As is sometimes the case, I have something to say about this particular edition of Pliny's Letters before I ever touch the content of them. Rare as it is that I read a book twice, I naturally purchased the cheapest version available online, in this case one from General Books. When it arrived I was horrified by the quality of the editing. This is not to say only that there were typos, a fault of which even Oxford University Press is guilty as well, but that the formatting and indentation made the text entirely unintelligible at points. Never had I seen a text so savagely manhandled at an editor's hand. I naturally looked to the frontispiece to see who was responsible for such sacrilege. My indignation was almost instantly transformed into wonder. I quote in part:
"We automated the typing, proof reading and design of this book using Optical Character Recognition software on a scanned copy of the original rare book. That allowed us to keep your cost as low as possible . . . If you would prefer that we manually type, proofread and deisgn your book so that it's perfect, we are happy to do that. Simply contact us via our website for the cost."
Such an interesting product, and so diplomatically defended.
Now to the meat of the matter. Pliny's epistles are easily divided into two parts. The first consists mostly of commendations to his friends, descriptions of his estates, and political gossip. In his personal letters, Pliny was seemingly obsessed with his eternal fame, and discussed it at length with his friend and peer Tacitus. It must have been a source of deep pain for a man so obsessed with his legacy to have been denied offspring--and a letter to his Grandfather in law describing his beloved wife's miscarriage is indeed heartbreaking. No doubt to a historian, these are precious jewels. To me, they were tedious. No doubt to his friends they were charmingly witty, and the flavor of his wit could be discerned, but posterity could have wished that they be more instructive--or at least epigrammatic.
The second part of his letters is even more grating, and possibly thereby more instructive. In his personal correspondence, Pliny always seemed to be smirking a bit at either his reader or his topic. In the second part of his letters, which consist entirely of letters to and from the Emperor Trajan, Pliny is servile--even mewling--needy and passive-aggressive. If I were Trajan, I would not have been able to stomach reading this nonsense, except of course for the fact that all correspondence to me would probably be of that flavor. Not knowing anything about other official documents of the time, I built a narrative in my mind wherein Pliny was desperate for the approval of Trajan for personal, rather than political reasons. Orphaned early and raised by an Uncle who also died while he was young--under heroic circumstances at the eruption of Pompeii, by the way--Pliny may well have yearned for something of a father figure. The tone of his letters to his wife's grandfather might be seen to bear a trace of this desire.
It seems admissible therefore, from a readerly, though not from a scholarly viewpoint, to wonder if he did not come to think of Trajan in a paternal capacity. We often take such a needy, whiny tone with those whose approval we most desire.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Saturday, July 31, 2010
Richard Adams: Watership Down
The peril of allegory is manifestly its tendency to be obvious. Animal Farm, charming though it is, is a great example of this. The animals are all clear archetypes, and their activities have clear human parallels, and everybody gets a kick out of being in on a big open joke. It's funny, but not that stimulating. And don't even mention Pilgrim's Progress . . .
Watership Down manages to avoid this pitfall, which makes it a far more enjoyable read. The activities of the rabbits never feel too human, and the animals are always themselves, never mere masks for human characteristics. An allegorical reading is clearly possible, even intended, but any such interpretations are bound to be less than watertight.
I would love the opportunity to teach kids who can read again. This would be must--if they could handle the vocabulary. I could kill the Mock Epic (I hate "The Rape of the Lock") and Allegory with one stone, and think of all the activities this would engender. Sigh. Where is A.J.K. when you need him?
Watership Down manages to avoid this pitfall, which makes it a far more enjoyable read. The activities of the rabbits never feel too human, and the animals are always themselves, never mere masks for human characteristics. An allegorical reading is clearly possible, even intended, but any such interpretations are bound to be less than watertight.
I would love the opportunity to teach kids who can read again. This would be must--if they could handle the vocabulary. I could kill the Mock Epic (I hate "The Rape of the Lock") and Allegory with one stone, and think of all the activities this would engender. Sigh. Where is A.J.K. when you need him?
Saturday, July 17, 2010
George Eliot: The Mill on the Floss
I am agog; simply agog. I knew that this book was a special one when I couldn't put it down and tried to read it while walking (something that never ends well). I even went further, and tried to read it during my workout, holding it as I did sit-ups. Eliot succeeded as she never did in other books in creating true suspense; I was terrified for Maggie that she might choose Charles, completely believing that she could choose either path. So real and three-dimensional were Eliot's characters that I not only was invested in their choices, but really was unsure what their choices would be. I simply couldn't put it down, something that has been true of only one other book in my adult life: Ender's Game by Orson Scott Card.
Which was not the only similarity between my reactions to those two books. Ender's Game left me weeping longingly due to its resonance with my particular childhood. The Mill on the Floss, as I read the very last pages, left me not only weeping but wracked with sobs, gasping for purchase. I have never reacted that way to a book, and I have read many.
Perhaps it is a function of my current vulnerability, or the lovely scenery around me as I read it, or the happiness that comes with having smoked a few cigarettes, but to be sure it is largely attributable to Eliot's skill as a writer. She has always been amond my favorites, and on occasion has topped the list. In this instance, however, she has outdone herself. The Mill on the Floss is a book out of time, one that defies prediction in a way that her contemporaries would surely covet. Telling without being didactic, wise without being self-important, colorful and scenic without being florid, and touching without being pathetic. It is-and I do not say this lightly, as any follower (of which there are none, I am sure) of this blog will know--one of the best books ever written.
Which was not the only similarity between my reactions to those two books. Ender's Game left me weeping longingly due to its resonance with my particular childhood. The Mill on the Floss, as I read the very last pages, left me not only weeping but wracked with sobs, gasping for purchase. I have never reacted that way to a book, and I have read many.
Perhaps it is a function of my current vulnerability, or the lovely scenery around me as I read it, or the happiness that comes with having smoked a few cigarettes, but to be sure it is largely attributable to Eliot's skill as a writer. She has always been amond my favorites, and on occasion has topped the list. In this instance, however, she has outdone herself. The Mill on the Floss is a book out of time, one that defies prediction in a way that her contemporaries would surely covet. Telling without being didactic, wise without being self-important, colorful and scenic without being florid, and touching without being pathetic. It is-and I do not say this lightly, as any follower (of which there are none, I am sure) of this blog will know--one of the best books ever written.
Friday, June 25, 2010
Boris Pasternak: Doctor Zhivago
This is the first novel in a while that I have allowed myself to simply enjoy, to--as Barthes would put it--be seduced by, to simply read and fall in love with. This is partly due to my frame of mind, I suppose. My mantra lately has been "this moment is just as beautiful as any there has ever been," by which I mean that each moment is possessed of infinite small beauties and happinesses, and he is a fool who fails to see them. This sentiment naturally put me in compliance with Pasternak's novel, which is almost more of a painting than a book, so seamlessly does one beautiful picture morph into and meld with the next.
The English Major is incorrigible, of course, and refuses to be entirely dormant, so I naturally have a dissertation's worth to say about theme, style and especially Pasternak's uniquely charming use of pathetic fallacy. I will limit myself, however, to the observation that each of the characters is chasing, in her or his own way, that elusive divine light for which we all search. For some, the light is found, for some not. For Yurii, most tragically, the light is found--in Lara, who seems to hold it within herself--and lost. He holds onto it only long enough to write it down, and then withers away for want of it. All of this is supported and elaborated upon with one beautiful passage after another, but I'll save it for grad school. Suffice it to say that I have been successfully "cruised" by Doctor Zhivago (thanks Barthes) and now need a cigarette.
BTD 16
The English Major is incorrigible, of course, and refuses to be entirely dormant, so I naturally have a dissertation's worth to say about theme, style and especially Pasternak's uniquely charming use of pathetic fallacy. I will limit myself, however, to the observation that each of the characters is chasing, in her or his own way, that elusive divine light for which we all search. For some, the light is found, for some not. For Yurii, most tragically, the light is found--in Lara, who seems to hold it within herself--and lost. He holds onto it only long enough to write it down, and then withers away for want of it. All of this is supported and elaborated upon with one beautiful passage after another, but I'll save it for grad school. Suffice it to say that I have been successfully "cruised" by Doctor Zhivago (thanks Barthes) and now need a cigarette.
BTD 16
Tuesday, June 08, 2010
Joseph Conrad: The Secret Agent
Early in this short novel, Conrad describes what, for lack of a more accurate term, we may call his protagonist as "constitutionally averse to every superfluous exertion" (9). As I continued to read, I seldom went a page without wishing that Conrad, or at least his narrator, had the same tendency. This book needed Strunk and White to take a chisel to it, and winnow it down by half. Let's select a random page and see if I can't find you a good example, shall we? Here's one from page 49:
He walked with the nerveless gait of a tramp going on, still going on, indifferent to rain or sun in a sinister detachment from the aspects of sky and earth. Chief inspector Heat, on the other hand, after watching him a while, stepped out with the purposeful briskness of a man disregarding indeed the inclemencies of the weather, but conscious of having an authorized mission on this earth and the moral support of his kind.
