman is not every woman, and vice versa.  Its the tragedy of life.

La aurora siempre se sorprende de vernos aún vivos.

The dawn is always surprised to see us still living.

 

El deseo del rayo es plantar en el suelo un árbol eléctrico.

The dream of the sunbeam is to plant an electric tree in the ground.

 

Los profetas hablaban por teléfono con Dios.

The prophets spoke to God on the telephone.

 

La estrella parpadea porque tiene sueño.

The stars twinkle because they are dreaming.

 

La luna es a veces una maestra de escuela que nos quiere enseñar geografía.

The moon is sometimes a schoolteacher who wants to teach us geography.

 

Si el burro comiese carne, sería el anmal mas feroz de la creación.

If the donkey ate meat, it would be the most fericious animal in all creation.

 

Un turbante en la cabeza de una mujer es un nido de ideas de más sombreros y más vestidos.

The turban on a womans head is a nest of ideas about more hats and more dresses.

 

Ante su lujoso tocador se preguntaba la gran dama: «¿Es que mi cepillo de plata me ha podido contagiar las canas?»

In front of her elegant vanity, the grand dame asks, Did I catch gray hair from my silver comb?

 

Las mariposas las hacen los ángeles en sus horas de oficina.

The butterflies are made by angels during office hours.

 

El mármol sabe esperar su estatua durante siglos.

The marble knows how to wait centuries for its statue.

 

La ola es torpe como ella sola.  Nos trae su sopera con sopa de pescado, y siempre se le cae en la arena.

The wave is uniquely clumsy.  She brings us her tureen filled with fish soup, but always spills it on the sand.

 

El partenueces es un ensañado verdugo.

The nutcracker is a vicious executioner.

 

 

El pez está siempre de perfil.

Fish are always in profile.

 

Amor que ha perdido la memoria: desamor.

Love that has lost its memory is indifference.

 

Como la luna se pone más allá del horizonte, nadie sabe si cae cara o cruz.

As the moon sets, no one knows if it lands heads or tails.

 

No hay que dar la verdad desnuda.  Por lo menos, hay que ponerla un velillo.

One doesnt have to tell the naked truth.  At least give it a fig leaf.

 

Menos mal que a los mosquitos no les ha dado por tocar el saxofón.

Its a good thing that mosquitoes cant play the saxophone.

 

Todos las plantas de los jardines zoológicos preguntan por Linneo.

All of the plants in the botanical gardens ask about Linnaeus.

 

La medalla de plata es la luna oculta en el escote adolescente.

The silver medallion is an eclipsed moon in the teenagers cleavage.

 

Un marinero es un colegial interno del ingenuo colegio del mar.

The sailor  is a boarding student at the ingenuous school of the sea.

 

Un paquete de sal parece que va a durar mucho, pero se gasta en seguida porque la sosería de la vida es atroz.

The package of salt looks like it will last a while, but it is used up immediately because life is so flavorless.

 

Cuando un hombre muere, sus ideas quedan archivadas; pero se pierde la llave del archivo y el archivo.

When a man dies, his ideas remain archived, but the key and the archive itself are lost.

 

--¿Ha comenzado?

       --Acaba de quitarse la bata la pantalla.

Has it started?

The screen just removed its coat.

 

Los pulgones de playa son como burbujas de agua mineral que se han escapado.

The aphids on the beach are like bubbles of mineral water that have escaped.

 

Un beso de primera calidad está hecho de fresa con chantilly.

A kiss of the highest quality is made of strawberries and chantilly creme.

 

Si se quiere saber si la luna es de plata hay que verla reflejada en el agua, como para saber si es legítima se hace rebotar la moneda en el mármol.

To know if the moon is made of silver, one must see it reflected in the water, like bouncing a coin against marble to see if its fake.

 

Lo más maravilloso de Dios es que creó las cosas sin fórmula, sin boceto ni anteproyecto.

Gods most amazing feat is creating things without formula, sketch, or blueprint.

 

Entre las calvas que nos encontramos por la vida hay unas que son calvas de hombres muertos.

Among the bald spots we encounter in life are some which are from dead men.

 

Las Parcas no cortan ya con tijera el hilo de las existencias, sino con ese aparato con que el chico de la tienda corta el bramante.

The Grim Reaper doesnt cut the thread of life with scissors, but with a boxcutter.

