If I complete at least these books this year, I shall declare it a success.
I will delete books from this list as I complete them.
Elfriede Jelinek: Die Klavierspielerin
Donald Hall: White Apples and the Taste of Stone
Psalms
Proverbs
Ecclesiastes
Song of Solomon
A Course in Miracles
Harold Pinter: Collected Plays
Theodore White: Thunder out of China
Jeffrey Eugenides: Middlesex
Doug Wright: I Am My Own Wife
Shakespeare: Titus Andronicus, , Troilus and Cressida
Murasaki: The Tale of Genji
That should do it. Everything else is frosting.
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
Orhan Pamuk: My Name is Red
My (Completely unsupported and only partially thought out) contention is that the line between mind-blowing literature and just another good book is not in the message so much as the medium. TO be specific, my favorite feeling is the electric realization that the medium of a book is, or at least is inextricably intertwined with, the message. It is on this ground that I declare My Name is Red to be MBL, well worth reading many times in succession.
One would think that all Nobel Laureates would deserve the MBL award, but not so. I was thoroughly disappointed by V.S. Naipal, and Gao Xingjian was too . . . well, nobody reads this. Why not say it? Chinese. but Pamuk does nearly everything right, thus restoring my faith in Norway. To begin with, he does exactly what one should do with a book about art of any kind: make the structure of the book--the medium--reflect the content of the art being discussed. Therefore, while My Name is Red discusses illuminators, textual illustrators, during the rule of the Ottoman Empire, Pamuk sets the book in a series of textual portraits. His mastery of voice makes each character completely compelling in his or her own right. The effect is of leafing through a beautifully illuminated manuscript--without pictures.
As the book develops, the reader is asked to piece the various first-person narratives together to get an accurate picture of what happens. Pamuk makes several inspired turns on this basic idea, and each adds to the depth of the novel. For one thing, several of the narrators are avowedly unreliable. While Shekure often edits herself or changes her mind about what happened, one of the characters writes in two voices. In one guise, he confesses that his other narrative is filled with lies. In all of these fragments, the narrators speak tot he reader in the second person. They are keenly aware of their audience, and work to manipulate the opinion of whoever happens to be holding the book. This cannot fail to draw the reader into the story, to engage him or her with the mystery, the love story and the deeper messages of the text. Since the book is speaking to "You", you cannot help but answer.
But the deepest moments don't come from the story at all, but from those chapters narrated by the pictures themselves. Death, Satan, a gold coin, and a dog all have something to contribute to the tale, and, as the most objective storytellers, offer the most insight. Nowhere is this more true than in the semi-eponymous chapter "I Am Red". Narrated by the very color, this chapter unlocks the entire rest of the novel. Red reminds us that it is everywhere: "the wings of angels, the lips of maidens, the death wounds of corpses and severed heads bespeckled with blood" (186). How appropriate, then, that when Enishte Effendi dies, he ascends to a heaven that is not colored red, it is redness itself. In his encounter with the redness of God, Ensishte wonders if he will be unished for painting in the style of the infidel Franks. "East and West belong to me" is the reply (228). Red is everywhere.
In a final turn of the narration, Pamuk iinserts himself into the story. By cleverly mentioning Shekure's son Orhan only in passing, Pamuk makes sure that the reader does not make the connectionwith his own name until the last few pages. In those pages, he reveals that it is he, Orhan Shekure's son from the 16th century, that has been writing. Orhan, his mother tells us, has no gift for painting and "is foolish enough to be logical in all matters" (412). It falls to him to present the story of his family in the only way he can, in a brilliant, intricate novel. Knowing this, now I have to read it again.
One would think that all Nobel Laureates would deserve the MBL award, but not so. I was thoroughly disappointed by V.S. Naipal, and Gao Xingjian was too . . . well, nobody reads this. Why not say it? Chinese. but Pamuk does nearly everything right, thus restoring my faith in Norway. To begin with, he does exactly what one should do with a book about art of any kind: make the structure of the book--the medium--reflect the content of the art being discussed. Therefore, while My Name is Red discusses illuminators, textual illustrators, during the rule of the Ottoman Empire, Pamuk sets the book in a series of textual portraits. His mastery of voice makes each character completely compelling in his or her own right. The effect is of leafing through a beautifully illuminated manuscript--without pictures.
As the book develops, the reader is asked to piece the various first-person narratives together to get an accurate picture of what happens. Pamuk makes several inspired turns on this basic idea, and each adds to the depth of the novel. For one thing, several of the narrators are avowedly unreliable. While Shekure often edits herself or changes her mind about what happened, one of the characters writes in two voices. In one guise, he confesses that his other narrative is filled with lies. In all of these fragments, the narrators speak tot he reader in the second person. They are keenly aware of their audience, and work to manipulate the opinion of whoever happens to be holding the book. This cannot fail to draw the reader into the story, to engage him or her with the mystery, the love story and the deeper messages of the text. Since the book is speaking to "You", you cannot help but answer.
But the deepest moments don't come from the story at all, but from those chapters narrated by the pictures themselves. Death, Satan, a gold coin, and a dog all have something to contribute to the tale, and, as the most objective storytellers, offer the most insight. Nowhere is this more true than in the semi-eponymous chapter "I Am Red". Narrated by the very color, this chapter unlocks the entire rest of the novel. Red reminds us that it is everywhere: "the wings of angels, the lips of maidens, the death wounds of corpses and severed heads bespeckled with blood" (186). How appropriate, then, that when Enishte Effendi dies, he ascends to a heaven that is not colored red, it is redness itself. In his encounter with the redness of God, Ensishte wonders if he will be unished for painting in the style of the infidel Franks. "East and West belong to me" is the reply (228). Red is everywhere.
In a final turn of the narration, Pamuk iinserts himself into the story. By cleverly mentioning Shekure's son Orhan only in passing, Pamuk makes sure that the reader does not make the connectionwith his own name until the last few pages. In those pages, he reveals that it is he, Orhan Shekure's son from the 16th century, that has been writing. Orhan, his mother tells us, has no gift for painting and "is foolish enough to be logical in all matters" (412). It falls to him to present the story of his family in the only way he can, in a brilliant, intricate novel. Knowing this, now I have to read it again.
Monday, January 15, 2007
First books of 2007
Tom Stoppard: The Real Inspector Hound and After Magritte
I think I did Stoppard a disservice when I read him in college. Of course, it was partly a survival technique to speeze texts in order to get every drop of mening out of them, but now that the pressure is off, I find that meaning is overrated. What has annoyed me at arat shows and museums for ages has now come to annot me about literature as well, namely the hunt for the message. The question should be, "Is it pleasing?". Instead, the question is, "What was the artist trying to say?". Blech. It's art, not an essay. Why does it have to say anything?
Which brings me to these little gems. For all my talk in college about how Stoppard was trying to make a statement about the line between fantasy and reality, or the question of identity, these are really just plain fun. Stoppard himself says that "neither play is about anything grander than itself. A friendly critic described Hound as being as auseful as an ivory Mickey Mouse. After Magritte may be slightly less useful than that . . . the 'role of the theatre' is much debated (by almost nobody, of course), but the thing defines itself in practice first and foremost as recreation. This seems satisfactory."
Li Po and Tu Fu
In preparation for my big project on Ondra Lysohorsky, I picked up this item, works of two authors in one volume. Lysohorsky repeatedly refers to Li Po as a kindred spirit, so I thought there might be some useful insight here. What turned out to be of most interest, though, was not Li Po's work itself, but the side by side comparison of both authors. The editor, the late Arthur Cooper, has cleverly set up a dialectic between the two, framing Li Po as the consummate Taoist poet and his compatriot Tu Fu as a Confucianist master. And the distinction is well observed. The difference in tone, subject matter and style is consistent with the frames into which Cooper has put the two artists.
Which raises the question, to whom can Lysohorsky be similarly compared? Since he and Li Po both stick to the "dream vision" type of poetry, which of his peers is the corresponding Tu Fu? Perhaps W.H. Auden, with whom Lysohorsky carried on a friendship is a candidate, though I would have to look even further to validate such a claim.
Academics aside, as per my earlier post, it is interesting that, although I bought the book to read Li Po, I enjoyed Tu Fu quite a bit more. Both are held in great regard in China, being seen as possibly the greatest poets in millenia of Chinese literature, but I found Li Po's random musings a bit unsatisfying. Where Li Po merely observes something and describes it poetically, Tu Fu draws out the observation, adds his own thoughts, and generally connects to the reader a bit more. It is only natural that the Taoist should have a more relaxed approach, but Li Po's famous five-syllable poems can't help but lose most of their meaning in translation. Or maybe I'm lazy.
Liang Heng and Judith Shapiro: Son of the Revolution
I think I did Stoppard a disservice when I read him in college. Of course, it was partly a survival technique to speeze texts in order to get every drop of mening out of them, but now that the pressure is off, I find that meaning is overrated. What has annoyed me at arat shows and museums for ages has now come to annot me about literature as well, namely the hunt for the message. The question should be, "Is it pleasing?". Instead, the question is, "What was the artist trying to say?". Blech. It's art, not an essay. Why does it have to say anything?
Which brings me to these little gems. For all my talk in college about how Stoppard was trying to make a statement about the line between fantasy and reality, or the question of identity, these are really just plain fun. Stoppard himself says that "neither play is about anything grander than itself. A friendly critic described Hound as being as auseful as an ivory Mickey Mouse. After Magritte may be slightly less useful than that . . . the 'role of the theatre' is much debated (by almost nobody, of course), but the thing defines itself in practice first and foremost as recreation. This seems satisfactory."