Belch. The passage, as a microcosm of the entire book, overflows with "superfluous exertion". This is only two sentences, mind you. Can't you seeMark Twain spinning in his grave, perhaps wishing he were a lathe upon which to shear down Conrad's pointlessly flowery tone?
Whatever the flaws of this particular book, however, Conrad is still canonical for a reason. Even in the midst of all this diarrhoea, he manages to reach a mental study that would have merited Dostoevsky's admiration. When he confines his love of detail solely to the inner workings of his characters, he shines. Just as his "superfluous effort" is in startling contrast to Mr. Verloc's hatred of the same, so does his conscientious probity of his characters' minds stand in contrast to Mrs. Verloc's "belief that things did not stand being looked into" (89). Now that I mention it, perhaps he needn't be chastised quite so rashly for his loquacity after all . . .
He walked with the nerveless gait of a tramp going on, still going on, indifferent to rain or sun in a sinister detachment from the aspects of sky and earth. Chief inspector Heat, on the other hand, after watching him a while, stepped out with the purposeful briskness of a man disregarding indeed the inclemencies of the weather, but conscious of having an authorized mission on this earth and the moral support of his kind.
Belch. The passage, as a microcosm of the entire book, overflows with "superfluous exertion". This is only two sentences, mind you. Can't you see
Whatever the flaws of this particular book, however, Conrad is still canonical for a reason. Even in the midst of all this diarrhoea, he manages to reach a mental study that would have merited Dostoevsky's admiration. When he confines his love of detail solely to the inner workings of his characters, he shines. Just as his "superfluous effort" is in startling contrast to Mr. Verloc's hatred of the same, so does his conscientious probity of his characters' minds stand in contrast to Mrs. Verloc's "belief that things did not stand being looked into" (89). Now that I mention it, perhaps he needn't be chastised quite so rashly for his loquacity after all . . .
Monday, June 07, 2010
Francois Marie Arouet: Zadig and L'Ingenu
As fairly enjoyable as these two tales were, their chief interest to me was as reflections of that better known of Voltaire 's works, Candide . Zadig, written at at the beginning of his career, and L'Ingenu, written at the end, create a sandwich of sorts, that I'm sure has been written about consistently. Unlike Candide , which seems to rotate around external circumstances, these two stories pivot on the title characters themselves. Where Candide is simpleminded, some might even say a caricature, both Zadig and Hercules, the so-called Ingenu, are noble, sophisticated, caricatures in their own way.
These relatively flat characters could cause one to assume that Voltaire is not in earnest, that the stories are cheeky or satirical--and this is the customary approach to Candide especially. My personal affection for Candide lies in my belief that Voltaire secretly meant it in earnest, that for all the scorn he heaped upon Pangloss, this really is the best of all possible worlds, and our only choice is to be content in it. With this perspective on Candide, it is only natural to wonder if the other two stand up to the same literal lens. In Zadig, Voltaire seems to earnestly believe that all is for the best, that whatever terrible thing happens there is some greater good behind it. By the time of Candide, he has clearly altered his view somewhat, but only insofar as to remove God from the equation. Where in Zadig we should accept the terrible in life because it leads to the good, in Candide we should accept it because there is no better alternative. This puts him on a rather cynical trajectory, and sure enough, by the time of L'Ingenu the terrible in life doesn't give rise to any particular philosophy, and the book ends with a flat thud where one has come to expect something rather more pithy--both in Voltaire, and in literature generally
These relatively flat characters could cause one to assume that Voltaire is not in earnest, that the stories are cheeky or satirical--and this is the customary approach to Candide especially. My personal affection for Candide lies in my belief that Voltaire secretly meant it in earnest, that for all the scorn he heaped upon Pangloss, this really is the best of all possible worlds, and our only choice is to be content in it. With this perspective on Candide, it is only natural to wonder if the other two stand up to the same literal lens. In Zadig, Voltaire seems to earnestly believe that all is for the best, that whatever terrible thing happens there is some greater good behind it. By the time of Candide, he has clearly altered his view somewhat, but only insofar as to remove God from the equation. Where in Zadig we should accept the terrible in life because it leads to the good, in Candide we should accept it because there is no better alternative. This puts him on a rather cynical trajectory, and sure enough, by the time of L'Ingenu the terrible in life doesn't give rise to any particular philosophy, and the book ends with a flat thud where one has come to expect something rather more pithy--both in Voltaire, and in literature generally
Wednesday, June 02, 2010
Reiner Kunze: The Lovely Years
Many thanks, once again, to Philip Ward for setting me on the track of this remarkable author. This book possessed every virtue that I normally look for in a book--layered, metaliterary, resonant and epigrammatic, to name a few--and one that I don't normally look for, that of brevity. In form and texture, the book was very Joyceian. It's simply a collection of vignettes, some startlingly short, that serve to convey the feel of East Germany and Czechoslovakia during the cold war. Often, Kunze uses the perspective of a father observing the maturation of his daughter, and it is these scenes that feel like the center, the pivot of the book. He often returns to this character--which may or may not be the same father--as he treads the line between wanting the daughter to escape youth unscathed, and wanting her to think honestly about the political situation. the daughter, of course, chooses her own path as the father watches helplessly.
When not in this mode, Kunze often adopts the character of a publisher visiting Czechoslovakia as tensions over the partially East German invasion mount. Through him, Kunze introduces a string of obscure Czech poetry. At first I thought he might be pulling the Borgesian move of writing poems in the voice of a fictional writer, but research revealed that the writers were real, and this makes Kunze's choice decidedly more political than Borges'.
Peppered among these narratives are seemingly unconnected glimpses into the lives of others affected by Cold War politics in the countries of the Warsaw Pact. The narrator of these scenes usually is anonymous, which makes it only natural to hear them in Kunze's own voice. The arrangement of the stories is fluid, rhythmic, almost musical in its artistry.
Which brings us to the element which sets the book in an entirely different bracket. I always train my students to look for the things that don't fit, and trust the writer that they are often the keys to the entire book. Kunze does not disappoint. The scene "Organ Recital (Toccata and Fugue)" is set apart by its form-- the paragraphs line up on the left margin. This seemingly insignificant formatting choice cues the reader to look more deeply at this scene than at the others, and is rewarded for that inspection with he revelation that it is really almost an "Easter Wings" style shape poem, a pipe organ spread over four pages.
Although superficially prose, the refrain "all organs--" gives it a poetic rhythm that build as the clause is left dangling, setting in the mind like an unresolved chord. After wondering what the narrator is trying to say about "all organs" for three pages, the reader is rewarded with " . . . should all suddenly burst into sound, sweeping away the lies with which the air is so thick that those striving for honesty can scarcely breathe . . . at least one single time, at least one Wednesday evening" (70). The Lovely Years is that single time, the moment when all pipes of all organs, "those thirty feet tall, and with the highest those measured in inches" let loose a simultaneous blast, and clear the air--if only for an instant (69). The voices of The Lovely Years, window washers, teenagers, soldiers, fathers and others of all flavor, including of no flavor, roar out and "thunderously [dispel] the terror of the spirit" (70). A poignant message, and written with such musical artistry that one must be seduced by it.
When not in this mode, Kunze often adopts the character of a publisher visiting Czechoslovakia as tensions over the partially East German invasion mount. Through him, Kunze introduces a string of obscure Czech poetry. At first I thought he might be pulling the Borgesian move of writing poems in the voice of a fictional writer, but research revealed that the writers were real, and this makes Kunze's choice decidedly more political than Borges'.
Peppered among these narratives are seemingly unconnected glimpses into the lives of others affected by Cold War politics in the countries of the Warsaw Pact. The narrator of these scenes usually is anonymous, which makes it only natural to hear them in Kunze's own voice. The arrangement of the stories is fluid, rhythmic, almost musical in its artistry.
Which brings us to the element which sets the book in an entirely different bracket. I always train my students to look for the things that don't fit, and trust the writer that they are often the keys to the entire book. Kunze does not disappoint. The scene "Organ Recital (Toccata and Fugue)" is set apart by its form-- the paragraphs line up on the left margin. This seemingly insignificant formatting choice cues the reader to look more deeply at this scene than at the others, and is rewarded for that inspection with he revelation that it is really almost an "Easter Wings" style shape poem, a pipe organ spread over four pages.
