Critical Thinking: The Other National Deficit

All it takes is one look at the current state of affairs in the United States to know we are in deep trouble.  Before I get blamed for taking sides, let me just say that I am an equal-opportunity offender; that is to say, I sweep the floor with both Right and Left ideology and criticize lack of logic on both sides equally.

It is sort of a common denominator to blame the media for our national ills and divisiveness.  I remember when being a current events critical observer meant one only had to keep one's eye on Fox News for outrageous claims and incendiary language.  That's not the case anymore!  CBS, NBC, ABC and MSNBC are starting to make Fox News look like "the cornerstone of logic and reason" in current American media.  I know that is an exaggeration but I make it to illustrate the point that, as perverse as it seems, the so-called Liberal media has out-done its most dangerous enemy and has climb to higher levels of "outrageousness" in order to sink to new lows.  One example of this was a few months ago, during the Florida Republican primary, when Rachel Maddow argued ("Let me say something provocative, but I think it is true," she accentuated) that Republican nominee Newt Gingrich used a secret coded racist language when stating that "The President should stop singing and start leading."  Gingrich was referring to Obama's performance of Al Green's classic hit at the Apollo Theater a few weeks before.  Maddow suggested that it was all a secret coded message that really was meant to connect the president with "Minstrel" shows, etc.  And that's is just one of many examples.  The Republicans are waging war on women, minorities, poor people, gays, college students and just about everyone who doesn't share conservative values.  This defies logic and here's the reason I say so... if a political party's main reason for being is to win elections, why would the Republicans do this purposefully?  Doesn't it defeat the purpose of running for office, or could all of this be a creation of the new, blistering extreme media?  Sadly, I think it is and even more sadly, it's coming from the Left.

Early Commencement Address for the Class of 2012 (belated for the class of 2011, 2010)

Class of 2010, 2011 & 2012, Parents, teachers and, well, yes, administrators...  
DO NOT TRUST THE ADMINISTRATIVE CLASS!

Much is said about great achievements on the course of lengthy commencement speeches, so I will try my best to make this as brief as possible, for it has little to do with great achievement and much to do with keeping your eyes, ears and just about everything you can summon in your favor to keep your head above water.  This will not be a long speech regarding the state of affairs in our country, and how the young generation seems poised to fix it all before us--the ones who really handed this mess over to you--become food for daisies.

Perhaps one of the greatest under-achievers of the United States Presidency was a man by the name of Chester A. Arthur.  You never hear a politician on the campaign trail giving ardent speeches about "the vision of Chester A. Arthur," or referring to the President Arthur as the blistering example of leadership and courage.  Yet, in a very small way, President Arthur saved this great nation from the same fate of Tsarist Russia.  You see, the Russian Bolshevik discontent rose up from the fact that between the very, very rich and the very, very poor, the Russian governmental model had created, little by little, a separate class of government officials, or, as we call them today, administrators.  To get into this fascinating group of civil servants, the Russian people needed, above all, not brains or college degrees or even great personalities... they needed a leg up, someone on the inside that would "baptize" them as one of their own and give them entrance into the comfort of life-long employment doing administrative work that, in reality, no one knew whether it was needed or whether it would make a difference in the grand picture of the Russian nation.  In order words, the administrative class back then was very much like the administrative class today.

A bill sponsored by Senator George Pendleton, a Democrat from Ohio, in 1882 did away with systems of favoritism and much of the worthless pencil pushing, paper-clip counting and M&M sorting going on back then.  In some way, Sen. George Pendleton saved this great nation from a great deal of social unrest, pain and even anarchy.  And President Chester A. Arthur, you may ask?  By signing the Pendleton Act into law, he pushed the last nail on the casket of his reelection bid for a second term. Unfortunately, change for Tsarist Russia came in the form of a total overthrow, violent, vindictive and merciless revolution.  Yet, once the Bolsheviks organized, restructured the form of government they deemed best (Union of Socialist Republics), an administrative class developed three times the size of what once existed under Tsar Alexander, and, as time took its toll, the end for the Soviet Union in 1991 came about for the very same reason... an unsustainable class of administrators pushing pencils, shredding papers, stamping signatures on a boat-load of useless document and needless work.