 

Lo que da más tristeza a la vida son las conferencias sin nadie y los ensayos de órgano.

The saddest things in life are conferences with no attendees and organ rehearsals.

 

Los pelequeros tienen subvencionados a los perros para que ladren a los que van mal afeitados.

Barbers bribe dogs to bark at those poorly shaven.

 

Esa perla que cae entre los senos, como señal entre las hojas de un libro, es como registro para saber qué senos habíamos quedado.

This pearl that falls between the breasts, like a bookmark, is a record of the breasts that remain.

 

Cuando se ahogó ella se escaparon sus senos al cielo, como dos burbujas ideales.

As she drowned, her breasts rose to the sky, like two perfect bubbles.

 

Las películas que hemos querido ver, sin haber podido lograrlo, son como vidas que hemos podido vivir y se nos escaparon.

The movies that we want to watch, but havent been able to, are like lives that we wanted to live, but escaped us.

 

El helado que sale reproducción exacta de la torre inclinada de Pisa hay que sorberlo muy de prisa.

Those ice creams in the shape of the Tower of Pisa need to be slurped up very quickly.

 

Los que fechan cualquier cosa con números romanos--MCMXXXV--son unos MMMEMOS.

Those who use Roman numerals for any little thing--MCMXXXV--are MMMORONS.

La sidra quisiera ser champaña, pero no puede porque no ha viajado bastante por el extranjero.

Cider wants to be champagne, but it cant because it hasnt spent enough time abroad.

 

En la noche alegre la luna es una panderata.

On happy nights, the moon is a tambourine.

 

A cada disparo recula el cañón, como asustado por lo que acaba de hacer.

At every shot the cannon recoils, as though frightened by what it has just done.

 

El agua se suelta el pelo en las cascadas.

The water lets its hair down in the rapids.

 

La lava parece un cocodrilo que avanza.

The lava looked like an advancing crocodile.

 

En la afinación los violines se rizan el bigote.

During tuning, the violins twirl their moustaches.

 

La gran invención sucederá el día en que el guante de la mano izquierda sirva para la derecha.

The great invention was made on the day when the left glove served as the right.

 

La F es el grifo del abecedario.

The F is the faucet of the alphabet.

 

Hay el especialista en pedir el único plato que se ha acabado en el menú.

Some people are specialists at ordering whatever on the menu is sold out.

 

El mar es la rotativa más antigua del mundo, que tira incesantemente y en rotograbado el diario La Ola.

The seas is the oldest rotary press in the world, turning out the newspaper The Wave incessantly.

 

Cuando el matador va a matar se coloca como fotógrafo que va a instantaneizar a la muerte.

When the matador is about to kill, he positions himself as a photographer about to capture death.

 

Los jardines grises de los fotógrafos son los verdaderos jardines poéticos de los malos sonetos.

The Greek gardens in photographs are the verdant, poetic gardens of bad sonnets.

 

El niño intenta sacarse las ideas por la nariz.

The boy tried to get his ideas out through his nose.

 

Buda es el dios que no hizo régimen en las comidas.

Buddha is the god who doesnt care what  you eat.

 

En el papel de lija está el mapa del desierto.

Sandaper is a map of the desert.

 

De los escenarios de los cines sale viento del Polo.

The North wind blows from the theater stage.

 

El gorro del cocinero es el gran merengue simbólico.

The chefs hat is a big, symbolic meringue.

 

Entre los carriles de la vía del tren crecen las flores suicidas.

Suicidal flowers grow on the train tracks.

 

Saturday, June 08, 2024

Duck Soup

 As much as I like this movie, and as much as several elements from it have been part of my family shorthand lexicon for decades, I don't know that I ever thought of it as great.  Perhaps my criteria differ so widely from the AFI's that it's not even a fair test.  Let's examine.

My definition of a great film is one that has a solid reason to exist, and rises to that reason in every aspect of its production.  While on the surface this movie is just a silly, chaotic farce, can one really call that a reason to exist?  I don't see why not, especially considering the context.  At the same time that this movie was released, Georges Bataille et al were spinning themselves into an overly serious echo chamber in France.  The ponderous weight they gave to their project, and the deadly seriousness with which they pursued it, were no doubt factors in its ultimate failure.  Is there not something to be said for mockery and parody as tools, rather than philosophical omphaloskepsis?  