Although superficially prose, the refrain "all organs--" gives it a poetic rhythm that build as the clause is left dangling, setting in the mind like an unresolved chord. After wondering what the narrator is trying to say about "all organs" for three pages, the reader is rewarded with " . . . should all suddenly burst into sound, sweeping away the lies with which the air is so thick that those striving for honesty can scarcely breathe . . . at least one single time, at least one Wednesday evening" (70). The Lovely Years is that single time, the moment when all pipes of all organs, "those thirty feet tall, and with the highest those measured in inches" let loose a simultaneous blast, and clear the air--if only for an instant (69). The voices of The Lovely Years, window washers, teenagers, soldiers, fathers and others of all flavor, including of no flavor, roar out and "thunderously [dispel] the terror of the spirit" (70). A poignant message, and written with such musical artistry that one must be seduced by it.
Keith L. Pratt: Everlasting Flower
Perhaps I'm just burnt out on reading Korean history after this, my third in as many months. I normally read no history whatsoever, so this certainly represents a saturation bombing. Whatever the reason, I found little to remember about this book, compared to the other two. It felt perfunctory and lacking subtlety. Of the three, I definitely enjoyed Cumings' Korea's Place in the Sun the most, although it was also the lengthiest, and the least broad. Perhaps if I had read Everlasting Flower first, I would have enjoyed it more, but after the other two it just felt too fluffy.
The one element that I might have enjoyed if it were done in more detail was the series of photo essays, which were really just glamorized captions. They serviceably set a bit of context onto the narrative, but, like the rest of the book, felt lacking. I think it safe to say that I am done with Korean history for a while.
The one element that I might have enjoyed if it were done in more detail was the series of photo essays, which were really just glamorized captions. They serviceably set a bit of context onto the narrative, but, like the rest of the book, felt lacking. I think it safe to say that I am done with Korean history for a while.
Friday, May 28, 2010
It's a Wonderful Life
Although they have little in common, I find myself comparing this movie to On the Waterfront in my mind. The latter became known for Brando's virtuoso performance, and the former for it's maudlin sentiment. Nonetheless, in my mind, it is Jimmy Stewart's performance that stands out in my mind, and Brando's pales in comparison. Heresy? Perhaps, but as with most of my heresies, I stand by it.
And, of course, I cried. The movie was beautiful, flawless and I do not wonder that it is so widely considered a classic, or that so many people never tire of it (again, in contrast to Waterfront). I felt a personal resonance (perhaps the source of my praise) with Stewart's character, for he is what I imagine my paternal grandfather to have been like. I did not know Henry Payne well, but this is exactly what I picture, down tot he raging outbursts. I found myself feeling a retroactive sympathy for him, as he was never much of a sympathetic character in life. Both for artistic and sentimental reasons, therefore, I would watch this movie again. I do that so rarely, that you may consider it my version of an Academy Award.
Next up: Sunset Boulevard!
And, of course, I cried. The movie was beautiful, flawless and I do not wonder that it is so widely considered a classic, or that so many people never tire of it (again, in contrast to Waterfront). I felt a personal resonance (perhaps the source of my praise) with Stewart's character, for he is what I imagine my paternal grandfather to have been like. I did not know Henry Payne well, but this is exactly what I picture, down tot he raging outbursts. I found myself feeling a retroactive sympathy for him, as he was never much of a sympathetic character in life. Both for artistic and sentimental reasons, therefore, I would watch this movie again. I do that so rarely, that you may consider it my version of an Academy Award.
Next up: Sunset Boulevard!
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Schindler's List
This movie, number 9 on AFI's list of 100 best American movies, made me think little about movie-making, and much about other things. As for it's place on the list, yes, I suppose I can agree with it. It's lovely at points, but merely serviceable in others, and occasionally lacks vision. It seems safe to say that its power comes largely from its topic and its startling treatment of that topic, rather than its masterfulness.
By which topic, I mean the single most important event of the twentieth century, the systematic mass murder of millions of people. Certainly there have been other genocides and mass murders--including that at Hiroshima, but none to my knowledge has been so mechanical, so calculating as what is commonly but incorrectly called The Holocaust. Any reflective human should take its mention as an opportunity to reflect on her or his own life. Is it really so astonishing? Or is it more astonishing for the ease with which it was perpetrated? Is it out of the realm of possibility to think that such a thing could happen again? By no means. Even the seemingly most liberal, evolved of nations are not immune to the power of group mentality. Even the seemingly most evolved humans are not immune. In Schindler's circumstnace, what would I have done? Would it have been to difficult? Would I have taken a stand? I would like to think so, but I am well aware of my ability to fall in with the thinking of my peers.
Were I to take a stand, and let's assume that I would, I am certain I would go about it differently. If the movie's portrayal is accurate (doubtful), Schindler's personality was ill-suited to the business of fighting. Emotional, impetuous, and occasionally silly, it is a wonder that he wasn't caught and executed long before doing any good. In my capacity as an armchair savior, I picture turning my heart completely off. So you want to rescue a particular person? Tough. One person is not more valuable than another; we are all God's children, of equal value in his eyes, and if would draw attention to our dangerous work, forget it. Mourn heartily. Also, no matter that you are uncomfortable. Suffer and live, or whine and die. Your choice.
The question is, would this work? In life, I care about people's welfare, not their feelings. I will do what is in the common interest, and think what you will. It's not pleasant. Perhaps I could learn a thing from Oskar Schindler. Can one do a large good and still worry about small kindnesses?
By which topic, I mean the single most important event of the twentieth century, the systematic mass murder of millions of people. Certainly there have been other genocides and mass murders--including that at Hiroshima, but none to my knowledge has been so mechanical, so calculating as what is commonly but incorrectly called The Holocaust. Any reflective human should take its mention as an opportunity to reflect on her or his own life. Is it really so astonishing? Or is it more astonishing for the ease with which it was perpetrated? Is it out of the realm of possibility to think that such a thing could happen again? By no means. Even the seemingly most liberal, evolved of nations are not immune to the power of group mentality. Even the seemingly most evolved humans are not immune. In Schindler's circumstnace, what would I have done? Would it have been to difficult? Would I have taken a stand? I would like to think so, but I am well aware of my ability to fall in with the thinking of my peers.
Were I to take a stand, and let's assume that I would, I am certain I would go about it differently. If the movie's portrayal is accurate (doubtful), Schindler's personality was ill-suited to the business of fighting. Emotional, impetuous, and occasionally silly, it is a wonder that he wasn't caught and executed long before doing any good. In my capacity as an armchair savior, I picture turning my heart completely off. So you want to rescue a particular person? Tough. One person is not more valuable than another; we are all God's children, of equal value in his eyes, and if would draw attention to our dangerous work, forget it. Mourn heartily. Also, no matter that you are uncomfortable. Suffer and live, or whine and die. Your choice.
The question is, would this work? In life, I care about people's welfare, not their feelings. I will do what is in the common interest, and think what you will. It's not pleasant. Perhaps I could learn a thing from Oskar Schindler. Can one do a large good and still worry about small kindnesses?
Sunday, May 16, 2010
On The Waterfront
The natural conversation to come out of an analysis of the AFI's 100 greatest American movies is one about what makes a movie great--but the question is grammatically vague. Is the question what about a movie makes it great? Or what magical thing, in the creation of a movie, results in greatness, in legendary status?
In On the Waterfront, the answer to the first question is obvious. First, and most unanimously, is Brando's performance. It is not my favorite performance of his--which may be Streetcar or Guys and Dolls--but it is a believable and reflective one, with a much-deserved reputation. The answer to the second question, which might be more accurately phrased, "where did the greatness come from?", is clearly the director. Kazan brought sensitivity and subtlety to what could have easily been a maudlin melodrama. His hand is usually invisible, as it usually with directors whose charm lay in their subtlety, but it is the director alone that is responsible for the treatment of the scene where Brando reveals to Eva Marie Saint his role in her brother's death. The power of that scene all lay in the placement of the camera, the sound, the creative way that Kazan makes the audience an outsider to the entire thing. Brando has little power here.
The question, "What makes a movie great?" is only incompletely answered by Waterfront, however. Although there is greatness in a movie, I can't say that I consider it great, in the sense that AFI is meaning. If not an answer, though, that is at least part of an answer: if we don't quite know what makes a movie great--in either sense of the question--at least we know that the presence of greatness is not enough.
In On the Waterfront, the answer to the first question is obvious. First, and most unanimously, is Brando's performance. It is not my favorite performance of his--which may be Streetcar or Guys and Dolls--but it is a believable and reflective one, with a much-deserved reputation. The answer to the second question, which might be more accurately phrased, "where did the greatness come from?", is clearly the director. Kazan brought sensitivity and subtlety to what could have easily been a maudlin melodrama. His hand is usually invisible, as it usually with directors whose charm lay in their subtlety, but it is the director alone that is responsible for the treatment of the scene where Brando reveals to Eva Marie Saint his role in her brother's death. The power of that scene all lay in the placement of the camera, the sound, the creative way that Kazan makes the audience an outsider to the entire thing. Brando has little power here.