Li Po and Tu Fu
In preparation for my big project on Ondra Lysohorsky, I picked up this item, works of two authors in one volume. Lysohorsky repeatedly refers to Li Po as a kindred spirit, so I thought there might be some useful insight here. What turned out to be of most interest, though, was not Li Po's work itself, but the side by side comparison of both authors. The editor, the late Arthur Cooper, has cleverly set up a dialectic between the two, framing Li Po as the consummate Taoist poet and his compatriot Tu Fu as a Confucianist master. And the distinction is well observed. The difference in tone, subject matter and style is consistent with the frames into which Cooper has put the two artists.
Which raises the question, to whom can Lysohorsky be similarly compared? Since he and Li Po both stick to the "dream vision" type of poetry, which of his peers is the corresponding Tu Fu? Perhaps W.H. Auden, with whom Lysohorsky carried on a friendship is a candidate, though I would have to look even further to validate such a claim.
Academics aside, as per my earlier post, it is interesting that, although I bought the book to read Li Po, I enjoyed Tu Fu quite a bit more. Both are held in great regard in China, being seen as possibly the greatest poets in millenia of Chinese literature, but I found Li Po's random musings a bit unsatisfying. Where Li Po merely observes something and describes it poetically, Tu Fu draws out the observation, adds his own thoughts, and generally connects to the reader a bit more. It is only natural that the Taoist should have a more relaxed approach, but Li Po's famous five-syllable poems can't help but lose most of their meaning in translation. Or maybe I'm lazy.
Liang Heng and Judith Shapiro: Son of the Revolution
This item falls under the "books I pretended to have read in college" category, but also into the growing trend in my reading habits to read material that focuses on chinese culture. This first-hand account of the events surrounding the Cultural Revolution of the 1960s is neither self-conscious nor melodramatic in its narrative, flaws to which many personal suffering accounts fall prey. At the same time, it seems genuinely sympathetic to the reforms enacted by Deng Xiaoping, and ends on a note that does not criticize the Chinese givernment, a surprising move that may have been politically motivated but keeps the book from wallowing. The only fault that I can relate is that it is a bit shallow and light, so caveat emptor.
Monday, January 01, 2007
Final Post of 2006
Exodus
Reading this book was enough to convince me of two things. Firstly, I don't relaly feel like reading the Bible for a while. Secondly, the god of the Bible, whoever whatever he is, is a racist, misogynist, bloodthirsty, unworshippable demon.
Geraldine Brooks: March
It's amazing the sort of amateurish, preachy nonsense will net the author a Pulitzer. As I read this, I couldn't help but think that everyone is excessively noble: the title character, the slaves whom he attempts to help, even the children are all self-sacrificing, idealogical, and utter caricatures. I kept hoping that Brooks wasn't serious, that she didn't really mean for the reader to accept these ludicrous characters--especially since she took the bilious liberty of appropriating characters from Little Women. I kept expecting it to take a turn for the cynical, and therby transform into an interesting parody of historical fiction, but I waited in vain. Nobody is this noble. Even the obligatory flaws in the characters were noble flaws. It felt like interviewing a job applicant, and when asked the question, "What do you see as your chief fault?" having them answer, "I work too hard."
Lin Yutang: The Importance of Living
I am really beginning to trust Phillip Ward's Lifetime of Reading. He has clued me in to some wonderful volumes, and this is among them. He has a remarkable gift for expressing the Chinese mentality in Western terms and putting life and religion in perspective. A proud pagan, Lin makes such cleansing observations as "I consider the education of our senses and our e3motions rather more important than the education of our ideas," and The trouble with orthodox religion is that , in its process of historical development, it got mixed up with a number of things strictly outside religion's moral realm--physics, geology, the conception of sex and woman."
The book is, as I percieve it, divided into three parts: one useful, one detestable, and one sublime. One of the most useful functions Lin performs is to summarize the high points of Chinese thought. This is not so useful as a replacement for stusy,, but rather to clue the reader in to ancient masters with whom he or she might have a special affinity. As for me, I felt drawn to "The Philosophy of Half and Half," a "compounding of Taoist cynicism with a Confucian positive outlook" by Conficius' descendant Tsesse. After all, as pure and truthful as the path of the Tao is, a life lived in seclusion is no life at all. This balanced outlook fits nicely with Lin's summary of the healthy Chinese national character: a playful curiosity mixed with a healthy sense of humor and a habit of dreaming, along with a tendency to be wayward, or a bit of a scamp.
Lin takes a turn for the unpleasant whenever he dwells on the specific pleasures of life. He tries to hide his sexism with such revealing arguments as "Conversation is always pleasantly stimlulated when there are a few ladies who know how to listen and look sweetly pensive". And his list of the most rewarding activities one can pursue includes sitting around, sleeping in, and smoking at every opportunity. I think I shall choose to forget these passages exist.
But, despite these glaring flaws, Lin occasionally touches on the sublime, and I think I shall always be influenced by his advice to search for the writer with whom I have a special affinity and treat him [or her. grrr.] like a lover. Needless to say, mine is not Lin Yutang.
Ondra Lysohorsky: In the Eye of the Storm
One of my New Year's resolutions is to write this book up in the manner it deserves. To do this will require more thought and research than I have given it at present.
BTD, 2006: 67
Reading this book was enough to convince me of two things. Firstly, I don't relaly feel like reading the Bible for a while. Secondly, the god of the Bible, whoever whatever he is, is a racist, misogynist, bloodthirsty, unworshippable demon.
Geraldine Brooks: March
It's amazing the sort of amateurish, preachy nonsense will net the author a Pulitzer. As I read this, I couldn't help but think that everyone is excessively noble: the title character, the slaves whom he attempts to help, even the children are all self-sacrificing, idealogical, and utter caricatures. I kept hoping that Brooks wasn't serious, that she didn't really mean for the reader to accept these ludicrous characters--especially since she took the bilious liberty of appropriating characters from Little Women. I kept expecting it to take a turn for the cynical, and therby transform into an interesting parody of historical fiction, but I waited in vain. Nobody is this noble. Even the obligatory flaws in the characters were noble flaws. It felt like interviewing a job applicant, and when asked the question, "What do you see as your chief fault?" having them answer, "I work too hard."
Lin Yutang: The Importance of Living
I am really beginning to trust Phillip Ward's Lifetime of Reading. He has clued me in to some wonderful volumes, and this is among them. He has a remarkable gift for expressing the Chinese mentality in Western terms and putting life and religion in perspective. A proud pagan, Lin makes such cleansing observations as "I consider the education of our senses and our e3motions rather more important than the education of our ideas," and The trouble with orthodox religion is that , in its process of historical development, it got mixed up with a number of things strictly outside religion's moral realm--physics, geology, the conception of sex and woman."
The book is, as I percieve it, divided into three parts: one useful, one detestable, and one sublime. One of the most useful functions Lin performs is to summarize the high points of Chinese thought. This is not so useful as a replacement for stusy,, but rather to clue the reader in to ancient masters with whom he or she might have a special affinity. As for me, I felt drawn to "The Philosophy of Half and Half," a "compounding of Taoist cynicism with a Confucian positive outlook" by Conficius' descendant Tsesse. After all, as pure and truthful as the path of the Tao is, a life lived in seclusion is no life at all. This balanced outlook fits nicely with Lin's summary of the healthy Chinese national character: a playful curiosity mixed with a healthy sense of humor and a habit of dreaming, along with a tendency to be wayward, or a bit of a scamp.
Lin takes a turn for the unpleasant whenever he dwells on the specific pleasures of life. He tries to hide his sexism with such revealing arguments as "Conversation is always pleasantly stimlulated when there are a few ladies who know how to listen and look sweetly pensive". And his list of the most rewarding activities one can pursue includes sitting around, sleeping in, and smoking at every opportunity. I think I shall choose to forget these passages exist.
But, despite these glaring flaws, Lin occasionally touches on the sublime, and I think I shall always be influenced by his advice to search for the writer with whom I have a special affinity and treat him [or her. grrr.] like a lover. Needless to say, mine is not Lin Yutang.
Ondra Lysohorsky: In the Eye of the Storm
One of my New Year's resolutions is to write this book up in the manner it deserves. To do this will require more thought and research than I have given it at present.
BTD, 2006: 67
Sunday, November 12, 2006
Don't Judge Me.
Yes, I have not been reading lately and am, therefore, a bad person. But you simply don't realize how time consuming being a teacher is. If you count the 500 papers I have to grade every week, I have been doing more reading than you.
Richard Russo: Empire Falls
this book got off to an amazing, hopeful start, which made the sluggish, awkward middle that much more disappointing. Russo clearly has a great grasp of what makes literature. The book is packed with nice imagery, layered meaning, and tightly packed themes that make one wish it was better written. I watched a painful travesty of a play the other night, one that stemmed from the abortive notion that being a theater critic makes one qualified to also write plays. David Skolnick, by the way. Miss it at all costs. But Empire Falls suffers from a similar problem. Russo simply can't write believable dialogue. Every time a character opens his or her mouth, one gets the impression that Empire Falls is peopled with greeting card writers. Thank goodness that the book ended on as powerful a note as it began. If one can overlook the writing and focus on the content, Empire Falls is a real delight.
Toni Morrison: The Bluest Eye
I was supposed to have read this in college. Better late than never. Although the book is wonderfully epigrammatic and powerfully vivd, I can't help but agree with Morrison's own criticism of it. It doesn't quite work the way she wanted it to, she writes in the Afterword. The broken structure doesn't come create the effect she intended, and the theme is just short of consistent. Still, I don't regret reading it for an instant, and would do so again, which is a rare compliment.
Genesis
I am astonished at all that I failed to recognize when reading this as a fundamentalist. These men are nasty, greedy, vindictive, lustful liars. Whose idea was it to emulate them? This said with the exception of Joseph, whose powers of divination would have gotten him excommunicated in the church where I grew up.