And if it is granted that such a goal is valid, necessary even, does Duck Soup rise to its purpose?  Clearly it does.  The performances, production value, and writing were all top tier, far above what was necessary for the stated ends.  Why then do I hesitate to call this movie great?  Is it just snobbery?  I didn't hesitate to apply the label to Modern Times or The Gold Rush, both equally silly and equally well-executed.  Perhaps it is snobbery, but not against comedy.  The only hesitation I can find in myself is that the music was uninspired.  Is that one flaw enough to justify my caution, or am I just feeling bitchy?

Friday, June 07, 2024

Hud

 As satisfying as ever to see the mysterious بِسمِ begin this surah.

1: And the equally cryptic الر ۚ.  These words work as a chant, rather than anything else in my mind.  The sounds themselves contain the power.

2: Studying Arabic concurrently with this project makes me very confused by Hulusi's insistence on leaving مِنهُ untranslated, as though it was another of the cryptic sounds.  It is just a straightforward pronoun in my estimation. 

3: Whereas leaving رَبَّكُمۡ untranslated seems to have a greater purpose.  Hulusi's interpretation of this concept is almost Reiki-adjacent, and one of my favorite aspects of his explication.

4-6: More curious treatment هُوَ of here.  If it were simply a King James style deference to the Divine, surely Hulusi would leave it untranslated throughout, rather than haphazardly as here.

7: Surely Hulusi goes too far here, interpolating more Eastern philosophy into the significance of the water.  I don't disagree with him, but there's certainly nothing in the text to support it.

8-11: Haters gonna hate, I guess. On the one hand, it is a relief to remove the text from dogmatic concerns.  On the other, it's rather too convenient.

12-14: A sentiment repeated in previous surahs.  I'm not sure whether it's #unbothered or #theladydothprotesttoomuch.

15-16: I am very on board with this.  Let those who value material success pursue it, and let their reward be according.

17-19: The greatest sin, by this interpretation, is then against one's own truth, rather than against an external Lord.

20-22: And materialism is its own punishment.

23-24: Which simplifies everything.  But it also undercuts its authority.

25-41: Not much to say about this passage, except that I really like the characterization of Noah here.  I realize that he's rather an enigma in the Hebrew version of the story, except for a certain incident with daughters and wine.  Wonder if that will make it into this telling.

 42-43: Wait, what?  Another son?  Whomst could it have been?

44-49: And I especially like the secret revelation flavor here.  Unfortunate that this son is unnamed.

50-57: Skipping a few generations, we come to the eponymous prophet of this book.  He certainly seems to take after his great-great-grandfather.

58-60: Rather sparse on details here, though the blanks seem to be filled in elsewhere, in other surahs and oral traditions. Kind of false advertising from the title of the surah, though.

61-68: Far more detail in the story of Salih, though the appearance of a she-camel would not have seemed miraculous to me either.  

69-73: Sarai comes across better in this account.  There is no mention of her being struck dumb for her disbelief.

74-76: I had never thought of Abraham as "tender and sensitive", but it actually makes a lot of sense.

77-83: There is no more explanation for Lot's horrible behavior here than in other versions of the account.  How is this not a bigger talking point?  Is there any more despicable act?

84-86: This is becoming a bit like the book of Judges, casually running down the list of leaders,  giving only enough information to pique interest.  One wonders if Shuayb gets more mention later, of if that is left to the Druze holy books.

87-90: Shuayb seems far more timid than the others in this list.

91-93: This is consistent with the tone of the book as a whole.  Shuayb is #unbothered, especially in v.93.

94-95: The "layered clay" that is said to have destroyed sodom could easily be a volcano.  What on earth is the ٱلصَّيۡحَةُ that leveled Madyan?  It is translated differently in all four of the versions I'm referencing, but my favorite is "The Shriek".

96-99: This is a rather offhanded telling of Moses' story, but it raises one interesting metaphysical point.  What exactly is the "Day of Resurrection", and why on Earth would Pharoah be leading anybody during it?

100-102: Which neatly sums up this book: listen to me--or don't, and face the same end as all these others.

103-108: One really wonders where this eternal hellfire doctrine originated.  It does not seem to have Zoroastrian roots, like many of the other elements.  Rather, it seems more Greek in origin.

109-111: The "prior decree" is of interest here.  The divine seems to have an interest in maintaining the confusion and schisms.

112-115: And very little is being asked: prayer, good deeds, and iconoclasm.