The question, "What makes a movie great?" is only incompletely answered by Waterfront, however. Although there is greatness in a movie, I can't say that I consider it great, in the sense that AFI is meaning. If not an answer, though, that is at least part of an answer: if we don't quite know what makes a movie great--in either sense of the question--at least we know that the presence of greatness is not enough.
Sunday, May 09, 2010
Liveblogging the Bible: Romans
1:1 Why is Paul writing this? It seems that he wasn't quite aware of the Roman congregation until he was in Rome--and then never to leave.
1:5 Is he referring to himself in the plural here? Obviously, his audience has not received the gift of apostleship.
1:7 As in many of his live performances, Paul begins with a bit of flattery. Was it common practice to refer to each other as saints? No doubt the word had different connotations, because to refer to someone in earnest this way today would be quite an act of hubris, let alone to refer to oneself this way.
1:11 What sort of gift? Any gift of knowledge could be imparted through a letter, so he must be referring to some more tangible, metaphysical act. Which indicates that physical presence is useful for such a thing, even to Paul.
1:16 His forthrightness must have been in question for him to make such an obvious statement. Which alerts me to lookout for other examples of Paul defending himself in this letter.
1:18 Again, this seems to indicate what is going on behind the scenes in Rome. Such a claim would seem out of place, especially in an introduction, if there were not specific examples going on.
1:19 This would be a nice theology of itself. "What can be known about God is plain". No special revelation is necessary for complete understanding.
1:20 Who is the "they" whom Paul lambasts here?
1:26 What is unnatural intercourse for a woman? Sex out of marriage may be considered quite natural for a biological human. Could he be referring to anal or oral sex?
1:27 As staunchly as some gay theologians try to spin this, it's pretty incontrovertible that Paul was homophobic.
1:32 Who is They? This verse seems to indicate the Jews, but it is certainly not clear.
2:1 This makes it even more curious. The "they" is now a "you", and a "whoever you are" to boot. Is it possible that Paul is referring to someone particular, rather than a group of people or a sort of person, and that his audience would know exactly whom he means?
The sentiment in the verse is also finding particular resonance with me this week. I have a terrible judgment addiction. Whenever I take a Meyer's Briggs test, I invariably come out on the far "J" side of the scale. It's my nature, I like black and white divisions. One is either on time, or one is not, and yes, it does matter. The job is either finished, or it is not etc.. This becomes a troubling trait when applied to person, however. People are invariably and wholly made up of gray areas. They cannot be judged, by other people at least, and certainly not according to any criteria I could come up with. Why then do I struggle so to withhold judgement from my fellow man?
2:7 What about those who, by patiently doing good seek, not for glory and honor and immortality, but simply to do good? Any theology that glory and honor for goodness is suspect in my book.
2:9-11 This is an interesting statement. "There will be anguish and distress for everyone who does evil, the Jew first and also the Greek." Why the Jew first? This seems to contradict his next statement: "for God shows no partiality".
2:12 So, by Paul's theology, could a Jew who is under the Law could be judged just as righteous as a Christian--if that Jew follows the Law to the same extent that the Christian follows his law? that seems a stretch, but it's an interesting question.
2:14 But what about when the Gentiles do not do what the law requires, that is to say, what of those parts of the law that are not obvious? Is it possible that Paul is not talking about the Mosaic law at all here? It would seem out of place for him to refer to Christian principles as "the law", when that term evokes a very different set of laws in the minds of his audience.
2:17 The tone Paul takes here definitely lends credence to the idea that he has a specific person in mind.
2:26 This logic is tenuous, but Paul is jumping through verbal hoops anyway. It's as if to say, "Your idea is so ridiculous, that here's another ridiculous idea to put in your pipe."
2:29 Whomever Paul is trying to discredit/shame here, he (or she, I supose, but that seems less likely) is clearly of the camp mentioned in Acts that raised controversy over circumcision.
3:2 What? This promises to be a curious line of reasoning.
3:6 Not exactly sound reasoning, for he speaks on the assumption that God is fit to judge the world.
3:30 This is the first thing that Paul says in this chapter that I can make any sense out of. He does so many somersaults, so many reversals of position and leaps of logic, that I cannot keep it straight. A few possibilities: he is simply dictating off the cuff, he is trying to overawe his audience with logical legerdemain, this makes sense in some bizarre way. Let us try to track his train of thought:
4:1 Paul is clearly continuing with this line of logic in this chapter
4:2 Now this is actually a strong point. Those who are arguing that the Law/works are the path to "boasting" which seems to be used as a synonym for righteousness might well draw upon Abraham to support their claim. Here Paul conscripts Abraham into his own army.
4:10 Again, flawless logic. It's a pity that Paul went through the mess in chapter 3 to get here.
4:15 This is Paul's real difficulty. If there is no law, then do whatever the hell you want, as long as you have "faith". It remains to be seen whether he successfully resolves it.
4:25 Verdict: not proven (not yet at least).
5:1 The question of whether being "justified by faith" really requires anything of one remains unanswered.
5:2 When Paul first raised the topic of boasting, I expected him to renounce it. He seems rather to be chasing it.
5:9-10 Paul's point, or rather his attempted intensification of his point, seems tenuous here. He seems to be saying "since we were saved while sinners, now that we are saved we are doubly saved". This sounds great, but has no meaning.
5:12 perhaps it is just a trick of translation, but this is definitely a dangling modifier. "For just as sin came into the world through one man" etc. Never gets a "So too has . . ." to finish off the thought. Just as _____ needs a so too ______ in order to have any meaning.
5:17 I'm still irritated by Paul's seemingly meaningless use of "much more surely" Here, as in 9-10, it has no meaning, no object.
In short, Paul clearly has something meaningful to say, but it does not seem clear yet--perhaps even to him--what that is. It certainly could not ever be clear enough to be above dispute.
6:1 Paul is setting up a straw man here for the logical refutation of his argument--one that I find myself making regularly. If salvation is assured, why bother with virtue?
6:11 His argument doesn't seem quite watertight, though. He reasons that, since our sins died with Christ, our lives belong to him/God. That presupposes good faith (in the legal sense) on the party of the second part, though. There still seems to be a loophole in the contract . . .
6:15 He raises the question again--tacitly acknowledging that he hasn't really answered it.
6:17 Thank goodness you are acting in good faith, in other words--that you haven't taken advantage of the loophole.
6:23 But are the wages of sin still death after one has been "saved"? Paul had better hope not!
7:1 Wait, I thought the law was not binding at all anymore! Paul here betrays his solicitude of Jewish Romans.
7:4 Or he's just using it as a metaphor. That was really quite slick, actually! Not a real sound analogy, but slick nonetheless.
7:7 Sin is almost an agency here. Paul seems to be getting carried away--but it is no doubt calculated.
7:15 Paul is deft here, and at the same time quite sincere. The feeling of helplessness before this mysterious agency "sin" is familiar to me. To Paul, Sin is a wily adversary. In v. 8 here It takes advantage of the law to make a sinner out of its victims. I once believed similarly--I felt like a marionette, a victim of some force that made me do terrible things. I realize now that the force was not sin, but simply unconsciousness--blindly following urges and saying "lalala I can't hear you!" Quite an elegant verse.
7:20 And here Paul distances himself from that agency, as though it was not part of himself.
7:21 A playful, but potentially confusing, use of "law" here
7:23 and here confusing in the extreme. 4 different laws? Or only two?
7:25 And where does this leave us but in a moral quandary? A fun one though . . .
8:3 This is a rather elegant answer to the charge that if there is no condemnation in spirit, one might as well do as one pleases. The spirit is indeed uncondemnable, a law which one can only take advantage of by living in spirit.
8:19 This is an interesting turn of phrase: the revealing of the children of God. What would such a revealing entail?
8:22 Evidently he means revealing in the sense of being born.
8:29 No doubt a difficult theological passage. If those whom God has called are predetermined, why evangelize? Simply to awaken, or reveal them?
8:37-39 And a nice flourish of poetry to end the thread.
1:5 Is he referring to himself in the plural here? Obviously, his audience has not received the gift of apostleship.
1:7 As in many of his live performances, Paul begins with a bit of flattery. Was it common practice to refer to each other as saints? No doubt the word had different connotations, because to refer to someone in earnest this way today would be quite an act of hubris, let alone to refer to oneself this way.
1:11 What sort of gift? Any gift of knowledge could be imparted through a letter, so he must be referring to some more tangible, metaphysical act. Which indicates that physical presence is useful for such a thing, even to Paul.