Alfred, Lord Tennyson: English Idyls and Other Poems
I could go on at length about the rich variety of love about which Tennyson writes, or about the sincerity of his passion, or the seeming ease with which he writes in the voice of characters wildly different in background, occupation and gender from hhis own. But it would be exhausting. If anything, I lke Tennyson too much. When I teach poetry to my students next semester, I anticipate that he will appear in the curriculum more often than is probably wise.
I will offer this obscure excerpt, appropriate as it is to the current political climate:
That these two parties still divide the world--
Of those that want, and those that have; and still
The same old sore breaks out from age to age
With much the same result.
(Walking to the Mail)
And this one, to which I personally relate:
Let this avail, just, dreaful, mighty God,
This not be all in vain, that thrice ten years,
Thrice multiplied by superhuman pangs,
In hungers and in thirsts, fevers and cold,
In coughs and aches, stiches, ulcerous throes and cramps,
A sign betwixt the meadow and the cloud
Patient on this tall pillar I have borne.
(Saint Simeon Stylites)
BTD: 63. At least I've read more than a book a week. Don't judge me.
Richard Russo: Empire Falls
this book got off to an amazing, hopeful start, which made the sluggish, awkward middle that much more disappointing. Russo clearly has a great grasp of what makes literature. The book is packed with nice imagery, layered meaning, and tightly packed themes that make one wish it was better written. I watched a painful travesty of a play the other night, one that stemmed from the abortive notion that being a theater critic makes one qualified to also write plays. David Skolnick, by the way. Miss it at all costs. But Empire Falls suffers from a similar problem. Russo simply can't write believable dialogue. Every time a character opens his or her mouth, one gets the impression that Empire Falls is peopled with greeting card writers. Thank goodness that the book ended on as powerful a note as it began. If one can overlook the writing and focus on the content, Empire Falls is a real delight.
Toni Morrison: The Bluest Eye
I was supposed to have read this in college. Better late than never. Although the book is wonderfully epigrammatic and powerfully vivd, I can't help but agree with Morrison's own criticism of it. It doesn't quite work the way she wanted it to, she writes in the Afterword. The broken structure doesn't come create the effect she intended, and the theme is just short of consistent. Still, I don't regret reading it for an instant, and would do so again, which is a rare compliment.
Genesis
I am astonished at all that I failed to recognize when reading this as a fundamentalist. These men are nasty, greedy, vindictive, lustful liars. Whose idea was it to emulate them? This said with the exception of Joseph, whose powers of divination would have gotten him excommunicated in the church where I grew up.
Alfred, Lord Tennyson: English Idyls and Other Poems
I could go on at length about the rich variety of love about which Tennyson writes, or about the sincerity of his passion, or the seeming ease with which he writes in the voice of characters wildly different in background, occupation and gender from hhis own. But it would be exhausting. If anything, I lke Tennyson too much. When I teach poetry to my students next semester, I anticipate that he will appear in the curriculum more often than is probably wise.
I will offer this obscure excerpt, appropriate as it is to the current political climate:
That these two parties still divide the world--
Of those that want, and those that have; and still
The same old sore breaks out from age to age
With much the same result.
(Walking to the Mail)
And this one, to which I personally relate:
Let this avail, just, dreaful, mighty God,
This not be all in vain, that thrice ten years,
Thrice multiplied by superhuman pangs,
In hungers and in thirsts, fevers and cold,
In coughs and aches, stiches, ulcerous throes and cramps,
A sign betwixt the meadow and the cloud
Patient on this tall pillar I have borne.
(Saint Simeon Stylites)
BTD: 63. At least I've read more than a book a week. Don't judge me.
Monday, September 04, 2006
Menage a Quatre
Truman Capote: In Cold Blood
Sister should have stuck to being a journalist. This book has all the markings of a Sunday Times Supplement stretched out to book length. Which is not to say that the topic is uninteresting, simply that turning it into a novel made it seem hokey and forced. The least he could have done is give it some recurring theme, but all he managed to do was color inside the lines that were already there.
4 Maccabees
It is especially interesting to read parallel accounts of the same event. I'm not sure Jesus would have turned out to be such a celebrity if we had only one man's version of his life, but we have four and Voila! A rock star is born. It is, by the same token, interesting to reread the account of seven young men's brutal but inspiring deaths from 2 Maccabees from a different perspective. I don't mean to imply that there was another eyewitness to the fact--it is likely mythical. Rather, it is interesting to see the shift from Hebrew mysticism to Greek rationalism, and how it affects the telling of a story. In 2 Maccabees, the youths' deaths are inspiring as examples of faith, a la Hananiah, Mishael and Azariah. But in this later, more Greek version, the story is almost told as a Socratic dialogue, the purpose of which is to demonstrate the superiority of reason over emotion. And form meets function here, for the second telling is sterile, rational, and uneffacing.
William Shakespeare: The Comedy of Errors
This was a pleasant surprise. I expected another irritating, convoluted comedy along the lines of Twelfth Night, but instead found a clear plot and enough layered meaning to interest a scholar without hindering a casual observer. I especially liked the symbolism of the chain, and should really reread the play to see how the possesion of the chain affects each character. My working theory of Shakespeare is that each play exists in an alternate universe with slightly different rules of physics. In The Comedy of Errors, as in no other Shakespearean play that I can make mention of, the rule is rhyming=proximity. The closer a character is to another, the more likely he or she is to rhyme while speaking to him or her. In fact, rhyming becomes a game, especially between siblings. I'm not sure why that's important, but it certainly gives the play more tint :)
Jack Shaeffer: Shane
I read this book back when I was in middle school, and now I'm having my students read it. What better time to revisit an old friend? As I remembered, it is a well written book, but I certainly don't remember all the sexual tension between the three adults in the book. Is there a doctoral thesis in there somewhere?
Sister should have stuck to being a journalist. This book has all the markings of a Sunday Times Supplement stretched out to book length. Which is not to say that the topic is uninteresting, simply that turning it into a novel made it seem hokey and forced. The least he could have done is give it some recurring theme, but all he managed to do was color inside the lines that were already there.
4 Maccabees
It is especially interesting to read parallel accounts of the same event. I'm not sure Jesus would have turned out to be such a celebrity if we had only one man's version of his life, but we have four and Voila! A rock star is born. It is, by the same token, interesting to reread the account of seven young men's brutal but inspiring deaths from 2 Maccabees from a different perspective. I don't mean to imply that there was another eyewitness to the fact--it is likely mythical. Rather, it is interesting to see the shift from Hebrew mysticism to Greek rationalism, and how it affects the telling of a story. In 2 Maccabees, the youths' deaths are inspiring as examples of faith, a la Hananiah, Mishael and Azariah. But in this later, more Greek version, the story is almost told as a Socratic dialogue, the purpose of which is to demonstrate the superiority of reason over emotion. And form meets function here, for the second telling is sterile, rational, and uneffacing.
William Shakespeare: The Comedy of Errors
This was a pleasant surprise. I expected another irritating, convoluted comedy along the lines of Twelfth Night, but instead found a clear plot and enough layered meaning to interest a scholar without hindering a casual observer. I especially liked the symbolism of the chain, and should really reread the play to see how the possesion of the chain affects each character. My working theory of Shakespeare is that each play exists in an alternate universe with slightly different rules of physics. In The Comedy of Errors, as in no other Shakespearean play that I can make mention of, the rule is rhyming=proximity. The closer a character is to another, the more likely he or she is to rhyme while speaking to him or her. In fact, rhyming becomes a game, especially between siblings. I'm not sure why that's important, but it certainly gives the play more tint :)
Jack Shaeffer: Shane
I read this book back when I was in middle school, and now I'm having my students read it. What better time to revisit an old friend? As I remembered, it is a well written book, but I certainly don't remember all the sexual tension between the three adults in the book. Is there a doctoral thesis in there somewhere?
Saturday, August 12, 2006
Maxim Gorky: The Lower Depths and Other Plays
Maxim Gorky is to Anton Chekov as Vaclav Havel is to Samuel Beckett. That is to say, he does what Chekov does well--perhaps with a bit less flair--, but refrains from what makes Chekov annoying. In the case of Havel and Beckett, just to illustrate, Havel uses the absurdly meaningless to create deep meaning just as Beckett does, but doesn't infuriate the reader/viewer with seemingly arbitrary stupidity.
Most would agree that Chekov is king of complex characterization, but I would put Gorky only slightly lower on that scale. His people are so delightfully epigrammatic and layered, and, as in Chekov, each sentence is pointed and revealing. At the same time, Gorky's work doesn't seem to feel so ponderous and unresolved as Chekov's. While carrying the same hint of the fundamental distance between people, he also has something to say about Russian culture without being apocalyptic. The idea that flows throughout the three plays in this collection is that peole, particularly Russian people, "live in a convulsion of ideas" (The Zykovs, act II). In Russia, "everything is caught on the wing". As a result, Tatyana in Enemies comments that life is "an amateur performance--the parts are badly cast, there are players of no talent, the acting is terrible-- and you can't make out what the script is all about" (Act I). Who has not felt like this? Well done, Gorky. Now cut back on the profusion of characters and you'll have a resurgence that will leave Eugene O'neill in the dust.
BTD:55
Most would agree that Chekov is king of complex characterization, but I would put Gorky only slightly lower on that scale. His people are so delightfully epigrammatic and layered, and, as in Chekov, each sentence is pointed and revealing. At the same time, Gorky's work doesn't seem to feel so ponderous and unresolved as Chekov's. While carrying the same hint of the fundamental distance between people, he also has something to say about Russian culture without being apocalyptic. The idea that flows throughout the three plays in this collection is that peole, particularly Russian people, "live in a convulsion of ideas" (The Zykovs, act II). In Russia, "everything is caught on the wing". As a result, Tatyana in Enemies comments that life is "an amateur performance--the parts are badly cast, there are players of no talent, the acting is terrible-- and you can't make out what the script is all about" (Act I). Who has not felt like this? Well done, Gorky. Now cut back on the profusion of characters and you'll have a resurgence that will leave Eugene O'neill in the dust.