116-123: More curious endorsement of schisms.  #IYKYK i guess? At any rate, I'm partial to the simplicity of 121-122.  On a whole, this book was more coherent and tight than previous ones, or I'm just getting more familiar with the particular dialectic.


Thursday, May 30, 2024

Suzanne Collins: The Hunger Games

 What a revelation.  I expected this to be some poorly constructed kiddie fare, not the masterful narrative it revealed itself to be.  This book has everything that I could want in a young adult novel--every imaginable literary device and technique suitable for introduction to teenagers.  Is the fact that it's also engrossing and enjoyable the cake, or the icing?  Read for pleasure, it is the former.  Taught for learning objectives, it is the latter.  Either way, I look forward to finding a way to teach this next year, and am already writing lesson plans in my mind.

Joan Carris: When the Boys Ran the House

 My sister recently gave me this from her archives, the very copy that we enjoyed as children decades ago.  I had forgotten how much of our family lore came from this book, and how formative it was for me.  I related so deeply to the oldest child at the time I first read it, presumably because  our mother was similarly bedridden at the time.  I felt his frustration, and the burden of premature adulthood, so keenly, and some vestiges of that even came through on this reading 35 years later.  What was expected of him was so similar to what was expected of me, though for much longer and with much less understanding.  Even today, I find myself in the role of moderator for a chaotic, dramatic, and oblivious family.  They might rightly dispute this assessment, but the feelings that this book brought back, and the realization that little has changed for me since I first read it, are mine and I will wallow in them if I see fit.

Kazuo Ishiguro: The Remains of the Day

 While I can appreciate the restrained artistry and masterful storytelling here, I can't say that I was satisfied by it.  What on Earth could I find to relate to in the self-deluded musings of a middle-aged man finding out during the evening of his life just exactly how lonely and aimless he has become?  Oh wait . . . yikes.

While the writing, characterization, imagery, etc. are all top tier, Ishiguro's real feat here is to create a narrator who knows and understands nothing.  Unreliable narrators are everywhere in literature, but they are usually of the lying or dissimulating variety.  I don't know of another example of a narrator that is simply deluded, trying to fit his life into a narrative that it isn't made for.  What is so marvelous about this book is that, while he has convinced himself, he never for a minute convinces the reader.  We see through his careful editing and justification immediately, and recognize in him all of the people in our lives, perhaps ourselves even, that are trying to do the same.  It's a very real, very human thing to do, even if there is some voice in the back of our heads telling us to wake up.  We find ourselves in a life that may or may not actually suit us, and we find reasons to stay in it.  We don't question our narrative, for fear it will be revealed as the flimsiest of veneers.  We latch onto our version of Stevens' "dignity", finding our own watchword to keep in focus, and wear like blinders.  "Virtue", "Service", "Perseverenace", all convenient frames for the realities of existence, which are far less succinct and far messier.  

Until, as it inevitably does, the narrative is asked to bear one final straw, and evaporates like a mist.  What is left in that eponymous moment?  In the Remains of the Life, so to speak?  Has everything been worth it so to speak, or was it a farce all along?  Something to consider, while watching the sun set over a landscape, after all hopes are dashed.  When doing and having fail, is being enough?

Gene Stratton Porter: Daughter of the Land

 How could you, Gene?  How could you put your Kate through all of that?  Where did you find the heart to drag her through such tragedy, stripping her of everything that mattered to her, one after the other, finding new depths of tragedy in every chapter?  Perhaps more than how, I wonder, "Why?"

I should have known that something was up when the handsome man seemingly destined to bring an end to Kate's heartache and loneliness showed up in the first third of the book.  Surely the arc wasn't going to close that quickly, and there would be more to it.  Complications are one thing, however, and a parade of trauma and despair is another.  What possible message could Porter be trying to convey?  

At first the message seemed to be that Kate's stubbornness and elitism were the obstacles in the way of her happiness.  What reader could fail to be frustrated with her when she turned the eligible man away purely on the basis of his spelling?  Surely a Porter heroine would not be so callous and shallow, and this was only a moment of character growth.  Surely Kate would eventually see her mistake, and be led into the Elysian fields.  

Not so.  By Porter's calculations, Kate was right to do so.  The book was not an invective against pride, in the end.  Rather, it was a warning against wanting too much in this world.  There is a place for everyone, and everyone should remain in her place, Porter seems to say.  Kate was right to do as she did, and all the pain and misery that resulted were simply part of life.  Life is, by this reasoning, something to be endured, and happiness is to be found in, not in spite of, hard work and suffering.  