The administrative class today is in some ways different than previous ones, despite its dependence on about the same level of procedural/operational incompetency.  They need to make their underlings engage in a lot of useless paper work to justify their own administrative work and existence.  In order words, they can make the underlings create portfolios, fill-in check lists with evidence to support “competent” work, only so that they may read over it, or sign it blindly or... well, who knows!  But that's not the most damaging thing the administrative class does, really.  The paper pushing and the "supervising" cannot hold a candle to the amount of lying, cheating, self-interest and moral compass ignoring the administrative class does in order to survive.  At least, it has been so in my experience.

Today’s administrative class thrives on making sure all their liabilities are covered; they grow and sustain themselves by making sure the paper trail of some legal indiscretion NEVER leads to them; they pause their moral compass simply to save their own hide and, most disturbingly of all, are always on the look-out for a scapegoat to blame.  They seldom suffer humiliation and are always at the ready to support one another when the great weight of some allegation creeps along toward them.  Some in the administrative class, not being happy with having been born with the proverbial “Silver Spoon” in their mouth, further depend on Daddy’s big pockets to jiggle themselves into an administrative position they are neither qualified nor capable of doing with any level of competence.  One can’t trust people with this level of self-interest and/or occupational unawareness.

Back in 1998, I read a review in “The Economist” of a book by one Manuel Arroyo, a Spaniard whose book “Contra los Franceses” (Against the French) bears mention here if simply to illustrate the thin resemblance to the arrogance and ineptitude of the administrative class. Arroyo’s satirical bashing relates how “[t]he French are pretentious; the French are superficial; the French are priggish. They are bad-mannered, they waffle and in a squeeze they always behave like pigs, even to each other. Their philosophy is a fad, their wine over-rated, their novels unreadable and in painting they haven’t done anything since Matisse or Picasso, and he wasn’t even French.”  Interestingly, aside from the references to art, philosophy, literature and wine-making techniques, Arroyo could have been writing about the administrative class.  If you have to wonder and think hard as to why I had to make the space for Arroyo’s reference, I assure you the “click” (or a-ha! moment) will come to you when you least expect it.

One hyperbolic scenario I wanted to illustrate to you is this… if you are about to cross the Grand Canyon on a high wire from one end to the other, and as you are about to step on the high wire, you realize that there’s an administrator holding on to the high wire—he or she is the only anchor to the high wire on your side—DO NOT, I repeat, do not attempt to cross.

And so I say to you, Class of 2012, 2011 and 2010, as you leave here today to pursue your life with passion and devotion to what you believe in… Do not trust the Administrative Class.  Do not trust them simply because of their pseudo-bourgeoisie attitude, nor because of their poor irrelevance in today’s world.  I say, do not trust the Administrative Class because to do so is to try to placate their greed, lack of moral direction and self-interest with blind compassion, and the proverbial turning of the other cheek.  It will never work, and all you’ll have to show for is betrayal, pain and humiliation (not to mention the ruining of your good name and reputation). 

Trust me, I am not an administrator.

Mischa, the Wonder-Kitty (1990-2012)

My Mischa, the Wonder-Kitty, friend and family and companion and secret-sharer of a million joys and sorrows, returned to the arms of the Lord today.  My sorrow is beyond description.  Fare thee well, my sweet princess, may you know more peace and joy in your new home.  Sleep well, sweet princess, key-holder of my heart.