BTD:55
Monday, July 31, 2006
Catchy Heading
Aristotle: De Poetica
I read this little item in anticipation of a stagecraft workshop I went to recently. I have worked with the speaker, Tom Lindblade, before and he is the best director I have ever met. He insists, as part of his directorial approach, that all theater, and in particular all acting, begins with Aristotle's Poetics. Naturally, I wanted to read more so that I would understand what he would speak about at this workshop. Imagine my surprise at learning that this supposedly seminal work is only thirty pages long. Furthermore, it spends the bulk of those scant pages iterating the difference between comedy and tragedy, between epic and dramatic poetry, and making other trivial distinctions. The one piece of useful information I gleaned was that the plot--or as Stanislavsky later clarified, the intention--is the first thing about any theatrical work. Second in importance is the character, followed by the thought or, in more modern terms, the meaning, the diction or language, and the song, which I take to mean the artistic embellishments. I believe this to be an entirely accurate and helpful hierarchy. As an actor, I tend to put the character first--ending up with what amounts to a caricature. An as an English major, I tend to consider the thought and the diction next in importance. It would probably be helpful not to ignore that which Aristotle thought most significant.
David Edmonds and John Eidinow: Wittgenstein's Poker
I suppose I should give this book a demerit for false advertising. I expected it to contain, as it claimed, an account of the notorious clash between philosophers Karl Popper and Ludwig Wittgenstein. Instead, all it has to say about the eponymous event is that nobody really knows what was said, although Popper seemed to think he emerged from the encounter victoriously.
Which is not to say that the book was without interest entirely, simply that it contained little philosophy. Instead, it detailed the very interesting personal histories of the two men, highlighting the many parallels. For instance, both were of Jewish descent and living in Vienna near the time of the Anschluss. The primary difference lay in the fact that the Wittgensteins were the Rockefellers of Austria-Hungary, and the Poppers were only respectably middle class. It is no wonder that Popper seemed to hold a personal vendetta against Wittgenstein when one considers that the former lost many family members during the holocaust and that the latter's family was able to preserve itself with its vast wealth.
And I suppose I did learn a bit about the two men's respective philosphies. Popper seemed preoccupied with so-called philosophical problems, such as that of induction, while Wittgenstein insisted that such problems did not exist and were simply tricks of language. I suppose neither side is particularly interesting to me, since I fail to see the practical relevance of such arguments. I am more of a Utilitarian, if you care about labels. I will say this for Ludwig, though. The point of philospohy may indeed be, as he put it, "To show the fly the way out of the bottle."
1 Esdras
What can one say about those books of the Bible which I call the list-books. Numbers, Leviticus, and likewise 1 Esdras, are so largely compsed of family lineages that any message they carry is almost completely obscured. I will say this: those glimpses of the man Ezra which the book grants are nice additions and serve as flavor to earlier books where he is only briefly outlined.
The Prayer of Manasseh
By the same token, this fleeting glimpse into one of my favorite characters in the Bible is savory indeed.
Psalm 151
One wonders if a Hebrew copyist simply limited the book of Psalms to 150 because he had OCD. Whether authentically written by David or not, this addition is touching and meaningful.
3 Maccabees
In the parable of the ungrateful slave, the character Christ spoke of a servant who was forgiven an enormous debt and subsequently raged against a fellow slave who owed him comparatively little. Although I'm sure the book of 3 Maccabees was not meant to paint the Israelites in such a light, such was the effect on this reader. Rescued by their God from imminent eradication (again), they pivot on one foot and execute all those of their number who "transgressed the divine commandments" (7:11). Not only is this the same kind of elitism from which they were rescued, but their reasoning is the same as their persecutors'. The Israelites were accused of being subversive due to "the ill-will [they] had toward all nations" (7:4). Their accusation against those of their own number was that "they would never be favorably disposed toward the king's government" (7:11). What ungrateful slaves. I would have smitten them if I was God.
2 Esdras
"And now I see that the world to come will bring delight to few, but torments to many" (7:47). This objection of Ezra to his prophetic visions is a persistent theme through 2 Esdras, and one never fully answered. The allegorical wild beats shown to Ezra, while of the same flavor as those shown to Daniel and John, are never explicated. God was kind enough to tell Daniel that the four-headed leopard meant Greece, the goat Medo-Persia, etc. But Ezra seems to awake from his visions confused. How frustrating it must have been to hear as the answer to his plea for understanding, "If, therefore, you will pray again and fast again for seven days, I will again declare to you things greater than these" (6:31). Always the angel Uriel replies with an instruction to fast for seven more days. At least on the fourth set of seven days, by which point Ezra must have been famished, the angel allowed him to eat wildflowers. But the answer is never given. Why must the vast majority of mankind be destroyed in the fiery wrath of a vengeful God? Are not all men equally guilty? "Quite so, Ezra," seems to be the reply. "But why?" he asks. "Quite so, Ezra."
BTD:54
I read this little item in anticipation of a stagecraft workshop I went to recently. I have worked with the speaker, Tom Lindblade, before and he is the best director I have ever met. He insists, as part of his directorial approach, that all theater, and in particular all acting, begins with Aristotle's Poetics. Naturally, I wanted to read more so that I would understand what he would speak about at this workshop. Imagine my surprise at learning that this supposedly seminal work is only thirty pages long. Furthermore, it spends the bulk of those scant pages iterating the difference between comedy and tragedy, between epic and dramatic poetry, and making other trivial distinctions. The one piece of useful information I gleaned was that the plot--or as Stanislavsky later clarified, the intention--is the first thing about any theatrical work. Second in importance is the character, followed by the thought or, in more modern terms, the meaning, the diction or language, and the song, which I take to mean the artistic embellishments. I believe this to be an entirely accurate and helpful hierarchy. As an actor, I tend to put the character first--ending up with what amounts to a caricature. An as an English major, I tend to consider the thought and the diction next in importance. It would probably be helpful not to ignore that which Aristotle thought most significant.
David Edmonds and John Eidinow: Wittgenstein's Poker
I suppose I should give this book a demerit for false advertising. I expected it to contain, as it claimed, an account of the notorious clash between philosophers Karl Popper and Ludwig Wittgenstein. Instead, all it has to say about the eponymous event is that nobody really knows what was said, although Popper seemed to think he emerged from the encounter victoriously.
Which is not to say that the book was without interest entirely, simply that it contained little philosophy. Instead, it detailed the very interesting personal histories of the two men, highlighting the many parallels. For instance, both were of Jewish descent and living in Vienna near the time of the Anschluss. The primary difference lay in the fact that the Wittgensteins were the Rockefellers of Austria-Hungary, and the Poppers were only respectably middle class. It is no wonder that Popper seemed to hold a personal vendetta against Wittgenstein when one considers that the former lost many family members during the holocaust and that the latter's family was able to preserve itself with its vast wealth.
And I suppose I did learn a bit about the two men's respective philosphies. Popper seemed preoccupied with so-called philosophical problems, such as that of induction, while Wittgenstein insisted that such problems did not exist and were simply tricks of language. I suppose neither side is particularly interesting to me, since I fail to see the practical relevance of such arguments. I am more of a Utilitarian, if you care about labels. I will say this for Ludwig, though. The point of philospohy may indeed be, as he put it, "To show the fly the way out of the bottle."
1 Esdras
What can one say about those books of the Bible which I call the list-books. Numbers, Leviticus, and likewise 1 Esdras, are so largely compsed of family lineages that any message they carry is almost completely obscured. I will say this: those glimpses of the man Ezra which the book grants are nice additions and serve as flavor to earlier books where he is only briefly outlined.
The Prayer of Manasseh
By the same token, this fleeting glimpse into one of my favorite characters in the Bible is savory indeed.
Psalm 151
One wonders if a Hebrew copyist simply limited the book of Psalms to 150 because he had OCD. Whether authentically written by David or not, this addition is touching and meaningful.
3 Maccabees
In the parable of the ungrateful slave, the character Christ spoke of a servant who was forgiven an enormous debt and subsequently raged against a fellow slave who owed him comparatively little. Although I'm sure the book of 3 Maccabees was not meant to paint the Israelites in such a light, such was the effect on this reader. Rescued by their God from imminent eradication (again), they pivot on one foot and execute all those of their number who "transgressed the divine commandments" (7:11). Not only is this the same kind of elitism from which they were rescued, but their reasoning is the same as their persecutors'. The Israelites were accused of being subversive due to "the ill-will [they] had toward all nations" (7:4). Their accusation against those of their own number was that "they would never be favorably disposed toward the king's government" (7:11). What ungrateful slaves. I would have smitten them if I was God.
2 Esdras
"And now I see that the world to come will bring delight to few, but torments to many" (7:47). This objection of Ezra to his prophetic visions is a persistent theme through 2 Esdras, and one never fully answered. The allegorical wild beats shown to Ezra, while of the same flavor as those shown to Daniel and John, are never explicated. God was kind enough to tell Daniel that the four-headed leopard meant Greece, the goat Medo-Persia, etc. But Ezra seems to awake from his visions confused. How frustrating it must have been to hear as the answer to his plea for understanding, "If, therefore, you will pray again and fast again for seven days, I will again declare to you things greater than these" (6:31). Always the angel Uriel replies with an instruction to fast for seven more days. At least on the fourth set of seven days, by which point Ezra must have been famished, the angel allowed him to eat wildflowers. But the answer is never given. Why must the vast majority of mankind be destroyed in the fiery wrath of a vengeful God? Are not all men equally guilty? "Quite so, Ezra," seems to be the reply. "But why?" he asks. "Quite so, Ezra."