I can't say that I am on board with this philosophy, but neither can I argue against it.  It is all too real and accurate a depiction of existence.  Nonetheless, I could have hoped that Kate be spared some tragedy, and didn't need to go through all of that to find some scrap of contentment.

Rosa Parks: My Story

 This item represents something very rare and difficult to accomplish.  I don't think I've ever read a book with such bare imagery, and no figurative language at all.  It is the very definition of prose: just the facts, with occasional guarded commentary.  It presented quite a challenge to teach, in fact.  What can one use such a book for?  What are the learning objectives, from a purely language arts perspective?  It's too easy.  Too clear.  

This was, no doubt, the point.  After a lifetime in the spotlight, under perilous scrutiny and beset by antagonism from every quarter, it is no surprise that Parks chose the most direct, unassailable version of her story for publication.  No digression.  No axe to grind, and no cry in the wilderness begging for release.  Just a desire to set the record straight, and perhaps to leave a definitive record of events.  

I wonder what Parks kept within her, unexpressed.  What was sacrificed in the service of this style?  What deep, philosophical truths or indelible turns of phrase lay in the ground with her?  We will never know, and clearly that is the way she wanted it.

Agatha Christie: 4:50 from Paddington

 Usually after reading a Christie, my thought is, "She did it again!  She got me!"  Even as used as I am to her mastery, and to being toyed with and manipulated, she still somehow manages to get around my canny reading, and flip me back in my chair with appreciation.  Usually.

In this one, she definitely did not do "it". Whereas the ending of her little games usually makes a delightful sense in retrospect, this one does not.  It almost seems unfair, to the extent that it was ever a game at all.  No, this one was no puzzle, and even less so an elegant and satisfying one.  It was a mere story, one that concluded with a nonplussed "huh."

Tuesday, January 16, 2024

Platoon

 Sometimes our own experience gives us unique insight and perspective that the world needs to know about.  Sometimes it blinds us to the kernel of truth and leads us astray from it.  In this movie, I would say that both are true.  Stone's own experiences in Vietnam no doubt made him uniquely qualified to create this film, and justify the existence of yet another in the "War is Hell" genre, even after Apocalypse Now should have had the final word.  Unlike that masterpiece though this film feels like it lost its way about halfway through.  I could put no finger on exactly why or where, until reading Pauline Kael's analysis: "too much poetic license, and too damn much romanticized insanity ... The movie crowds you; it doesn't leave you room for an honest emotion."  That's it exactly.  The film feels just grounded enough in authentic human experience and emotion, thanks in large part to Sheen's masterful performance, to promise something better--something real--but then loses itself in the effort to become Art.  Each piece is a part of a slightly different puzzle, and they never come together in a way that feels whole.  A good movie, but not great.

Yunus

 It is to be hoped that the return to opening with بِسْمِ اللَّهِ signifies something less of an invective than At-Tawbah.

1: It is somewhat surprising that Hulusi doesn't have much to say about opening with the mysterious الر ۚ.  Perhaps he agrees that their meaning is to remain unknown.

2: One might call this the thesis statement of the book.  In Western dialectic, it would be followed by some statement of connection or purpose, but hopes are slim for that here, and we will likely digress, only for the connection to be revealed later.

3-4: I expect to learn more about Hulusi's fixation with ق in the book that bears its name.  For now, no other translator that I am referencing seems concerned with it here.

5-6 One begins to see where this is going.  If Allah created the sun and the moon, surely it is no stretch for him to use a prophet.  There is also the hint of a theme: the cycles of life, of creation and rebirth.

7-8: Another seeming non sequitur, no doubt to be connected later.

9-10: The sense is of one unbothered by the demands of so-called unbelievers, challenging them to fuck around and find out.

11: Hulusi consistently renders لِقَآءَنَا as "returning", which is a bit of a stretch, but consistent with the themes developed earlier.

12-13: The connection: this is not the first time a prophet has come, nor the fist tiime he has been doubted and rejected.

14: A bit problematic theologically, and not unique to the Quran.  What need does the divine have to "see ho it goes"?

15-17: Sound logic, if one takes the victories of Mohamad as "signs".

18-21: So far all much sounder and gentler reproof than in previous books.  