Tengo Kawana as Odysseus in Haruki Murakami's "1Q84"

Tengo Kawana, the protagonist of Haruki Murakami's "1Q84," is part Odysseus and part Stephen Dedalus.  There's certainly a journey to his problems but also the perverse palpitations that the journey is an empty one, and that just like Dedalus' epiphany, the rewards are simply not worth the cause.  As a master of characterization, Murakami creates a Tengo Kawana that is the epitome of Campbell's "The Hero with a Thousand Faces."  Of course many readers feel it is useless to follow a hero on a journey that yields no reward, but with Tengo it is much different.  I say this not only because the young man is a highly identifiable with the reader, but mainly because sympathy/empathy (especially brought out for an imaginary character) is a human gift close to extinction these days.  Tengo is the person you want to sit down next to, the complete stranger crying in the subway car whom you don't know but you wish you could put your arm around him and console him in some way.
To begin with, Tengo's past is as tragic as they come in fiction.  His earliest memory is that of his mother exposing her breast to a man Tengo know it is not his father (hence the right or wrong conclusion that his mother was an adulterer).  The memory follows him to adult life, after a childhood where his mother, having disappeared from his life, is particularly present in the form of emotional pain.  Tengo's father, an NHK subscription fee collector is distant, resentful and emotionally abusive to him, taking Tengo on long subscription collecting routes.  There's a chapter in the middle of the novel when Tengo goes out and visit his elderly father at a nursing home.  On his way there he reads a paperback of short stories which includes a story entitled "Town of Cats."  The visit yields very few answers for poor Tengo, although he realizes he didn't go there seeking any.  The imagery and emotional beat of this chapter is excruciatingly painful and might make the toughest of readers shed a tear.

Enter Mr Ushikawa, a mysterious character who works for a "foundation" seeking to give Tengo a large amount of money in order for Tengo to work on his own novel uninterrupted.  What is happening in reality is Mr Ushikawa is trying to purchase Tengo's exit from the complicated world of "1Q84" (the parallel world, not the novel) for a purpose that is unclear and not yet revealed at this point in the novel.  It is clear, however, that Tengo's involvement in the re-writing of "Air Chrysalis" is the main factor behind Ushikawa's persistent ways; at least, that much is clear!  And as new revelations continue (such as the double-flip with the "dowager" and her potential connection to "The Little People"), it would be easy to connect Ushikawa as another agent of "The Little People," although at this point it strikes me quite unlikely due to its over-simplistic twist (not a habit by a master-conniver such as Murakami).  I wouldn't be surprise if Ushikawa turns out to be Tengo's real father, etc., but that's just my imagination.
"The Town of Cats" story appears as an allegory to the larger plot issues of "1Q84."  Will there be a revelation regarding this?  Will Ushikawa's character turn out as the archetypal Shakespeare's court jester, coming in in the middle of a serious scene to make some over-the-top remark, a seemingly nonsense statement that ends up being the key to the entire play.  I continue to read this novel with great care and calculated concentration... I don't think I've enjoyed this so much since graduate school.

Technique and Mastery of Plot in Haruki Murakami's "1Q84"

There's much to say about a 900+ page novel, especially if that novel is dependent on highly sophisticated story-telling techniques.  I am about half-way with "1Q84" and all I can say is that the novel not only displays Murakami's genius, but it does something else that might not help it make a commercial success (in a good way).  Literary fiction is not really the silver bullet needed to land on top of the NYT bestsellers list, if you catch my drift.  What is brilliant about "1Q84" is precisely what does not help it become a more widely or popular book.  Again, it is not designed to do that, and the fact that literary fiction is to "readers for the sake of escapism" as water is to oil, is the reason we need to keep at least one aspect of that argument nicely qualified.