BTD:54
Monday, July 10, 2006
Imre Kertesz: Fateless
I bought this book five years ago during a short-lived period of determination to read a work by every Nobel laureate. As usual, I didn't read it until I was meant to. Kertesz's work resonates with recent experiences of my own as it could not possibly have years ago.
To be specific, the numb terror of internment as Kertesz writes it is so accurate as to inspire pungent, nearly post-traumatic stressful memories on my part. The wound on Georg's leg, the morbid task of milking pus out of it daily to prevent infection, and especially the frustrating notion of hobbling on an unresponsive, doomed leg, are all within my own memory, and quite accurate. Which is not to praise the book in general, only to say that I related to it.
As to whether it was a worthwhile read, as opposed to merely another concentration camp memoir, I must say yes. The first thing that elevates it above that latter, compelling but meaningless, category is Kertesz's choice to write his own experience through a fictional person. Kertesz was himself imprisoned in Auschwitz as a boy, but he does not write about himself. Instead, he writes in the voice of Georg, a Hungarian boy of Jewish descent. This choice frees him to write a novel, not simpy of horror, but of philosophical merit. All around him, fellow prisoners are bewailing their fate, but Georg, who doesn't come from a religious family, has no frame of reference for this term. The brilliant recurring device of "The man with the bad luck," unimportant to the plot but crucial to the meaning, is the first hint of Kertesz's intention. He means, as one should have gleaned from the title, is to write a novel, not about concentration camps, but about the nature of fate. Perhaps the Jews are being punished for the sins of their race. Perhaps the horror of the concentration camps is unavoidable. Or is there some other answer?
Georg's youth grants him a unique capacity to answer this question. He often reminds the reader that he does not know what (such and such an experience) means. He is not concerned with meaning, per se. He simply reports his experiences as they occur, that is, until the final, brilliant chapter. "Do you want all this horror and all my previous steps to lose their meaning entirely?" he asks adults who insist upon his return to Budapest that all is fated. Why can't you see that if there is fate then there is no such thing as freedom . . . that is, we ourselves are fate?" The adults are, of course, horrified. How could people themselves be held responsible for their own persecution and extermination? "The point," Georg explains, "Is in the steps. Everyone stepped forward as long as he could . . . Now there is no other blood, and there is nothing but given situations and concomitant givens within them" (188,189). Here Kertesz finally reveals himself. Surely this is not fourteen year old Georg speaking at all. I mean really, concomitant? And what he says is ponderous. There is no fate. Only steps. The only thing to do, no matter how terrible the stench, how painful the pressure, is to put one stump in front of the other.
To be specific, the numb terror of internment as Kertesz writes it is so accurate as to inspire pungent, nearly post-traumatic stressful memories on my part. The wound on Georg's leg, the morbid task of milking pus out of it daily to prevent infection, and especially the frustrating notion of hobbling on an unresponsive, doomed leg, are all within my own memory, and quite accurate. Which is not to praise the book in general, only to say that I related to it.
As to whether it was a worthwhile read, as opposed to merely another concentration camp memoir, I must say yes. The first thing that elevates it above that latter, compelling but meaningless, category is Kertesz's choice to write his own experience through a fictional person. Kertesz was himself imprisoned in Auschwitz as a boy, but he does not write about himself. Instead, he writes in the voice of Georg, a Hungarian boy of Jewish descent. This choice frees him to write a novel, not simpy of horror, but of philosophical merit. All around him, fellow prisoners are bewailing their fate, but Georg, who doesn't come from a religious family, has no frame of reference for this term. The brilliant recurring device of "The man with the bad luck," unimportant to the plot but crucial to the meaning, is the first hint of Kertesz's intention. He means, as one should have gleaned from the title, is to write a novel, not about concentration camps, but about the nature of fate. Perhaps the Jews are being punished for the sins of their race. Perhaps the horror of the concentration camps is unavoidable. Or is there some other answer?
Georg's youth grants him a unique capacity to answer this question. He often reminds the reader that he does not know what (such and such an experience) means. He is not concerned with meaning, per se. He simply reports his experiences as they occur, that is, until the final, brilliant chapter. "Do you want all this horror and all my previous steps to lose their meaning entirely?" he asks adults who insist upon his return to Budapest that all is fated. Why can't you see that if there is fate then there is no such thing as freedom . . . that is, we ourselves are fate?" The adults are, of course, horrified. How could people themselves be held responsible for their own persecution and extermination? "The point," Georg explains, "Is in the steps. Everyone stepped forward as long as he could . . . Now there is no other blood, and there is nothing but given situations and concomitant givens within them" (188,189). Here Kertesz finally reveals himself. Surely this is not fourteen year old Georg speaking at all. I mean really, concomitant? And what he says is ponderous. There is no fate. Only steps. The only thing to do, no matter how terrible the stench, how painful the pressure, is to put one stump in front of the other.
Thursday, July 06, 2006
John Shelby Spong: Why Christianity Must Change or Die
I don't know why I should feel self-conscious when I fail to post here regularly. It's not like anybody reads this anymore. I will say this, though: the longer I wait after actually reading a book before writing anything about it, the less I have to say. When I orginally finished this particular book, I felt that I had volumes to say. But now it is all encapsulable in one saying from Spong's own Christian lexicon: new wine in old wineskins.
I don't fault Spong for phrasing the debate over the death of God in terms of his own staunch Christianity. He (understandably) feels compelled to reassert his own faith, perhaps anticipating criticism, perhaps vainly trying to convince himself. He admits that his persistent call to reform the Christian Church is a result of his own passage thorugh "the door of Christ," and his attachment to that path. But he also allows, "I will never again assert that my Christ is the only way to God" (239).
This is precisely the opening I need. You see, unlike Spong, I have no attachment to the path of Christianity. I have been trying to fit my own spirituality into that mold for some time, but it no longer seems necessary. I have not walked through the "Christ doorway," as Spong puts it, and have no desire to. It makes no sense to me, and the form of Christianity Spong proposes in this book may as well bear a different name entirely. He forces the truth about being into an old mold that will no longer bear it.
I will offer this commendation: Spong manages to capture a key to a central dilemma of worship. People fret over the "Will of God," and other such nonsense, when God is not a being. He is being itself. The God one must worship (although occasionally it helps, for sake of reference, to act as if God is a person) is the "source of life, the source of love, and the ground of all being." This is Spong's repeated framework for the divine, and it serves nicely, along with the accompanying exhortation to "Live fully, love wastefully, and enter into the fullness of being." that is a message into which I can jump with confidence.
I don't fault Spong for phrasing the debate over the death of God in terms of his own staunch Christianity. He (understandably) feels compelled to reassert his own faith, perhaps anticipating criticism, perhaps vainly trying to convince himself. He admits that his persistent call to reform the Christian Church is a result of his own passage thorugh "the door of Christ," and his attachment to that path. But he also allows, "I will never again assert that my Christ is the only way to God" (239).
This is precisely the opening I need. You see, unlike Spong, I have no attachment to the path of Christianity. I have been trying to fit my own spirituality into that mold for some time, but it no longer seems necessary. I have not walked through the "Christ doorway," as Spong puts it, and have no desire to. It makes no sense to me, and the form of Christianity Spong proposes in this book may as well bear a different name entirely. He forces the truth about being into an old mold that will no longer bear it.
I will offer this commendation: Spong manages to capture a key to a central dilemma of worship. People fret over the "Will of God," and other such nonsense, when God is not a being. He is being itself. The God one must worship (although occasionally it helps, for sake of reference, to act as if God is a person) is the "source of life, the source of love, and the ground of all being." This is Spong's repeated framework for the divine, and it serves nicely, along with the accompanying exhortation to "Live fully, love wastefully, and enter into the fullness of being." that is a message into which I can jump with confidence.
Friday, June 09, 2006
Happy Berfday @ Me!
2 Maccabees
Surprisingly, this is not a sequel to 1 Maccabees, but a concurrent account from a different perspective. For one thing, the fighting is enhanced by the presence of golden, angelic warriors--always a nice touch--but for another, the tone is completely different. The language betrays a more modern authorship, using terms such as 'Judaism' and 'Hellenization,' which I don't remember anywhere else in the Bible. The best part, however, is that it fills in the gaps in the narrative of the family Maccabeus, specifically the area around the leadership of Judas. One of these day, in my abundant spare time, whe I've run out of other things to read--I'm going to go back and read all four Maccabees simultaneously.
Donald Marguilies: Dinner With Friends
I have a suspicion this would be a delight to perform, as it was to read. The characters are complex, layered, believable creations, although, as with most character-driven pieces, the plot is, well, there isn't one. As far as theme, I'm not sure whether I can get on board with Margulies' take on marriage/relationships. He implicitly sides with the happily--if awkwardly--married couple, as opposed to the happily separating couple. How do I feel about marriage again? I can't remember if I'm for or against it. On the one hand, it would certainly be nice to have a big party celebratin one's relationship, but on the other hand no relationship is forever. Except your mom, that is. By the way, she says to say hi. Is there some sort of balance to be struck? Some sort of "Marriage for Now" ceremony?
Tom Stoppard: Hapgood
Fooking brilliant. Bridges of Konisberg. Quantum physics. Must be read to be believed.
BTD:47
Surprisingly, this is not a sequel to 1 Maccabees, but a concurrent account from a different perspective. For one thing, the fighting is enhanced by the presence of golden, angelic warriors--always a nice touch--but for another, the tone is completely different. The language betrays a more modern authorship, using terms such as 'Judaism' and 'Hellenization,' which I don't remember anywhere else in the Bible. The best part, however, is that it fills in the gaps in the narrative of the family Maccabeus, specifically the area around the leadership of Judas. One of these day, in my abundant spare time, whe I've run out of other things to read--I'm going to go back and read all four Maccabees simultaneously.