22-24: A new expression of an existing theme, and a reminder of the bigger picture.  The mysteries of everything are revealed in nature, and there is no need for intercessors.  Allah has created the moon and the sun both.  The waves and the wind, the rain and the drought.  All of these are signs, and one must have perspective to understand them.

25: This problem of predestination and divine appointment remains problematic and unsolved.

26-29: An almost comedic takedown of the idolators

30-36: So much for idols.

37-39: A series of persuasive, but subtly fallacious, arguments: 

  1. This book is just a continuation of what has been revealed already.  It must be from Allah.
  2. You think you can do better? Go ahead.
  3. Don't forget what happened to people who didn't believe in the past . . .

40-44: A bit of protesting too much. The more you say, "I don't care," the more we suspect that you do.

45-46: A bit of support for the theme of the meeting with Allah being a return, according to the natural order.  This بِلِقَآءِ is mentioned rather a lot in this book, and I don't recall it being so phrased elsewhere.  

47: This is the argument that I would use: there is always a prophet.  If not me, then who is it?

48-52: Another more sound argument: "Oh, you want to see now, do you?  Be careful what you wish for."

53-56: Hard to see this as anything other than demagoguery though.

57: Hulusi's interpretation of رَّبِّكُمۡ opens up quite a deep well here.  If it is within us, as he maintains, then the return is simply a moment of clarity with one's self.

58-61: It remains unclear what the reasons for inventing certain proscriptions were.  

62-66: A summary of the reasons for this book: don't forbid what Allah has allowed, and don't use idols.  Eerily parallel to certain passages in the Greek scriptures. One definitely feels that this book was not entirely meant for a modern audience, and designed specifically to address concerns that are no longer relevant.

67-70: Fairly specific, and the target is clear.

71-73: I don't recall this moment in Genesis. One of my favorite things about this project is this sort of elaboration on existing stories.

74-87: This more closely parallels the Judaeo-Christian account.

88-90: I don't recall Pharaoh saying this haha.  It brings one back to the literal meaning of Muslim.

91-92: This would be more convincing if the doubters had then been summarily eaten by snakes or something, a la Moses.  This religion is less interested in such signs, however.  It considers the witness of the natural world and that of our own higher self to be sufficient.

93-97: There can be no argument against this, especially as so succinctly put in 94.

98: What good are signs?  That worked exactly once before: in Ninevah. Might as well stop asking.  Actually, this brings me a moment of pause, as I evaluate my own spiritual practice.

99-101: So problematic.  What is the point of any of this, then?

102-104: They really are asking for it . . .

105-109: Pretty solipsistic, if you ask me.  But in keeping with the overarching theme of submission.



Konstantin Paustovsky: The Story of a Life

 What am I?  More specifically, what is the "I", any I among us?  It is manifestly not the body, for I continue in the mind even when my body sleeps.  It is not even, as Sartre observes, the mind, for the mind that thinks "I am" cannot be the same I of which it thinks.  That I is the object, not the subject; it is rather a "me".  It is inextricable from the biological and social forces to which it is subjected, and maybe even from the bacteria which inhabit its body.  The only thing that can lay a claim to being the I, the subject, is that gaze which gives attention to one thing and not another.  I have found the metaphor of a finger on a keyboard to be useful:  I am not the keyboard, nor the music which it creates; I am the finger itself. I am the gaze.

Paustovsky masterfully demonstrates here that what is true for the individual philosophically is also true for the author literarily.  The author is as much subject to his body and the society in which he lives as the individual is.  It is only his gaze which is truly his own, and only by observing where and how that gaze falls can we approach understanding.  

Perhaps it is my impulse as a scholar that compels me to take this idea further, and perhaps it is my instinct as a teacher that taxonomizes it for easy consumption and lecture.  At any rate, Paustovsky's mastery and maturity eliminates the background noise, and gazes with such intention that certain functions of that gaze become clear:

  • What he attends to: the details that he chooses to observe, out of infinite details that are available.
  • What he ignores: those aspects of a scene which might have capture the attention of another author.
  • How he judges it: it is in this that Paustovsky is especially judicious.  His descriptions are usually so specific and objective, that the moments he lets an opinion or feeling in are startling and revealing.
  • When he turns his gaze inward: it is again the care with which he chooses his moments that make them stand out.  He is not prone to flights of reflection, so when he does it, the reader notices.