1:16 His forthrightness must have been in question for him to make such an obvious statement. Which alerts me to lookout for other examples of Paul defending himself in this letter.
1:18 Again, this seems to indicate what is going on behind the scenes in Rome. Such a claim would seem out of place, especially in an introduction, if there were not specific examples going on.
1:19 This would be a nice theology of itself. "What can be known about God is plain". No special revelation is necessary for complete understanding.
1:20 Who is the "they" whom Paul lambasts here?
1:26 What is unnatural intercourse for a woman? Sex out of marriage may be considered quite natural for a biological human. Could he be referring to anal or oral sex?
1:27 As staunchly as some gay theologians try to spin this, it's pretty incontrovertible that Paul was homophobic.
1:32 Who is They? This verse seems to indicate the Jews, but it is certainly not clear.
2:1 This makes it even more curious. The "they" is now a "you", and a "whoever you are" to boot. Is it possible that Paul is referring to someone particular, rather than a group of people or a sort of person, and that his audience would know exactly whom he means?
The sentiment in the verse is also finding particular resonance with me this week. I have a terrible judgment addiction. Whenever I take a Meyer's Briggs test, I invariably come out on the far "J" side of the scale. It's my nature, I like black and white divisions. One is either on time, or one is not, and yes, it does matter. The job is either finished, or it is not etc.. This becomes a troubling trait when applied to person, however. People are invariably and wholly made up of gray areas. They cannot be judged, by other people at least, and certainly not according to any criteria I could come up with. Why then do I struggle so to withhold judgement from my fellow man?
2:7 What about those who, by patiently doing good seek, not for glory and honor and immortality, but simply to do good? Any theology that glory and honor for goodness is suspect in my book.
2:9-11 This is an interesting statement. "There will be anguish and distress for everyone who does evil, the Jew first and also the Greek." Why the Jew first? This seems to contradict his next statement: "for God shows no partiality".
2:12 So, by Paul's theology, could a Jew who is under the Law could be judged just as righteous as a Christian--if that Jew follows the Law to the same extent that the Christian follows his law? that seems a stretch, but it's an interesting question.
2:14 But what about when the Gentiles do not do what the law requires, that is to say, what of those parts of the law that are not obvious? Is it possible that Paul is not talking about the Mosaic law at all here? It would seem out of place for him to refer to Christian principles as "the law", when that term evokes a very different set of laws in the minds of his audience.
2:17 The tone Paul takes here definitely lends credence to the idea that he has a specific person in mind.
2:26 This logic is tenuous, but Paul is jumping through verbal hoops anyway. It's as if to say, "Your idea is so ridiculous, that here's another ridiculous idea to put in your pipe."
2:29 Whomever Paul is trying to discredit/shame here, he (or she, I supose, but that seems less likely) is clearly of the camp mentioned in Acts that raised controversy over circumcision.
3:2 What? This promises to be a curious line of reasoning.
3:6 Not exactly sound reasoning, for he speaks on the assumption that God is fit to judge the world.
3:30 This is the first thing that Paul says in this chapter that I can make any sense out of. He does so many somersaults, so many reversals of position and leaps of logic, that I cannot keep it straight. A few possibilities: he is simply dictating off the cuff, he is trying to overawe his audience with logical legerdemain, this makes sense in some bizarre way. Let us try to track his train of thought:
- 2-4 The fact that the Jews did not keep the law is not a refutation of that law, but (in some unexplained leap to verse 5) a vindication of it. This point seems unproven, and that verbal trick may be the foundation for the silliness that follows.
- 6-8 seem to be a logical dead end. It is not clear whether Paul is making this first claim to undermine those who say "Let us do evil so that good may come", or whether he is honestly offering that his falsehood vindicates God's truthfulness.
- 9 We are certainly not better of than when we began this chapter (a cheap dig, sorry). Who is we? Is Paul aligning himself with the Jews or the Greeks here, as he has a claim to both. Or as a Roman? That would also be a supportable position. He is indeed all things to all men. In any case, this is a reversal of what he said in 2-4.
- 19-20 This seems to indicate that the law is a mean trick, an impossible task set up to highlight man's imperfection-which is a nice setup to the claim that the law has been supplanted in verses 21-26.
- 27-31 This is a new strand, and the connection is hard to pin down. Whence came the topic of boasting? The Jew's law--a law of works--seemed to allow for boasting (although that is a straw argument, quickly smashed by Paul in verse 9), but the law of faith allows for no such thing.
4:1 Paul is clearly continuing with this line of logic in this chapter
4:2 Now this is actually a strong point. Those who are arguing that the Law/works are the path to "boasting" which seems to be used as a synonym for righteousness might well draw upon Abraham to support their claim. Here Paul conscripts Abraham into his own army.
4:10 Again, flawless logic. It's a pity that Paul went through the mess in chapter 3 to get here.
4:15 This is Paul's real difficulty. If there is no law, then do whatever the hell you want, as long as you have "faith". It remains to be seen whether he successfully resolves it.
4:25 Verdict: not proven (not yet at least).
5:1 The question of whether being "justified by faith" really requires anything of one remains unanswered.
5:2 When Paul first raised the topic of boasting, I expected him to renounce it. He seems rather to be chasing it.
5:9-10 Paul's point, or rather his attempted intensification of his point, seems tenuous here. He seems to be saying "since we were saved while sinners, now that we are saved we are doubly saved". This sounds great, but has no meaning.
5:12 perhaps it is just a trick of translation, but this is definitely a dangling modifier. "For just as sin came into the world through one man" etc. Never gets a "So too has . . ." to finish off the thought. Just as _____ needs a so too ______ in order to have any meaning.
5:17 I'm still irritated by Paul's seemingly meaningless use of "much more surely" Here, as in 9-10, it has no meaning, no object.
In short, Paul clearly has something meaningful to say, but it does not seem clear yet--perhaps even to him--what that is. It certainly could not ever be clear enough to be above dispute.
6:1 Paul is setting up a straw man here for the logical refutation of his argument--one that I find myself making regularly. If salvation is assured, why bother with virtue?
6:11 His argument doesn't seem quite watertight, though. He reasons that, since our sins died with Christ, our lives belong to him/God. That presupposes good faith (in the legal sense) on the party of the second part, though. There still seems to be a loophole in the contract . . .
6:15 He raises the question again--tacitly acknowledging that he hasn't really answered it.
6:17 Thank goodness you are acting in good faith, in other words--that you haven't taken advantage of the loophole.
6:23 But are the wages of sin still death after one has been "saved"? Paul had better hope not!
7:1 Wait, I thought the law was not binding at all anymore! Paul here betrays his solicitude of Jewish Romans.
7:4 Or he's just using it as a metaphor. That was really quite slick, actually! Not a real sound analogy, but slick nonetheless.
7:7 Sin is almost an agency here. Paul seems to be getting carried away--but it is no doubt calculated.
7:15 Paul is deft here, and at the same time quite sincere. The feeling of helplessness before this mysterious agency "sin" is familiar to me. To Paul, Sin is a wily adversary. In v. 8 here It takes advantage of the law to make a sinner out of its victims. I once believed similarly--I felt like a marionette, a victim of some force that made me do terrible things. I realize now that the force was not sin, but simply unconsciousness--blindly following urges and saying "lalala I can't hear you!" Quite an elegant verse.
7:20 And here Paul distances himself from that agency, as though it was not part of himself.
7:21 A playful, but potentially confusing, use of "law" here
7:23 and here confusing in the extreme. 4 different laws? Or only two?
7:25 And where does this leave us but in a moral quandary? A fun one though . . .
8:3 This is a rather elegant answer to the charge that if there is no condemnation in spirit, one might as well do as one pleases. The spirit is indeed uncondemnable, a law which one can only take advantage of by living in spirit.
8:19 This is an interesting turn of phrase: the revealing of the children of God. What would such a revealing entail?
8:22 Evidently he means revealing in the sense of being born.
8:29 No doubt a difficult theological passage. If those whom God has called are predetermined, why evangelize? Simply to awaken, or reveal them?
8:37-39 And a nice flourish of poetry to end the thread.
Thursday, May 06, 2010
Francois Villon: Poems
Seldom does Philip Ward lead me wrong, but this was not a book from which I took much. It is probably through no fault of the author, but two things conspire to make Villon's meaning inaccessible to me: its being written in Middle French, and it's constant reference to petty personal matters that no modern person, no matter how scholarly, could have reference to. It seems fair to say that the allure of Villon is in his biography, rather than in his poetry. The character of a robber/poet, a true mountebank, is seductive, and one would almost tend to like the poems sight unseen, solely on the excitement of the author. The Testament especially was entirely inscrutable, but I enjoyed reading a few examples of the mock will, a form of poetry I had not encountered before. A few of the Ballades struck me, and I found them to be a remarkably effective use of refrain as a literary device. One of my favorites:
I know flies in milk
I know the man by his clothes
I know fair weather from foul
I know the apple by the tree
I know the tree when I see the sap
I know when all is one
I know who labors and loafs
I know everything but myself.