Donald Marguilies: Dinner With Friends
I have a suspicion this would be a delight to perform, as it was to read. The characters are complex, layered, believable creations, although, as with most character-driven pieces, the plot is, well, there isn't one. As far as theme, I'm not sure whether I can get on board with Margulies' take on marriage/relationships. He implicitly sides with the happily--if awkwardly--married couple, as opposed to the happily separating couple. How do I feel about marriage again? I can't remember if I'm for or against it. On the one hand, it would certainly be nice to have a big party celebratin one's relationship, but on the other hand no relationship is forever. Except your mom, that is. By the way, she says to say hi. Is there some sort of balance to be struck? Some sort of "Marriage for Now" ceremony?
Tom Stoppard: Hapgood
Fooking brilliant. Bridges of Konisberg. Quantum physics. Must be read to be believed.
BTD:47
Thursday, June 01, 2006
Hans Gombrich: The Story of Art
I love Gombrich's opening quote: "There is no such thing as Art, only artists." In one of the later appendices, Gombrich retracts this powerful statment, supposing that when first written it gave people license to mislabel rubbish as Art. The story of art (as opposed to Art) is the story of reactions, artists solving and inventing problems of representation in response to the approaches of their forbears. The current dilemma, as Gombrich sees it, lies in the lack of problems. The counterculture, rebellious nature of art has lost its force, since the very disgust a piece elicits may serve to qualify it as Art in the minds of some. Art criticism, therefore, has ground to a halt, as anything can go and the repellent or clumsy aspects of a piece may simply be included in the artist's overall vision. "Where can art go from here?" he seems to ask.
But it is revealling to analyze Gombrich's summary of art on a basic level. The fundamental questions of art are, "What to represent?" and "How to represent it?" The former is, in my mind the more interesting of the two, as the latter can be seen as a function of technique and materials. But what to paint/sculpt/defecate is a fascinating question. I don't mean to say that the the oscillation between religious and secular topics is interesting. Rather, artists have been asking themselves whether to paint what one knows or what one sees (or, more recently, what one feels) since the very beginning. Raphael vs. DaVinci, Carraci vs. Carravaggio, Reynolds vs. Gainsborough, Turner vs. Constable, Monet et al vs. Cezanne, and other fascinating comparisons highlight this fundamental question. Does one focus on the visual effect of seeing and faithfulness to nature, or on the ideal concepts of beauty and symbolism? For that matter, why not, as per Kandinsky, paint something completely internal?
If this is the fundamental question of art, it is by no means solved. The solution would, of course, be a synthesis of the two methods, some way of representation that conveys the truth of something both according to the eye and according to the mind. Bewailing the state of art, albeit warranted when a cross in a jar of urine is haute couture, is unwarranted in the larger scheme. Such a synthesis has not been reached (and cannot be), so art will continue to evolve and fascinate the public.
But it is revealling to analyze Gombrich's summary of art on a basic level. The fundamental questions of art are, "What to represent?" and "How to represent it?" The former is, in my mind the more interesting of the two, as the latter can be seen as a function of technique and materials. But what to paint/sculpt/defecate is a fascinating question. I don't mean to say that the the oscillation between religious and secular topics is interesting. Rather, artists have been asking themselves whether to paint what one knows or what one sees (or, more recently, what one feels) since the very beginning. Raphael vs. DaVinci, Carraci vs. Carravaggio, Reynolds vs. Gainsborough, Turner vs. Constable, Monet et al vs. Cezanne, and other fascinating comparisons highlight this fundamental question. Does one focus on the visual effect of seeing and faithfulness to nature, or on the ideal concepts of beauty and symbolism? For that matter, why not, as per Kandinsky, paint something completely internal?
If this is the fundamental question of art, it is by no means solved. The solution would, of course, be a synthesis of the two methods, some way of representation that conveys the truth of something both according to the eye and according to the mind. Bewailing the state of art, albeit warranted when a cross in a jar of urine is haute couture, is unwarranted in the larger scheme. Such a synthesis has not been reached (and cannot be), so art will continue to evolve and fascinate the public.
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
Octavio Paz: Poemas Prontos
Allow me to begin by saying that I am out of my depth here. I don't mean to say that the Spanish is beyond me, although it took a while to get used to Paz' vocabulary. His word choice is more varied and precise than either Lorca's or Borges', and I have a feeling some of the subtlety is lost on me. Aside from that minor difficulty, I have to say that I could never write this well. Tennyson, Wordsworth, Borges--I could, under the right circumstances, write what they have written. Not Paz. Oh boy, this is universe-class stuff.
Take, to begin with, his imagery. "Tus hombros tienen la marca de los dientes de amor" (Semillas Para un Himno). Wow! Or, "Cataratas de abejas sobre los ojos mal cerrados" (Mutra). Where would a person come up with this stuff? And it packs every line. I was constantly out of breath with awe at his poetic choices and humbled at the ease with which he amazed me.
And his thematic fearlessness is equally amazing. For Paz, the day in its infinite variety represents the entirety of human experience. While, for most people, the night is simply what separates the days, for Paz it is the opposite. The day represents the "fulgor de agua astancada donde flotan / pequenas [sorry, no tilde] alegrias" (Mascaras del Alba). The day is stagnant, the solitary instant which doesn't end, change, or progress. This is not to say that it is insignificant, merely that it does not serve the function we might ascribe to it. The night, on the other hand, is where the action is. "Es un combate a muerte de inmortales," the shards of which "se buscan en mi frente." (El Rio). All night, the poet drowns in blood, ink, and the alphabet, which become synonomous with one another, the result of which combat is that"el papel se cubra de astros y sea el poema un bosque de palabras enlazadas" (El Rio). The crystal forest which the poem becomes is the only way to escape the perpetual conflict between stagnant day and overwhelming night. We must "descrifar el tatuaje de la noche y mirar cara a cara al mediodia y arrancarla su mascara" (El Cantaro Roto).
And the only worthy path is to"merece lo que suenas," to deserve your dream (Hacia el Poema).
Take, to begin with, his imagery. "Tus hombros tienen la marca de los dientes de amor" (Semillas Para un Himno). Wow! Or, "Cataratas de abejas sobre los ojos mal cerrados" (Mutra). Where would a person come up with this stuff? And it packs every line. I was constantly out of breath with awe at his poetic choices and humbled at the ease with which he amazed me.
And his thematic fearlessness is equally amazing. For Paz, the day in its infinite variety represents the entirety of human experience. While, for most people, the night is simply what separates the days, for Paz it is the opposite. The day represents the "fulgor de agua astancada donde flotan / pequenas [sorry, no tilde] alegrias" (Mascaras del Alba). The day is stagnant, the solitary instant which doesn't end, change, or progress. This is not to say that it is insignificant, merely that it does not serve the function we might ascribe to it. The night, on the other hand, is where the action is. "Es un combate a muerte de inmortales," the shards of which "se buscan en mi frente." (El Rio). All night, the poet drowns in blood, ink, and the alphabet, which become synonomous with one another, the result of which combat is that"el papel se cubra de astros y sea el poema un bosque de palabras enlazadas" (El Rio). The crystal forest which the poem becomes is the only way to escape the perpetual conflict between stagnant day and overwhelming night. We must "descrifar el tatuaje de la noche y mirar cara a cara al mediodia y arrancarla su mascara" (El Cantaro Roto).
And the only worthy path is to"merece lo que suenas," to deserve your dream (Hacia el Poema).
Finished three books in one day. And you just thought I was lazy . . .
Lewis Carroll: Alice's Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass and What Alice Found There
Here is a perfect example of what happens when an author gets too big for his britches. Just as Thomas Paine produced a work of genius and promptly became an obnoxiously self-important boor, so Lewis Carroll seems to have taken the success and masterfullness of his first Alice book too seriously and forced a level of literariness on his second book which makes it seem self-conscious and forced. Part of the delight in Wonderland, for me, comes from it's utterly unpretentious lack of structure or explanation. Alice trips dreamily from one scene to the next without exposition and, more importantly, without ever saying that she is in a dream world (although it is understood). The indelible characters, the fabulous puzzles and wordplay, take most of their allure from their complete whimsy.
Not so with Through the Looking Glass. Alice's environment shifts about her very heavyhandedly, as though Carroll is going to some effort in making his story more accurately represent a dreaming state. Also, there is a sense of continuity in the conceit of the chess game that leaves less to the reader's imagination. Perhaps this is why, with the possible esception of the White Knight, all of the characters in the latter Alice volume are quite forgettable. And the White Knight's nice characterization seems to come simply from the moral attached to Alice's encounter with him. In the person of the aging caballero, Charles Dodgson (not Carroll) reminds Alice Liddell, the intended audience, that there is virtue in befriending a pathetic elderly admirer. What a giveaway.
1 Maccabees
Is it possible that the Bible is a treatise on the Tragic Flaw? If so, it is no wonder that this book did not make it into the final canon. The family Maccabeus has none of the dramatic character flaws that make David (lust), Noah (intemperance), Moses (pride), and Paul (just a jerk) such formidable figures. In fact, with the exception of Jesus (open to debate) and Daniel (as you may know, one of my favorites), the heroes of the Bible all seem to suffer from some sort of Greek Theater complex, and are responsible for their own downfall. Not so with the family Maccabeus. Each brother (and presumably, as the narrative continues in 2-4 Maccabees, grandsons et al) is an upright and valorous defender of Truth whose end has nothing to do with his own faults. Booring.