The novel's amazing plot lines (main and sub) drive the story forward quite fast, but a moment changes everything when the reader discovers things had been taking place right under the sentences he/she happens to be reading at the time.  This is more than just a nice allegory to the many parallels of the plot line.  For example, I quickly became enamored of the character of the "dowager" and her complicated yet loving relationship with Aomame.  Since the chapters jump between Aomame and Tengo, I also found myself wanting to finish the current Tengo chapter just to see if the "dowager" would appear in the next Aomame chapter.  But the reader ignores the dowager's benevolence at his/her own risk.  It was far too simple, far too clean and clear cut.  It is only much later when the "Leader" is asking Aomame to send him to the other world that one slowly becomes aware not all things were right about the "dowager."  This, I believe, was probably one of the most clever, well-planned and amazingly structured pieces of Murakami's technique in story telling since "A Wild Sheep Chase," or "The Elephant Vanishes."  The levels of parallel plots and character existences in "1Q84" are enough to send an existentialist running off a tall building, or a philosopher in general looking for the law of alchemy again.  Here's Aomame, there's Fuka-Eri.  There's Tengo, and here's Aomame.  There are two-moons, and neither one of them is representative of either the world they are currently inhabiting or the one they left behind.... and behind this incredilbe maze of hopscotch, there is the truth of the story.
Then there's the element of "The Little People."  It was quite obvious to me as a reader that the novel inside the novel ("Air Chrysalis") is a parallel world running along sides of the current narrative presently being read.  This reminds me of the very end of "One Hundred Years of Solitude," when the protagonist realizes he is trying to translate the same story he is currently inhabiting from a Sanskrit manuscript, and everything gets blown away by the strong wind of reality.  So far, this is frankly Haruki Murakami's best and most innovative novel to-date.  I can't wait to see what happens next.

Haruki Murakami's "1Q84" and "The New York Times" misread

Haruki Murakami is known for his vast imagination.  Most of the times, that very same imagination tends to get him in trouble with critics.  Murakami is one of those writers you have to follow (if you were lucky you would have followed him from the very start) and grow with him both in terms of style and content.  By my own admission to other people who inquire about him, I have to say that Murakami is not for everyone.  If you cannot suspend your disbelief (a crucial variable in order to enjoy fiction, especially literary fiction), then Murakami is not for you.  In addition, if you don't like feeling like you just walked right into a Salvador Dali painting, then Murakami is not for you.

Case in point: Kathryn Schulz.  I agree with Ms. Schulz that there are by far too many similes, particularly in the first chapter.  Yet, trying to problematize a Murakami simile can lead one down a disturbing road to nowhere.  One must simply read them and enjoy them for what they are artistically, rather than taking it word by word, defining them and then having to reverse your opinion back to the acceptance of literary techniques and device usage.  For example, Ms. Schulz asserts that “it sounded less like applause and more like an endless Martian sandstorm.” I’ve never heard a Martian sandstorm (and I presume Murakami hasn’t either, although one wonders) while then returning to her important statement that "yet the simile seems, in its strangeness, precisely right." My advice to newcomers to Murakami is as follows: if you cannot simply read Murakami without suspension of disbelief, then Murakami is not for you.  Although I don't doubt Ms. Schulz knows Murakami well enough to know it's just "Murakami being Murakami."  Of course, Ms. Schulz' account of her reading is not without merit--it is as closely a reading of a long, long novel can be, and insightful in content.  I wonder if Ms. Schulz has read the Lieutenant Mamiya account on "The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle" and whether she had the same inclination to dissect similes.  If she did, it must have been a long and painful process, to be sure.


I must list the overwhelming amount of similes that Murakami employs in order to give Ms. Schulz credit for pointing out that one alone.  Here are some of the most outrageous ones:


"With his mouth clamped shut, he stared straight ahead at the endless line of cars stretching out on the elevated expressway, like a veteran fisherman standing in the bow of his boat, reading the ominous confluence of two currents."


"'Decisiveness was key when I bought it,' the driver said, like a retired staff officer explaining a past military success."


"... all her knowledge of the piece came to her by reflex, like a flock of birds swooping through an open window."


"The wrinkles on the back of his neck moved like some kind of ancient creature."


"As she listened to the long recorded applause, it sounded less like applause and more like an endless Martian sandstorm."