Villon seemingly refers to this sparingly layered poem later in another that touched my fancy:
You don't know a thing--Yes I do--What?--Flies in milk
One's white, one's black, they're opposites--
That's all?--how can I say it better?
If that doesn't suit you I'll start over--
You're lost-Well I'll go down fighting--
I've nothing more to tell you--I'll survive without it.
Framed as an argument between Villon and his own heart, this poem is nicely reflective of the earlier sentiment: he knows many things--most of which have to do with drawing distinctions, or using the left brain--but knows little of such right-brain activities as self-reflection. His style, most pointedly in this Ballade, reminds me of Mayakovksy's, especially in An Extraordinary Adventure. That Villon was attempting this sort of conceptually sophisticated poetry more than 400 years before Mayakovsky is testament to his power as a poet. It's a pity that much of the pith seems to have been lost with time.
I know flies in milk
I know the man by his clothes
I know fair weather from foul
I know the apple by the tree
I know the tree when I see the sap
I know when all is one
I know who labors and loafs
I know everything but myself.
Villon seemingly refers to this sparingly layered poem later in another that touched my fancy:
You don't know a thing--Yes I do--What?--Flies in milk
One's white, one's black, they're opposites--
That's all?--how can I say it better?
If that doesn't suit you I'll start over--
You're lost-Well I'll go down fighting--
I've nothing more to tell you--I'll survive without it.
Framed as an argument between Villon and his own heart, this poem is nicely reflective of the earlier sentiment: he knows many things--most of which have to do with drawing distinctions, or using the left brain--but knows little of such right-brain activities as self-reflection. His style, most pointedly in this Ballade, reminds me of Mayakovksy's, especially in An Extraordinary Adventure. That Villon was attempting this sort of conceptually sophisticated poetry more than 400 years before Mayakovsky is testament to his power as a poet. It's a pity that much of the pith seems to have been lost with time.
Monday, May 03, 2010
Lawrence of Arabia
I really need to be more careful what I read and watch. Watching this while reading The Awakening has had an effect on my mood, to be sure. Ward's Lifetime of Reading has an advantage over the AFIs 100 Best American Films list, in that not all of them are ponderous. So far all of the films have been of the sort that make one stagger--at the expense if nothing else. Lawrence of Arabia was one such, and it's impact on me was intensified by its root in reality. That this extraordinary man really existed is really rather astonishing, and the film did an admirable job of capturing that. Still, as impressive as the acting, cinematography and the sheer scope of the project were, it is the story that is most affecting. I am not sure whether I should even read Lawrence's autobiography now (but I probably will). I take some comfort at least in the fact that this man, as enviable as he may have been at one point, was driven quite mad and unhappy by his enviability. Although I wanted to be him at once, by the end of the movie I was grateful for my own small, satisfying life.
Kate Chopin: The Awakening and Other Stories
I have a growing perception that my approach to literary criticism is embarrassingly old fashioned. What I have to say about this book is no doubt going to sound suspiciously like an undergraduate essay. Any self respecting deconstructionist would no doubt berate me for my tight, sensible readings of texts, but I can't help myself. Every text holds two stories: the one the author intended, and the one we make up about it. All we ever truly read is the latter, which would be lamentable if it were not unavoidable.
The selections from each of Chopin's short story collections lend themselves especially well to a simple, obvious analysis. The selections from Bayou Folk have an obvious common theme, that of longing for what belongs to another. Likewise, the selections from A Night in Acadie share a theme, that of unexpectedly liking that which one might not be expected to--either by society or by the reader. It is tempting to observe that The Awakening takes both of these themes, and turns them nicely into one: longing for what is unexpected. If I were an undergraduate still, and struggling to find a topic, this would be it.
But I am not. As tempting as it is to make a case for that reading--and a case could be made--I choose not to. In fact, I choose not to make any reading at all, but rather to observe that The Awakening is a very nearly perfect account of its eponymous topic, and one akin to my own experience. I found every moment believable, and that shall be enough.
BTD 10
The selections from each of Chopin's short story collections lend themselves especially well to a simple, obvious analysis. The selections from Bayou Folk have an obvious common theme, that of longing for what belongs to another. Likewise, the selections from A Night in Acadie share a theme, that of unexpectedly liking that which one might not be expected to--either by society or by the reader. It is tempting to observe that The Awakening takes both of these themes, and turns them nicely into one: longing for what is unexpected. If I were an undergraduate still, and struggling to find a topic, this would be it.
But I am not. As tempting as it is to make a case for that reading--and a case could be made--I choose not to. In fact, I choose not to make any reading at all, but rather to observe that The Awakening is a very nearly perfect account of its eponymous topic, and one akin to my own experience. I found every moment believable, and that shall be enough.
BTD 10
Friday, April 30, 2010
Clifford Goldstein: God, Gödel and Grace.
I often say--only halfway jokingly--that those who pretend to know everything make it difficult on those of us who really do. As manifestly as Goldstein would like to be listed in the latter category, he could not more clearly be in the former. I have never read a more despicable namedropper, nor anyone more desperate to seem credible on another's coattails. It really is ludicrous. Let me cite you a few of my favorite examples:
"Ethics and love, hate and hope, transcend not just the periodic table of elements but all 112 other facets of reality that the table represents. Np, Am, Ar, Kr, Xe, Os, Re, Tc, Cs, Ba, Si, and the 101 rest--no matter how microscopically finely tuned and balanced the proportions--can't fully explain heroism, art, fear, generosity, altruism, hate, hope, and passion. To pretend that they can is to equate Luciano Pavarotti singing Il Barbiere di Siviglia with Belching." (26)
Even this small passage yields a treasury of pretense, one which it is a pleasure to dissect. A quick list of insults to the reader: listing eleven elements so make the topic clear, listing them only by their symbol, even the choice of elements is condescending, and of course Goldstein feels compelled to do the arithmetic for the reader and observe that there are 101 others. Then there is the mention of Pavarotti--I feel condescended to even by the fact that Goldstein uses his first name. Is there more than one Pavarotti?--and the use of the Italian name for The Barber of Seville. Anybody who doesn't know opera will have no idea what he's talking about, while anybody who does know opera will quickly recognize that Pavarotti was not even top billing in Il Barbiere. Why not choose a role for which he was really famous? So execrable is Goldstein's disingenuous allusion here that it takes longer to dissect it than it probably did to write.
These are minor sins on paper, but they accumulate so rapidly that the reader is jaundiced by the end of the first chapter. It is no exaggeration to say that there are multiple examples on every last page. Goldstein invokes everyone from Kant and Wittgenstein (favorite reinforcements for those who hope to overwhelm their critics with citations) to Dostoevsky and Tolstoy. I was both offended and nauseous by the end of the book.
Which was disappointing. My friend Fran pushed this item on me, perceiving, I think, the spiritual quest I am on. She said it was brilliant, but is less skeptical than I am by nature and may have been taken in by Goldstein's namedropping. It is all the more tragic because I am in agreement with Goldstein on many key points. For instance, I have often said that I don't know whether there is anything bigger than I am out there for sure, but that I choose to act as if. After all, if there is not, I don't want to play this game anymore. That is to say that if I (man) am the biggest, most sophisticated mind out there, what fun is that? This is in fundamental agreement with Goldstein's conclusion that "Belief in God [is] about as reasonable as belief in other minds" (94), and I like the way he puts it. He even builds a sound argument leading up to it, and I also appreciate his supposition that "the moral components of the universe [are] just as precise, just as fundamental as the physical ones" (82). The way he lays it out, such a suggestion seems rather reasonable, I hate to admit.
But that's as far as Goldstein really can take his argument. He tries vainly to connect it to ransom theology, but even he seems to recognize the vanity of it. That spire is unreachable on steps of logic, and requires a submission to that dogma. He is reduced toward the end of the book to such embarassing pleas as "He will, he has promised to, and if we can't trust his promises--then whose?" (110). This is not to say that I blame him. Such feeble arguments are the only way one can really arrive at his predetermined goal. What is sad is not that his ultimate conclusions are insupportable; it is that he wants so desperately for everyone to agree with him. He thinks he is organizing the sum total of Western thought into a grand unified field theory, when he is unable to, in his own words, "step outside the epistemological box stapled together from the empirical, cultural and happenstance scraps scavenged from [his] own intellectual turf" (56).