Here is a perfect example of what happens when an author gets too big for his britches. Just as Thomas Paine produced a work of genius and promptly became an obnoxiously self-important boor, so Lewis Carroll seems to have taken the success and masterfullness of his first Alice book too seriously and forced a level of literariness on his second book which makes it seem self-conscious and forced. Part of the delight in Wonderland, for me, comes from it's utterly unpretentious lack of structure or explanation. Alice trips dreamily from one scene to the next without exposition and, more importantly, without ever saying that she is in a dream world (although it is understood). The indelible characters, the fabulous puzzles and wordplay, take most of their allure from their complete whimsy.
Not so with Through the Looking Glass. Alice's environment shifts about her very heavyhandedly, as though Carroll is going to some effort in making his story more accurately represent a dreaming state. Also, there is a sense of continuity in the conceit of the chess game that leaves less to the reader's imagination. Perhaps this is why, with the possible esception of the White Knight, all of the characters in the latter Alice volume are quite forgettable. And the White Knight's nice characterization seems to come simply from the moral attached to Alice's encounter with him. In the person of the aging caballero, Charles Dodgson (not Carroll) reminds Alice Liddell, the intended audience, that there is virtue in befriending a pathetic elderly admirer. What a giveaway.
1 Maccabees
Is it possible that the Bible is a treatise on the Tragic Flaw? If so, it is no wonder that this book did not make it into the final canon. The family Maccabeus has none of the dramatic character flaws that make David (lust), Noah (intemperance), Moses (pride), and Paul (just a jerk) such formidable figures. In fact, with the exception of Jesus (open to debate) and Daniel (as you may know, one of my favorites), the heroes of the Bible all seem to suffer from some sort of Greek Theater complex, and are responsible for their own downfall. Not so with the family Maccabeus. Each brother (and presumably, as the narrative continues in 2-4 Maccabees, grandsons et al) is an upright and valorous defender of Truth whose end has nothing to do with his own faults. Booring.
Monday, May 15, 2006
Peter J. Gomes: The Good Book
Reading this book served a double purpose. In the first place, my reading group has placed it upon the altar to be pecked at like a wounded chicken, on top of which I volunteered to lead the discussion on chapters 12-14. Of course, this predicated my actually reading the book, so I did.
In the second, and more relevant place, however, I am still in the process of baking a theology from scratch, (a metaphor of which I'm getting sick), and one of the central questions is, of course, "How much weight to grant the Bible?" My upbringing brought with it a substantial body of Biblical knowledge, although weighted heavily on the side of right-wing morals. As I read the Bible with an open mind for the first time (currently stumbling through 1 Maccabees), I wonder whether to read it as another piece of literature, or to cut some extra slack under the premise that it is inspired in some way. This is the question Gomes purports to answer.
He suggests that the Bible reader approach the text with an intense scholarly scrutiny of difficult texts (homsexuality, Women, etc.) and broad appreciation of the Bible's larger themes (suffering, evil, and temptation). I appreciate his approach, and find it a nice balance of what he calls "Biblical idolatry," that is, worship of the text rather than of God, and strict literary criticism. In practice, however, Gomes presents a watery version of the text that is guilty of the same sort of selective scholarship of which he accuses more conservative parties. He presents a compelling case that homosexuality is not condemned in the Bible, merely ignored, but what help is that to a homosexual man who wants to take something away with him from the text?
In short, I am no closer, after reading this book, to deciding what to do with the Bible. I suppose I'll keep reading it, and let it decide for itself.
In the second, and more relevant place, however, I am still in the process of baking a theology from scratch, (a metaphor of which I'm getting sick), and one of the central questions is, of course, "How much weight to grant the Bible?" My upbringing brought with it a substantial body of Biblical knowledge, although weighted heavily on the side of right-wing morals. As I read the Bible with an open mind for the first time (currently stumbling through 1 Maccabees), I wonder whether to read it as another piece of literature, or to cut some extra slack under the premise that it is inspired in some way. This is the question Gomes purports to answer.
He suggests that the Bible reader approach the text with an intense scholarly scrutiny of difficult texts (homsexuality, Women, etc.) and broad appreciation of the Bible's larger themes (suffering, evil, and temptation). I appreciate his approach, and find it a nice balance of what he calls "Biblical idolatry," that is, worship of the text rather than of God, and strict literary criticism. In practice, however, Gomes presents a watery version of the text that is guilty of the same sort of selective scholarship of which he accuses more conservative parties. He presents a compelling case that homosexuality is not condemned in the Bible, merely ignored, but what help is that to a homosexual man who wants to take something away with him from the text?
In short, I am no closer, after reading this book, to deciding what to do with the Bible. I suppose I'll keep reading it, and let it decide for itself.
Saturday, May 13, 2006
Reading Uphill Lately
I've been readin things! Honest!
Alfred, Lord Tennyson: Juvenilia
I'm not sure whether this collection of Tennyson's poetry is genuinely worse, or if I simply have been in a critical mood. No matter; here's my reaction. The inconsistent meter which seems to contribute to Tennyson's later works seems simply lazy here. With the possible exception of "Mariana," the first lines of which every gay man will recognize, not much here kept my eye. Nonetheless, it is interesting to see the seeds of Tennyson's characteristic themes, brotherly love and the poetic mind, in such poems as "The Gardener's Daughter," and the revealingly titled, "The Poet's Mind."
Bel and the Dragon, Susanna
These apocryphal books are a nice, if merengue in their insubstantiality, addition to the story of Daniel, who seems rather poorly characterized in his own book. Nonetheless, I can't quite give them credence. They clearly don't belong to the same author as that book, and have an almost renaissance feel to them.
Alfred, Lord Tennyson: Juvenilia
I'm not sure whether this collection of Tennyson's poetry is genuinely worse, or if I simply have been in a critical mood. No matter; here's my reaction. The inconsistent meter which seems to contribute to Tennyson's later works seems simply lazy here. With the possible exception of "Mariana," the first lines of which every gay man will recognize, not much here kept my eye. Nonetheless, it is interesting to see the seeds of Tennyson's characteristic themes, brotherly love and the poetic mind, in such poems as "The Gardener's Daughter," and the revealingly titled, "The Poet's Mind."
Bel and the Dragon, Susanna
These apocryphal books are a nice, if merengue in their insubstantiality, addition to the story of Daniel, who seems rather poorly characterized in his own book. Nonetheless, I can't quite give them credence. They clearly don't belong to the same author as that book, and have an almost renaissance feel to them.
Monday, April 24, 2006
Lately
Plato: Euthyrpho, Crito, Phaedo
Surprisingly accesible. Although I can't really decide whether to attribute the ideas to Plato or Socrates, I agree with them nonetheless. I especially like that the discussion of Piety ends abruptly and without resolution. I suspect Platocrates is positing that 'Piety' is a meaningless word, in that it cannot be defined satisfactorily, and that its only use is demagoguery.
Abelard and Heloise: collected letters
Disappointing. What's the big deal? Romeo, Tristan, and Troilus he ain't. His supposedly romantic letters are rude, terse, misogynist, and altogether free from beauty. She is a bit more savory, and the tension between religious restraint and amorous desperation is palpable, but still does not live up to the hype.
unless . . .
Also included in this collection were excerpts from anonymous letters sent by a similar couple in the twelfth century. Scholars have suggested based on usage and grammar analysis that the anonymous letters are actually written by Abelard and Heloise. If this is so, Wow! Zing! The smoldering poetry and exhausting lust in these few fragments is zesty indeed, and would change my opinion entirely if they were indeed the authors in their precloistering.
On a personal note, I certainly can relate to Abelard's choice of monkhood after his disfigurement. I feel the same way myself lately. Of course, I'm far too impatient for the monastic life, but I have considered it. And I wonder if he would have maintained his affection for Heloise if he still had his cock.
Christopher Marlowe: Edward II
All you Marlovian conspiracy theorists out there can go sit on your thumbs. Shakespeare he ain't. For all my issues with Willy, he blows this sucker out of the water. I'm sure Edward II, supposedly his most dramatically advanced work, is nice to see on stage, but even the worst of Shakespeare (probably Twelfth Night, although you will disagree) outstrips him mightily in content, flow and especially language. I can't think of a single speech from Edward that made me want to reread, digest and memorize it, while every page of Shakespeare inspires that response.
Sirach, Baruch, The Letter of Jeremiah, The Song of Azariah.
Fascinating as far as Apochrypha go, but still lacking the gravitas of the rest of the Bible. Sirach himself notes that his book is not to be taken as scripture. Filled as it is with valid observations (and the occasional distaff blunder), Solomon he ain't. Personal note: Azariah has long been one of my favorite characters in the Bible. This little fragment reinforces that stand.
Surprisingly accesible. Although I can't really decide whether to attribute the ideas to Plato or Socrates, I agree with them nonetheless. I especially like that the discussion of Piety ends abruptly and without resolution. I suspect Platocrates is positing that 'Piety' is a meaningless word, in that it cannot be defined satisfactorily, and that its only use is demagoguery.
Abelard and Heloise: collected letters
Disappointing. What's the big deal? Romeo, Tristan, and Troilus he ain't. His supposedly romantic letters are rude, terse, misogynist, and altogether free from beauty. She is a bit more savory, and the tension between religious restraint and amorous desperation is palpable, but still does not live up to the hype.
unless . . .
Also included in this collection were excerpts from anonymous letters sent by a similar couple in the twelfth century. Scholars have suggested based on usage and grammar analysis that the anonymous letters are actually written by Abelard and Heloise. If this is so, Wow! Zing! The smoldering poetry and exhausting lust in these few fragments is zesty indeed, and would change my opinion entirely if they were indeed the authors in their precloistering.
On a personal note, I certainly can relate to Abelard's choice of monkhood after his disfigurement. I feel the same way myself lately. Of course, I'm far too impatient for the monastic life, but I have considered it. And I wonder if he would have maintained his affection for Heloise if he still had his cock.