These are the only things the writer has to offer, and especially the autobiographer.  Everything else is noise, just as the body, and even the mind are distractions from what is real: the self, which is only a disembodied gaze. An eye for an I.

Arthur Evans: The Evans Symposium

 Inspiration is rare.  My heart feels at times deadened by existence on this plane, and even poetry feels out of my reach, let alone joy.  I am not alone in this, as a scroll through social media would easily reveal.  What does it mean, this existence?  I've even unlocked a new intrusive thought this week: "Why did I even bother to come out?  It's not as though it has made any difference."  

A posthumous thank you is due to Arthur Evans for reminding me that meaning built from institutions,  from the mechanics of existence, will always be a desiccated husk.  For millennia, we humans created meaning--and joy--from nature, and not the nature of botanical gardens, but that of the wild, virile, orgiastic forest and copse.  To find meaning, one must surrender to the dance of the Fae, of Diana and Dionysos, and whirl around like Maenads in a frenzy.  What care I that the world has no place for me?  Gay culture has become as dead and mechanical as the institutions it once defied.  

At a birthday party recently, a clutch of four queens stopped by to put in their appearances, and I was instantly uncomfortable.  It struck me that their appearances were indeed all that they brought with them, being of the performatively attractive sort that serve as representatives to the straight world these days.  As they prepared to leave the party, having completed their display, the lead hen announced, "Well, the gays have to go to the gay bar now," leaving me smirking at the assumption.  He asked me, "Do you ever go to the gay bar?" I do, but only on alternative nights when Arthur Evans and the other Radical Faeries would have joined me in shedding the veneer of respectability and frolicking.  I even dressed as The Green Man of legend on my most recent visit, and vibed with a stripper who understood the reference. 

"On a normal night?" I answered.  "Eww no."

His disgust was evident, and they departed in a dismissive "Whatever", no doubt with their own thoughts about what sort of gay I am.  It is that which I must remember: I am an Arthur Evans gay--wild, horned, and joyfully rooted in the Earth. 

Pablo Neruda: Canto General

 I'm not certain whether Latin-American writers have a special ability to put together words in exciting and unexpectedly vivid combinations, or whether this is simply a function of reading in a non-native language.  Neruda--along with Paz and Borges, among others--delights and startles on every page with the way he sees and describes the world.  It feels at times that he is just introducing words to each other, and standing back to see how they interact.  Let's conduct a little experiment, shall we?  Here is a table of the combinations on a "random" diptych, to the extent that anything is random.


noche

de un incendio


eco 

innumerable de la tierra


congoja 

de mi patria


roncos

ladridos


hebras

de soledad


rumor

de noche deshojada


tierra

nocturna


miles 

de hojas


otoño

de las uvas


racimos

Blancos, velados

dulces 

dedos


negras

uvas


pequeñas

ubres

repletas

secreto

rio

redondo

palido

libro

terrestre


rama

troncal

desnuda

forma

De copa

frios

durazneros



noche

derramada


It is amusing that I can't even cite the specific pages from which these were taken, spanning two poems, the book having closed as I type.  One can clearly see the interchangability of Neruda's descriptions, and that "desnuda tierra de un incendio" or "dulces racimos de mi patria" would be just as serviceable--and just as Neruda--as any other combination, in spite of never having occurred.  What we are left with then, is not a specific moment or vivid image that defines Neruda, but rather a corpus of words that combined reveal the soul of his epic.  He does not seem to be carefully selecting his juxtapositions--though of course he did.  He seems to be pouring everything sharp, putrid, herbaceous, and mineral together into a boiling cauldron, and letting it boil over.  

This is something of a mercy to the reader, proportionally to how closely the reader intends to look.  A scholar could, and no doubt has, devote at least an essay to, for example, Neruda's descriptions of love in "El Hondero":

"Sólo un golpe de madreselvas en la boca,

sólo unas trenzas cuyo movimiento subÍa

hacia mi soledad como una hoguera negra" (606)

 

 any one of which could be plugged into the above table and replaced with others.  Neruda states over and over, however, that he did not write to enable such analysis.  Rather, as he says in "Artigas", he writes because "Sumergí mi cabeza en tu arena y en la plata do los pejerreyes, en la clara amistad de tus hijos, en tus destartalados mercados" (251), and again in "Compañeros de Viaje": 

 

". . . buscando

Cada tarde en mi pobre poesía las ramas,

Las gotas y la luna que se habían perdido.