"Ethics and love, hate and hope, transcend not just the periodic table of elements but all 112 other facets of reality that the table represents. Np, Am, Ar, Kr, Xe, Os, Re, Tc, Cs, Ba, Si, and the 101 rest--no matter how microscopically finely tuned and balanced the proportions--can't fully explain heroism, art, fear, generosity, altruism, hate, hope, and passion. To pretend that they can is to equate Luciano Pavarotti singing Il Barbiere di Siviglia with Belching." (26)
Even this small passage yields a treasury of pretense, one which it is a pleasure to dissect. A quick list of insults to the reader: listing eleven elements so make the topic clear, listing them only by their symbol, even the choice of elements is condescending, and of course Goldstein feels compelled to do the arithmetic for the reader and observe that there are 101 others. Then there is the mention of Pavarotti--I feel condescended to even by the fact that Goldstein uses his first name. Is there more than one Pavarotti?--and the use of the Italian name for The Barber of Seville. Anybody who doesn't know opera will have no idea what he's talking about, while anybody who does know opera will quickly recognize that Pavarotti was not even top billing in Il Barbiere. Why not choose a role for which he was really famous? So execrable is Goldstein's disingenuous allusion here that it takes longer to dissect it than it probably did to write.
These are minor sins on paper, but they accumulate so rapidly that the reader is jaundiced by the end of the first chapter. It is no exaggeration to say that there are multiple examples on every last page. Goldstein invokes everyone from Kant and Wittgenstein (favorite reinforcements for those who hope to overwhelm their critics with citations) to Dostoevsky and Tolstoy. I was both offended and nauseous by the end of the book.
Which was disappointing. My friend Fran pushed this item on me, perceiving, I think, the spiritual quest I am on. She said it was brilliant, but is less skeptical than I am by nature and may have been taken in by Goldstein's namedropping. It is all the more tragic because I am in agreement with Goldstein on many key points. For instance, I have often said that I don't know whether there is anything bigger than I am out there for sure, but that I choose to act as if. After all, if there is not, I don't want to play this game anymore. That is to say that if I (man) am the biggest, most sophisticated mind out there, what fun is that? This is in fundamental agreement with Goldstein's conclusion that "Belief in God [is] about as reasonable as belief in other minds" (94), and I like the way he puts it. He even builds a sound argument leading up to it, and I also appreciate his supposition that "the moral components of the universe [are] just as precise, just as fundamental as the physical ones" (82). The way he lays it out, such a suggestion seems rather reasonable, I hate to admit.
But that's as far as Goldstein really can take his argument. He tries vainly to connect it to ransom theology, but even he seems to recognize the vanity of it. That spire is unreachable on steps of logic, and requires a submission to that dogma. He is reduced toward the end of the book to such embarassing pleas as "He will, he has promised to, and if we can't trust his promises--then whose?" (110). This is not to say that I blame him. Such feeble arguments are the only way one can really arrive at his predetermined goal. What is sad is not that his ultimate conclusions are insupportable; it is that he wants so desperately for everyone to agree with him. He thinks he is organizing the sum total of Western thought into a grand unified field theory, when he is unable to, in his own words, "step outside the epistemological box stapled together from the empirical, cultural and happenstance scraps scavenged from [his] own intellectual turf" (56).
Monday, April 19, 2010
KSCPP: Admiral Yi Sun-Sin
The Korean Social and Cultural Promotion Project is one of the best propaganda machines I have ever witnessed. I was convinced after reading this little booklet that Admiral Yi is the best human being who ever lived, and want to join the navy. Of course, the hyperbole quickly wears off, and one recognizes that he or she has been brainwashed in a small way, but nonetheless, the book is incredibly effective.
And I'm sure there is some truth to the sentiment. Admiral Yi is as renowned in naval circles as he is unknown in other circles. Reading the excerpts from his War Diaries impressed me with how utterly selfish and dedicated he was. As unjustly treated he was, he never complained, or blamed. He took accountability for his own actions, namely the salvation of all Korea.
I want to mention that I took a sick pleasure in the one typo I found in the text of the book. I can picture the horror of the KSCPP when they discovered it, and the sacking of the entire editorial department. Admiral Yi Sun-Sin did not, after all, have a War Dairy, as amusing as the idea of vicious battle cows is.
And I'm sure there is some truth to the sentiment. Admiral Yi is as renowned in naval circles as he is unknown in other circles. Reading the excerpts from his War Diaries impressed me with how utterly selfish and dedicated he was. As unjustly treated he was, he never complained, or blamed. He took accountability for his own actions, namely the salvation of all Korea.
I want to mention that I took a sick pleasure in the one typo I found in the text of the book. I can picture the horror of the KSCPP when they discovered it, and the sacking of the entire editorial department. Admiral Yi Sun-Sin did not, after all, have a War Dairy, as amusing as the idea of vicious battle cows is.
Saturday, April 17, 2010
G.K. Chesterton: Favorite Father Brown Stories
Having recently read the entire Sherlock Holmes canon at Philip Ward's suggestion, I give him credit for placing this item after it in the Lifetime of Reading. The two bear comparison, and in that comparison the charms of Chesterton's work are apparent in a way that they might not be on their own.
Conan Doyle is clearly the better detective writer. Not only is Holmes a more polished character, his partnership with Watson makes more sense than Father Brown's odd-couple pairing with the criminal Flambeau. It is tempting to look at Chesterton as a member of the same species as Conan Doyle, but of an inferior genus. It even feels at times like he is copying that more famous writer, a contemporary of his.
Doyle often makes the mistake of seemingly putting the cart before the horse--that is to say thinking of a gimmick first and constructing a story around it. Chesterton seems to be guilty of a similar crime, pulling an empty cart. Unlike Doyle, it is Chesterton's mysteries that seem incidental and after-the-fact. One good example is in "The Blue Cross". The mysteries of the spilled apples, the thrown soup etc. detract from the fascinating story of a Priest and an Arch-Criminal discussing ontology. What seems to merit the most focus and possess the most interest is given the least time.
If one acts on the assumption that the writer is a good one (and why not do so?), the question is why make such an odd choice? Why bother to write a mystery when one's real intent is to write philosophy? This is again the case in "The Sign of the Broken Sword". Chesterton is almost didactic in his philosophy, and one wonders why he bothers. It doesn't help that the potentially vivid character of Father Brown himself never quite takes off the ground.
These two flaws point in a rather unflawed direction, however. Chesterton's philosophy is clearly the real point of the writing, and Brown is never more than a vehicle for it. His intention is obvious: to piggyback on the popularity of his contemporary Conan Doyle, and the interest in the detective genre that he generated. In such a vehicle, Chesterton could reach the masses with something far beyond their normal scope of thought.
That something is an almost mystical approach to ontology. A good reader looks for repeated words or ideas that seem out of place, and Chesterton's favorite is "Fairyland". Each of the mysteries takes on a surreal quality, and Brown often wonders if any of it is really happening. " . . . we here are on the wrong side of the tapestry," he remarks in "The Sins of Prince Saradine". "The things that happen here do not seem to mean anything; they mean something somewhere else." Chesterton's persistent underlying question is "What does it mean?", something that Conan Doyle would not bother asking. Holmes' comparative solidity as a character serves him: the mysteries almost seem to have taken place in our reality, and a subculture has developed to embrace the "gentle fiction", as Leslie Klinger puts it, of Holmes actual existence. In the same way, Brown's haziness serves Chesterton's themes. Conan Doyle seems to ask "What if this happened?"; Chesterton's question is, "What if none of this happened?"
Conan Doyle is clearly the better detective writer. Not only is Holmes a more polished character, his partnership with Watson makes more sense than Father Brown's odd-couple pairing with the criminal Flambeau. It is tempting to look at Chesterton as a member of the same species as Conan Doyle, but of an inferior genus. It even feels at times like he is copying that more famous writer, a contemporary of his.
Doyle often makes the mistake of seemingly putting the cart before the horse--that is to say thinking of a gimmick first and constructing a story around it. Chesterton seems to be guilty of a similar crime, pulling an empty cart. Unlike Doyle, it is Chesterton's mysteries that seem incidental and after-the-fact. One good example is in "The Blue Cross". The mysteries of the spilled apples, the thrown soup etc. detract from the fascinating story of a Priest and an Arch-Criminal discussing ontology. What seems to merit the most focus and possess the most interest is given the least time.
If one acts on the assumption that the writer is a good one (and why not do so?), the question is why make such an odd choice? Why bother to write a mystery when one's real intent is to write philosophy? This is again the case in "The Sign of the Broken Sword". Chesterton is almost didactic in his philosophy, and one wonders why he bothers. It doesn't help that the potentially vivid character of Father Brown himself never quite takes off the ground.
These two flaws point in a rather unflawed direction, however. Chesterton's philosophy is clearly the real point of the writing, and Brown is never more than a vehicle for it. His intention is obvious: to piggyback on the popularity of his contemporary Conan Doyle, and the interest in the detective genre that he generated. In such a vehicle, Chesterton could reach the masses with something far beyond their normal scope of thought.