Christopher Marlowe: Edward II
All you Marlovian conspiracy theorists out there can go sit on your thumbs. Shakespeare he ain't. For all my issues with Willy, he blows this sucker out of the water. I'm sure Edward II, supposedly his most dramatically advanced work, is nice to see on stage, but even the worst of Shakespeare (probably Twelfth Night, although you will disagree) outstrips him mightily in content, flow and especially language. I can't think of a single speech from Edward that made me want to reread, digest and memorize it, while every page of Shakespeare inspires that response.
Sirach, Baruch, The Letter of Jeremiah, The Song of Azariah.
Fascinating as far as Apochrypha go, but still lacking the gravitas of the rest of the Bible. Sirach himself notes that his book is not to be taken as scripture. Filled as it is with valid observations (and the occasional distaff blunder), Solomon he ain't. Personal note: Azariah has long been one of my favorite characters in the Bible. This little fragment reinforces that stand.
Monday, April 10, 2006
Miscellaneous
Deepak Chopra: The Path to Love
Not the sort of thing I would usually pick up, but interesting nonetheless. Chopra has a real knack for putting complex metaphysical truths simply without being condescending or diluting them beyond usefullness. At the same time, so much of the book was written to those who already have significant others and wish to improve their relationships, I didn't feel like I got as much out of it as I might have.
Tacitus: The Annals
Something tells me I have read this book out of sequence. I was able to follow the successions and personal dramas easily, but my incomplete grasp of Roman politics and government made certain of the other details difficult to grasp. I has to invent mnemonics to remind myself that a Quaestor was less important than an Aedile, who was less important than a Praetor, who was less important than a Consul, and so on. Still, eventually I will return to this (and to Plutarch) and refine my inderstanding. Also, some of the most fascinating sections of The Annals are lost to prosperity: Caligula's reign, and the last two years of Nero's.
Not the sort of thing I would usually pick up, but interesting nonetheless. Chopra has a real knack for putting complex metaphysical truths simply without being condescending or diluting them beyond usefullness. At the same time, so much of the book was written to those who already have significant others and wish to improve their relationships, I didn't feel like I got as much out of it as I might have.
Tacitus: The Annals
Something tells me I have read this book out of sequence. I was able to follow the successions and personal dramas easily, but my incomplete grasp of Roman politics and government made certain of the other details difficult to grasp. I has to invent mnemonics to remind myself that a Quaestor was less important than an Aedile, who was less important than a Praetor, who was less important than a Consul, and so on. Still, eventually I will return to this (and to Plutarch) and refine my inderstanding. Also, some of the most fascinating sections of The Annals are lost to prosperity: Caligula's reign, and the last two years of Nero's.
Saturday, April 01, 2006
Federico Garcia Lorca: Selected Poems
I find that I have learned something about poetry during this little translation kick on which I have been. Part of the reason it was such an easy undertaking to translate Borges, as I have mentioned, is that his poetic vocabulary is rather limited. Once I learned the words for nightingale, mirror, and labyrinth, I was set. Of course, it also helped that Borges is, as poets go, remarkably consistent in terms of theme, but that's another essay altogether.
The same is true of Lorca. Now that I have learned the words for gypsy, mud, and putrid, and have become fluent in the conjugation of the verbs 'to groan' and 'to wail', I find that the going is a bit smoother. Of course, it was at first confusing that he makes such extensive use of the imperfect indicitave and subjunctive tenses, which are scarcely used in English, but I adapted.
I am certain therefore, that the same will be true as I undertake the reading of Octavio Paz, and furthermore that the same is true of poetry in all languages, including my own. My English lexicon is simply so comfortable that I don't notice when a poet uses the same word repeatedly. By contrast, I never learned the words for 'carnation' or 'iodine' in High School Spanish class, so their repetition in Lorca is startling, memorable and telling. I intend to revisit some of my poetry and see what words have established squatting rights in my verse. Perhaps it will be equally illuminating.
Another aspect of Lorca's work that makes it more complicated than Borges' is his inconsistency of theme. Although his tone never wavers from the passionate disillusionment and reminiscence of a Marica out of place, he draws constantly from folk tradition that is only indirectly revealing of his intent. Many of his poems are not only in the form of traditional Andalusian or Gypsy songs, but they also draw from those themes. Therefore, when the married woman has an affair on the bank of a river as in La Casada Infiel, one really must dig to extract Lorca's meaning--which I take to be the disconnect between the pleasure of pale thighs and the dawn.
The central poem of the collection, Oda A Walt Whitman, is the key to unlocking Lorca. The raillery he here unleashes against gay culture underlies most of his other work, especially when it touches upon the subject of erotic love. He declares, "No Haya Cuartel!" against those "Madres de lodo, arpias, enemigas sin sueno (where's a tilde when I need it?)" I have personally met those men! "Asesininos de palomas! . . . emboscadas en yertos paisajes de cicuta (one of Lorca's favorite words)." By contrast, there exist "los clasicos, los senelados, los suplicantes / os cierran las puertas de la bacanal." These are the real men, those who can live with such poetry as Lorca reveals in his later work, especially the volume "Divan Del Tamarit." The Gacelas held here (about which form I need to learn more) made me gasp with amazement and cry flavorless tears, neither of joy or sorrow. The desperate love, the men pierced by fountains who spill their blood in in a widening shadow on the silk of their divans, the reclining nights of a single golden moment, this is the world I am terrified and ecstatic to inhabit. There are no gay bars here.
The same is true of Lorca. Now that I have learned the words for gypsy, mud, and putrid, and have become fluent in the conjugation of the verbs 'to groan' and 'to wail', I find that the going is a bit smoother. Of course, it was at first confusing that he makes such extensive use of the imperfect indicitave and subjunctive tenses, which are scarcely used in English, but I adapted.
I am certain therefore, that the same will be true as I undertake the reading of Octavio Paz, and furthermore that the same is true of poetry in all languages, including my own. My English lexicon is simply so comfortable that I don't notice when a poet uses the same word repeatedly. By contrast, I never learned the words for 'carnation' or 'iodine' in High School Spanish class, so their repetition in Lorca is startling, memorable and telling. I intend to revisit some of my poetry and see what words have established squatting rights in my verse. Perhaps it will be equally illuminating.
Another aspect of Lorca's work that makes it more complicated than Borges' is his inconsistency of theme. Although his tone never wavers from the passionate disillusionment and reminiscence of a Marica out of place, he draws constantly from folk tradition that is only indirectly revealing of his intent. Many of his poems are not only in the form of traditional Andalusian or Gypsy songs, but they also draw from those themes. Therefore, when the married woman has an affair on the bank of a river as in La Casada Infiel, one really must dig to extract Lorca's meaning--which I take to be the disconnect between the pleasure of pale thighs and the dawn.
The central poem of the collection, Oda A Walt Whitman, is the key to unlocking Lorca. The raillery he here unleashes against gay culture underlies most of his other work, especially when it touches upon the subject of erotic love. He declares, "No Haya Cuartel!" against those "Madres de lodo, arpias, enemigas sin sueno (where's a tilde when I need it?)" I have personally met those men! "Asesininos de palomas! . . . emboscadas en yertos paisajes de cicuta (one of Lorca's favorite words)." By contrast, there exist "los clasicos, los senelados, los suplicantes / os cierran las puertas de la bacanal." These are the real men, those who can live with such poetry as Lorca reveals in his later work, especially the volume "Divan Del Tamarit." The Gacelas held here (about which form I need to learn more) made me gasp with amazement and cry flavorless tears, neither of joy or sorrow. The desperate love, the men pierced by fountains who spill their blood in in a widening shadow on the silk of their divans, the reclining nights of a single golden moment, this is the world I am terrified and ecstatic to inhabit. There are no gay bars here.
Sunday, March 26, 2006
You know the drill by now.
Wisdom of Solomon
I expected this to be an apocryphal version of Proverbs, but no! Rather, it reminds me of Boethius' Consolation of Philosophy. It is not a sequence of pithy epigrams, but rather a panegyric to Wisdom herself. Very nice.
Bret Easton Ellis: Glamorama
I respected Robert far more before he suggested this book to me. It was nice, but why is it his favorite? Just because people's vaginas fall out of the bodies in response to virulent poisons and others' intestines shoot out of their rectums in a purple foam while being electrocuted does not make it a classic. Funny, but not a classic.
Augustine: Confessions
I can relate, Augustine, old boy. I have, like you, been a slut, a prey to my baser--if not basest--instincts. Like you, I have grown tired with it, but found myself unable to give it up entirely. And like you, I have searched for meaning in religion and found it wanting. What was it that made you change your mind? Did you have an epiphany? If so, where can I get one? You make it sound like you simply decided on a purely rational basis that devotion was the way to go, but I have reasoned myself to a different--if compatible--conclusion. Where did our paths diverge?
Oh, and the commentary on Genesis? Boooooring.
I expected this to be an apocryphal version of Proverbs, but no! Rather, it reminds me of Boethius' Consolation of Philosophy. It is not a sequence of pithy epigrams, but rather a panegyric to Wisdom herself. Very nice.
Bret Easton Ellis: Glamorama
I respected Robert far more before he suggested this book to me. It was nice, but why is it his favorite? Just because people's vaginas fall out of the bodies in response to virulent poisons and others' intestines shoot out of their rectums in a purple foam while being electrocuted does not make it a classic. Funny, but not a classic.
Augustine: Confessions
I can relate, Augustine, old boy. I have, like you, been a slut, a prey to my baser--if not basest--instincts. Like you, I have grown tired with it, but found myself unable to give it up entirely. And like you, I have searched for meaning in religion and found it wanting. What was it that made you change your mind? Did you have an epiphany? If so, where can I get one? You make it sound like you simply decided on a purely rational basis that devotion was the way to go, but I have reasoned myself to a different--if compatible--conclusion. Where did our paths diverge?
Oh, and the commentary on Genesis? Boooooring.
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