Acudí al fondo de ella, sumergiéndome

Cada tarde en sus aguas . . . " (609).

 

He has submerged himself in the reality of nature and humanity, and presents it to us swirling and beautiful and cruel.  Furthermore, he wants nothing back from us, as readers, scholars, or as members of the nature and the humanity he describes.  As he reveals in "Que Despierte el Leñador", 


"Yo no vengo a resolver nada.


Yo vengo aquí para cantar

y para que cantes conmigo" (473).

 

As in many works of greatness, the answer was there all along in the title.  This cauldron bubbles over in a song that Neruda cannot help but sing. It is fitting that he invokes Mayakovsky at the end of this epic in "Testamento" (636).  Like that poet, all he wants is to shine, and everything else can go hang.



Piers Anthony: Bio of a Space Tyrant Vol. 1--Refugee

 I could almost have read this for pleasure.  In fact, I could almost continue reading the other five volumes, and immerse myself in the world of Hope Hubris.  Anthony is an absolute master on several levels, here as in other works: his characters are both compelling and believable, and the world he creates is vivid and consistent.  At the end of this volume, I found myself wanting more, eager to see how each of the three siblings' stories progressed, and rooting for each of them to rise from the ashes of tragedy.  What stops me, however, is the world itself.  I don't remember Anthony being such a merciless writer.  The trauma could have stopped at any moment, and it would have been more than enough, but in this world there is no reprieve.  The only thing one can expect after trauma is more of the same, and it is no doubt intentionally ironic that the protagonist is named Hope in a world where there is none.  There is no hope for the characters, and there is none for the reader.  The only thing that could be expected from the remaining novels of this series is more rape--so much rape--and tragedy.  If I wanted to immerse myself in that world, I need only step outside.

H.P. Lovecraft: The Call of Cthulhu and Other Stories

 On the surface, it would be difficult to say why Lovecraft has commanded such an outsized influence over popular culture.  It is surely not his skill as a writer.  His prose is obscure, inconsistent, and needlessly precious.  His characterization?  Nonexistent.  Plot?  Pacing?  Almost amateurish.  He is often cited as a master of mood, but even if it were true--and I am not convinced on this point--it could scarcely be enough to account for his market share of the modern mind.  

The argument can easily be made that his philosophy matches the current moment.  What difference is there, practically speaking, between a crumbling, cruel, and ravenous world and the awakening of a ancient god?  The only natural response to either is overpowering dread.  This dread has become a hallmark of the current generation, and Lovecraft is a natural fit.  However, his influence is not sudden and recent.  It is more accurate to say that decades of influence have positioned him perfectly to speak to the current moment, and one returns to the question, "What is responsible for those decades of influence?"

If the discussion is limited to literary talent, then there is no good answer.  To understand Lovecraft, it is necessary to stop viewing him as a writer at all.  He is not, in reality, an author of fiction at all.  He is a cultural anthropologist, whose chosen subject happens to be fictional.  He is not, in this sense, to be compared to other writers with whom he shared an era: Conan Doyle, for example.  He is rather analogous to the Doyle scholar Leslie Klinger, who immersed himself in the "gentle fiction" Of Doyle's world, and made it real.  

What Klinger does for Doyle (and others), Lovecraft does for an entire dream world that exists in the human subconscious.  He takes the works of his lesser known peers (Blackwood, Machen, etc.) and sees how they are not isolated expressions of creative minds.  They are, rather part of a collective world that exists just under the surface of consciousness and in the corners of waking vision.  He then integrates them with his own half-dreaming glimpses of that world, and reveals and analyzes it with an almost scholarly attention to detail.  He even goes so far as to pin it to the greater reality in certain key places.  He does this partly with both with geographical plausibility, creating places that may well exist and mingling them with places that actually do.  In this way, he creates something like a prototypical Kcymaerxthaere, a world that is pinned to our reality, but just slightly out of phase with it. The most effective tethers to what we may perceive as reality, however, are figures like Robert Olmstead who see more of the shadows, and whisper to the reader, "What you see in the corners of your room are also real."  This is, for lack of a better explanation, what gives him such inroads into our minds.  He is not the entertainer who creates a fanciful world for us to enjoy; he is the reassuring, terrifying voice of a stranger who says, "I see it too."