That something is an almost mystical approach to ontology. A good reader looks for repeated words or ideas that seem out of place, and Chesterton's favorite is "Fairyland". Each of the mysteries takes on a surreal quality, and Brown often wonders if any of it is really happening. " . . . we here are on the wrong side of the tapestry," he remarks in "The Sins of Prince Saradine". "The things that happen here do not seem to mean anything; they mean something somewhere else." Chesterton's persistent underlying question is "What does it mean?", something that Conan Doyle would not bother asking. Holmes' comparative solidity as a character serves him: the mysteries almost seem to have taken place in our reality, and a subculture has developed to embrace the "gentle fiction", as Leslie Klinger puts it, of Holmes actual existence. In the same way, Brown's haziness serves Chesterton's themes. Conan Doyle seems to ask "What if this happened?"; Chesterton's question is, "What if none of this happened?"
Thursday, April 15, 2010
The Pantastic Mr. Pox
Is it racist to make fun of the way Koreans write names of movies? Anyway, normally this inconsequential little movie would not merit an entry, but I have a lot of thoughts that are vaguely connected to it, so here goes:
When I was 12, my family up and moved to Central America. Why? Well, that's a different story, but let's summarize by saying that my Mom was avoiding stuff in the States, and they thought it would be good for us kids. On that account, my parents were completely most formative event of our youth.
In Belize, we neglected to bring much with us of American culture. We had one cassette tape, with The Beach Boys on one side and Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons on the other. Even now, when we hear one of those songs, it transports us back to our little cinder block house, the delicious bread, the little colored pencil drawings of fish that I would draw.
As for books, I remember 3 that I had. One was a Shakespeare Complete Works that I have still today. It was ancient, and in my youth I was convinced it was hundreds of years old--perhaps a first edition! The other two were Little House in the Big Woods and a collection of short stories by Road Dahl, including The Fantastic Mr. Fox. I read all three over and over, due to the absence of anything else.
It is rather obvious that the movie did not live up to the tender regard in which I hold "The Fantastic Mr. Fox" It would have been an impressive feat to live up to my childhood memories. I should have thereby known that it would be a disappointment; it could not have been otherwise. Nonetheless, the depth of disappointment was surprising. The additions made to the story were not unnecessary; they were poisonous. The charm of the story lay primarily in an appeal to the most basic human comforts: enormous amounts of delicious food. It was this same comfort that I remember in "Little House in the Big Woods" The storehouses filled with smoked meat made my mouth water, and that simple pleasure was enough. It was not necessary to add silliness, or worse to complicate the theme from one of simple pleasure to an analysis of human nature and filial dynamics. It would be turning "Little House" from a story about the joys of childhood into a Telenovela.
There remains one story from the collection that is untainted, however. "The Story of Henry Sugar" was even more formative to me, and I think that I shall go find an online text of it and reread it. Perhaps some of my childhood pleasure remains in that text, and I could certainly use some of it now.
When I was 12, my family up and moved to Central America. Why? Well, that's a different story, but let's summarize by saying that my Mom was avoiding stuff in the States, and they thought it would be good for us kids. On that account, my parents were completely most formative event of our youth.
In Belize, we neglected to bring much with us of American culture. We had one cassette tape, with The Beach Boys on one side and Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons on the other. Even now, when we hear one of those songs, it transports us back to our little cinder block house, the delicious bread, the little colored pencil drawings of fish that I would draw.
As for books, I remember 3 that I had. One was a Shakespeare Complete Works that I have still today. It was ancient, and in my youth I was convinced it was hundreds of years old--perhaps a first edition! The other two were Little House in the Big Woods and a collection of short stories by Road Dahl, including The Fantastic Mr. Fox. I read all three over and over, due to the absence of anything else.
It is rather obvious that the movie did not live up to the tender regard in which I hold "The Fantastic Mr. Fox" It would have been an impressive feat to live up to my childhood memories. I should have thereby known that it would be a disappointment; it could not have been otherwise. Nonetheless, the depth of disappointment was surprising. The additions made to the story were not unnecessary; they were poisonous. The charm of the story lay primarily in an appeal to the most basic human comforts: enormous amounts of delicious food. It was this same comfort that I remember in "Little House in the Big Woods" The storehouses filled with smoked meat made my mouth water, and that simple pleasure was enough. It was not necessary to add silliness, or worse to complicate the theme from one of simple pleasure to an analysis of human nature and filial dynamics. It would be turning "Little House" from a story about the joys of childhood into a Telenovela.
There remains one story from the collection that is untainted, however. "The Story of Henry Sugar" was even more formative to me, and I think that I shall go find an online text of it and reread it. Perhaps some of my childhood pleasure remains in that text, and I could certainly use some of it now.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
AFI: 100 years 100 films
Although this blog has been primarily devoted to the written word, its ostensible mission is to chart the effect of ALL media on my thinking, and I have therefore decided to strengthen the attention paid to film. To that end, I am starting with the AFI's list of the 100 best American films, and working my way down.
Having already seen #s 1 and 2 on that list, I feel I should mention my impressions of them. It is clear from both items that enjoyability is nowhere on AFI's list of criteria (a fact easily confirmed). Citizen Kane's place on the list clearly comes from its significance, both in terms of cultural impact (I knew the meaning of "Rosebud" decades before it occurred to me to watch the movie) and cinematic innovation. Fritz Lang was doing similar things with the camera decades earlier, but never so popularly. Of course, Welles' performance is the real point of the movie, and it adds a layer of enjoyability to the layer of significance. Casablanca is clearly more enjoyable than Kane, but also significant in its own way. The catchphrases and romantic tropes are irrevocably woven into American cultural fabric, and all romantic dramas (and comedies) since owe it a great debt.
The Godfather
A riveting example of film making, both from the director and the cast. Scorsese's little touches grace the movie at all points, though never heavily. My favorite example is the bugle in the background as Don Vito is gunned down, a move inspired by Kurt Weill. Brando is brilliant, as always, and possibly my favorite actor at this point in my life, but the real standout is Al Pacino, whose Michael goes through the most believably and seamlessly drastic character arc that readily come to mind. The transformation to Don Michael is visible in every point of his performance, and it makes perfect sense--as though the script was merely an afterthought.
Gone With the Wind
I was not expecting to enjoy this nearly as much as I did, though like The Godfather it could have used a little trim. Both films were epic, not only for their ambition, but also for the amount of story they tried to tackle. Each of the acts in GWTW could easily have been a movie in itself, and still have come across as overly dramatic. The film lost me for a bit with the dozenth tragic death, but claimed my heart in the end with Clark Gable's performance. He managed to make the cad Rhett Butler completely sympathetic, and maybe the only real person in the whole movie. How has this not yet been made into an opera?
Stay tuned: I'm downloading Lawrence of Arabia even now . . .
Having already seen #s 1 and 2 on that list, I feel I should mention my impressions of them. It is clear from both items that enjoyability is nowhere on AFI's list of criteria (a fact easily confirmed). Citizen Kane's place on the list clearly comes from its significance, both in terms of cultural impact (I knew the meaning of "Rosebud" decades before it occurred to me to watch the movie) and cinematic innovation. Fritz Lang was doing similar things with the camera decades earlier, but never so popularly. Of course, Welles' performance is the real point of the movie, and it adds a layer of enjoyability to the layer of significance. Casablanca is clearly more enjoyable than Kane, but also significant in its own way. The catchphrases and romantic tropes are irrevocably woven into American cultural fabric, and all romantic dramas (and comedies) since owe it a great debt.
The Godfather
A riveting example of film making, both from the director and the cast. Scorsese's little touches grace the movie at all points, though never heavily. My favorite example is the bugle in the background as Don Vito is gunned down, a move inspired by Kurt Weill. Brando is brilliant, as always, and possibly my favorite actor at this point in my life, but the real standout is Al Pacino, whose Michael goes through the most believably and seamlessly drastic character arc that readily come to mind. The transformation to Don Michael is visible in every point of his performance, and it makes perfect sense--as though the script was merely an afterthought.
Gone With the Wind
I was not expecting to enjoy this nearly as much as I did, though like The Godfather it could have used a little trim. Both films were epic, not only for their ambition, but also for the amount of story they tried to tackle. Each of the acts in GWTW could easily have been a movie in itself, and still have come across as overly dramatic. The film lost me for a bit with the dozenth tragic death, but claimed my heart in the end with Clark Gable's performance. He managed to make the cad Rhett Butler completely sympathetic, and maybe the only real person in the whole movie. How has this not yet been made into an opera?
Stay tuned: I'm downloading Lawrence of Arabia even now . . .
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