"... she felt the surface of the road shake--or, rather, undulate--through her high heels, as if she were walking on the deck of an aircraft carrier on a stormy sea."


If you can't read any of this (in the short span of 10 pages) without having to look at them literally first, then, as I have said before, Murakami is not for you.  I am only a few chapters in and I suspect because I am a sucker for Murakami (and because my suspension of disbelief is so quick) that I am in for another masterful Murakami epic of distorted imagination and often crude account and descriptions of sexuality.  More to come.

Malcolm X: A Life of Reinvention or "Marable's Gamble"

Reading "Malcolm X: A Life of Reinvention" by Manning Marable has been both exciting and disappointing.  The image of Malcolm X most people remember today is that of Spike Lee's reintroduction of the man and his socio-theology based on "The Autobiography of Malcolm X" and Denzel Washington's outstanding portrayal.  Manning Marable died a few weeks before the publication of his book, a book that took him 25 years of research, interviews and other sources of information.  His take on Malcolm X is both amazingly informative and/or downright wrong in many places.

One of the most remarkable aspects of Malcolm X's life is the transformation from drug peddler, pimp, hustler into one of the most intellectually dynamic voices of our times.  His intellect was incredibly sharp; his debate skills downright near perfect.  This is the part of "The Autobiography of Malcolm X" that most influenced me as an undergraduate.  The first time I came into contact with an excerpt of Malcolm's autobiography was in "The Harper Row Reader" where Wayne C. Booth praised Malcolm's transformation as nothing short of a miracle.  I must say I agree with him, and, in the interest of full disclosure, I must accept the fact that my interest in Malcolm X led me to do my graduate dissertation on "The Autobiography of Malcolm X," a book I read and re-read and knew better than I knew any account of my own life.  As a result, I must confess a certain amount of bias when it comes to defending Malcolm from allegations that 1) are not true, and 2) there's no way of proving them true.

What Marable fails to do in the first half of the biography is explain or substantiate some claims that seem obviously put in place to raise controversy.  Case in point: Malcolm's homosexual relationship with one William Paul Lennon.  Marable's account is that Malcolm distorted the role or even the personification of this Lennon character in the autobiography as simply someone Malcolm peddled prostitutes to.  In exchange, Marable argues the relationship was that of a homosexual nature.  He further argues that Lennon visited Malcolm in prison but qualifies it as "possible" that in fact Lennon ever did visit Malcolm.  Another more revealing part of the claim is that while Marable asserts a string of constant correspondence between Lennon and Malcolm, he admits that [t]here's no evidence from [Malcolm's] prison record in Massachusetts or from his personal life after 1952 that he was actively homosexual." I don't doubt Marable's excellent academic career, or his life-long work regarding Malcolm's legacy, but I do know that even academics write in this "juicy" or "gossipy" tidbits in order to create controversy or even sell more books.  If publicity was what Marable was seeking, he definitely got it from Malcolm's children.  All of Malcolm's daughters came out in defense of their father, creating (among Kardashian's and Casey Anthony's circus) a minor media sound-bite.

The other part of the first half of the biography that I personally find lacking is the minor use of "Shorty" Jarvis, Malcolm's best friend and partner in crime to corroborate not only the time lines, but also the facts about their life of crime.  Mr. Jarvis is an open book when it comes to his relationship with Malcolm--so much so, that in 1996, I wrote and was able to interview him personally in supporting my interpretation for my thesis.  He was a kind, gentle and jovial.  To this day, he still finds it hard to talk about the painful memory of Malcolm's fate.  I am not quite sure why Marable limited "Shorty" Jarvis in his research.  On the other hand, Marable used an almost exhaustible research based on Malcolm's time in the Nation of Islam; even when he knew the Nation of Islam would try and divert attention from the fact that they were involved in Malcolm's death.  Nevertheless, Marable more than makes up for it in the second part, problematizing Nation of Islam accounts and pointing out discrepancies.

The second half of the biography shines with details and well-researched facts.  It was really an eye opening experience to read about Malcolm's assassination and what followed.  Revelations of how deeply involved were some of the government agencies who at the time were tracking Malcolm even in his overseas trips were good to read and corroborated by Marable, they made for the most interesting part of the biography.   The outcome of the investigation, and, more tragically, the mismanagement of the crime scene by the NYPD is a true testament of the civil rights inequalities in his country at the start of the 1960s.  The mismanagement was so great, that a dance that was scheduled for the Audubon grand hall that very evening went right on as schedule (only less than five hours or so after the assassination).

Marable closes the autobiography with masterful research into the lives of the people that most influenced or touched Malcolm's life.  For example, I never knew of any information available about Ella Collins, Malcolm's half-sister, with whom Malcolm lived in the first days of his move to the East Coast.  She tried to keep Malcolm's organizations going but with little help, she was bound to fail.  Other information regarding Malcolm's right hand men (James 67X and Charles 37X Kenyatta) and how their own dislocated and misguided  efforts to keep Malcolm's legacy alive did more harm than good.

This was an interesting and timely book.  Manning Marable manages to offer a good account of Malcolm X's life, a life that wasn't without its faults and controversies.  Where Marable fails is the insistence on points regarding Malcolm's life that are neither important nor revelatory.

Pablo Picasso "La Vie" -- When Art is Really Blue

The first time I saw "La Vie" by Pablo Picasso was at an exhibition at the Washington DC Museum of Modern Art in 1996.  It was an expo of Picasso's early works titled "Picasso: The Early Years."  I believe you can still get the book and other merchandise from the exhibit at the museum's website store.  I enjoyed this exhibition very much, and that is the reason why I am returning to it here, after so many years.

The main subject of the painting is Picasso's friend, Carlos Casagemas, a close friend who had accompanied Picasso on their very first trip to Paris and who committed suicide shortly after being rejected by a lover.  The painting is clearly allegorical, as well as unusually complex and obscure for Picasso's early work.  Set in what appears to be an artist's studio the arch and accompanying ceiling behind the male figure, the central drawing of a woman consoling a man (on paper) and a more tragically posed man alone at the bottom (drawn on the wall and appears as a fresco of sorts).  The main figures two women, a baby and a male figure strikingly alike Casagemas form the theme of the painting.  Although interpretations vary, the woman to the right holding the baby might be intended to be Casagemas' mother holding him as a child.  Casagemas points to the cloaked woman holding the baby while the other woman, resting on his neck and nude appears to be the lover that rejected Casagemas and led to his suicide.  The thematic ideation here might be that of Biblical intonations--that is to say, man will leave his mother to join a woman and make his life (paraphrased).  The nudity of the woman Casagemas joins might indicate the intimacy relationship not present, of course, with the mother figure.

There are, however, a number of interpretations based on X-ray photography taken at the Cleveland Museum of Art in 1976.  While those discoveries were made by art experts more informed than I am about the history of the painting and Picasso in general, it is my personal opinion that interpretations or explanations of "mysteries" in the painting should not be derived from such methods.  In vernacular non-expert language, I suppose, we could say Picasso "changed his mind" as he composed the outline and subsequent painting.  The figures found behind the present image of the painting (a priest, a woman in a bed, a night stand and some winged creature in the foreground) might elude to a "lost" effort in the composition of another painting he abandoned before Casagemas' suicide.

What can be said for certain about "La Vie" is that it gave birth to an elaborate series of paintings holding the thematic Casagema suicide as a central topic, and, more conventionally, it is seen as Picasso's initiation into the so-called "Blue" period from which he would later move into more non-traditional, anti-establishment techniques.  "La Vie" gave Picasso an opportunity to defy convention without going too far, yet enabling him to explore an initial aspect to the abstract recklessly and with abandon.

Not much is known about Carlos Casagemas, at least not as an artist.  Post-modern interpretations of "La Vie" insist that Picasso's devastation after the suicide is linked to possible homosexual theories (but then again what isn't tied to that nowadays).  At any rate, this is a painting that brings great memories to me and the idea that a single interpretation is better than another one is simply false.  Art, in the end, is really blue.

Update: Our Man in Room 229

Well, I wanted you all to know that I continue to be on sick leave. I am trying hard to read when I can but it is a struggle to concentrate. For example, I read Graham Greene's "The End of the Affair," which is a little over 190 pages, in the amount of time it took me to read two volumes of Will Durant's "The Story of Civilization" a year ago. I get tired easily, I guess, but not as easily as to not pay attention when a passage of fiction moves me. There were so many passages in this novel that really struck a perfect chord with me (not because of subject matter, but simply the language usage). My paperback copy has one of those one-liner critiques by famous writers (in this case William Faulkner) which categorizes "The End of the Affair" as the best novel written in English (or any other language). While I have (for the most part) neglected Mr. Faulkner's work, I do recognize how particular he was about the usage of language and imagination (however realistic). Graham Greene's book is probably in the top ten finest books I have ever read. I've never watch the film (the recent one), but I might pick it up one of these days.

Thank you to those who have contacted me with well-wishes... it means a great deal.

Temporary Sick Leave

I will be out of commission for the next few months... no research, definitely no teaching. Students (including former), you know where to find me. I will only be responding to messages from colleagues in my department, but I will not respond to emails or messages dealing with work. I will return as soon as possible.

I AM A HUMAN BEING, GODDAMN IT... MY LIFE HAS VALUE!!!!

Too sad we are far too gone to turn it around... We've been duped, bamboozled and lied to again and again, and this time is no different.

The Stories of John Cheever: Complexity, Comparison and an Exercise on the Readable

So many years ago, I used to pound into my students little minds the purely rude act of beginning a composition with a quote.  I will make an exception here because John Cheever is, well, John Cheever.  The fact that the man was a genius is another reason.

"For lovers, touch is a metamorphoses.  All the parts of their bodies seem to change, and they seem to become something different and better.  That part of their experience that is distinct and separate, the totality of the years before they met, is changed, is redirected toward this moment.  They feel they have reached an identical point of intensity, an ecstasy of rightness that they command in every part, and any recollection that occurs to them takes on this final clarity, whether it be a sweep hand on an airport clock, a snow owl, a Chicago railroad station on Christmas Eve, or anchoring a yawl in a strange harbor while all the stormy coast strangers are blowing their horns for the yacht-club tender, or running a ski trail at that hour when, although the sun is still in the sky, the north face of every mountain lies in the dark."


A few things before we go over this amazing passage from the story "The Bus to St. James."  I had not read Cheever outside of one story in some anthology probably during my undergrad years.  Reading this collection of stories has been one of those rare literary gifts that remains with the reader forever.  Cheever achieves that particularly difficult medium of style that is, or has been, the death valley to so many other readers.  The readability of Cheever's short stories rests in his ability to make a epiphany passage as the one above, and still get description and action of more concrete passages right.  For example, a fairly common passage can take the form of action and description with the simplicity of holiness: "He turned and walked toward the glass doors at the end of the lobby, feeling that faint guilt and bewilderment we experience when we bypass some old friend or classmate who seems threadbare, or sick, or miserable in some other way."  This is from "The Five-Forty-Eight," and it shows both description and action in such a basic way that anyone reading not knowing it is the work of John Cheever might think it is the work of some novice or amateur.  But it is, as I said, in this very simplicity that Cheever's style shines.  The passage from "The Bus to St. James" has been, I believe, unfairly compared to a couple of F. Scott Fitzgerald's passages from "The Great Gatsby" and "Tender is the Night."  It just so happens that the two passages that some critics have gone as far as claiming them to be plagiarized are some of my two most favorite passages by Fitzgerald.  Here is the one from "The Great Gatsby" and I'll let you be the judge: "One of my most vivid memories is of coming back west from prep school and later from college at Christmas time.  Those who went further than Chicago would gather in the old dim Union Station at six o'clock of a December evening with a few Chicago friends already caught up in the gayeties to bid them a hasty good-bye.  I remember the fur coats of the girls returning from Miss This or That's and the chatter of frozen breath and the hands waving overhead as we caught sight of old acquaintances and the matching invitations.... When we pulled out into the winter night and the real snow, our snow, began to stretch out beside us and twinkle against the windows, and the dim lights of small Wisconsin stations moved by, a sharp wild brace came suddenly in the air.  We drew in deep breaths of it as we walked back from dinner through the cold vestibules, unutterably aware of our identity with this country for one strange hour before we melted indistinguishably into it again."


I can see the connection with the Christmas theme and mentioning of trains, etc., but a claim of plagiarism seems to me wildly overboard.  The style and craft of John Cheever came about because of his insightful and keen eye to real human emotions.  The ability to write an epiphany as good as Fitzgerald's only proves Cheever's genius.  He is one of those forgotten writers of the late 20th Century, the one a reader discovers, albeit too late, and one is glad to have found this generous mark in the sea of Post-Modern American literature.

Setting and description (isolated from action) is another one of Cheever's major achievements.  In "O City of Broken Dreams," again Cheever achieves the distinct descriptions that puts a reader inside of the story: "When they had finished their supper, they went out into the street.  Mildred-Rose walked between her parents, holding their callused hands.  It was getting dark, and the lights of Broadway answered all their simple prayers.  High in the air were large, brightly lighted pictures of bloody heroes, criminal lovers, monsters, and armed desperadoes.  The names of movies and soft drinks, restaurants and cigarettes were written in a jumble of light, and in the distance they could see the pitiless winter afterglow of the Hudson River."  The reason I am including this passage when writing about description is clear; this is one of those great passages of description that remains with the attentive reader for a long, long time.  The only way I could recommend John Cheever's writing more is if he ran for president and I endorsed him wholeheartedly.

Back to the epiphany passages.  Here's the other passage from Fitzgerald that was mentioned by critics as having "influenced" Cheever a bit too much.  This is from "Tender is the Night."  "They were still in the happiest stage of love.  They were full of brave illusions about each other, tremendous illusions, so that the communion of self with self seemed to be on a plane where no other human relations mattered.  They both seemed to have arrived there with an extraordinary innocence as though a series of pure accidents, so many accidents that at last they were forced to conclude that they were for each other. They had arrived with clean hands, or so it seemed, after no traffic with the merely curious and clandestine."  After teaching "The Great Gatsby" for over 10 years and memorizing most of the book, I found this little gem in "Tender is the Night" so amazing I also decided to memorize it word by word.  If Cheever was influenced, then he was influenced by the very master of the lyrical and poetic.  It is my opinion that no other writer was able to capture the essence of fiction with such facility as F. Scott Fitzgerald.  I've held this view since I first read "The Great Gatsby" and after going on a Fitzgerald rampage and reading everything in he wrote, I had to declare him the undisputed champion of American letters.  Many people consider this choice a sort of too common place one... you know, the people who smirk at you when you say you love Bach, Mozart or Beethoven because they listen to Mahler and Stockhausen.  Back in graduate school, one of my professors asked us at the end of the semester what our favorite book was, when I said "This Side of Paradise," he looked at me like I had just fallen through the ceiling.  But I digress... I really feel that Fitzgerald has a companion up there at the top... John Cheever is a true writer.  If you cannot drop everything and read the entire collection of John Cheever's stories, here's a list of what I consider the best of the bunch.
1--The Season of Divorce
2--Christmas is a Sad Season for the Poor
3--The Five-Forty-Eight
4--The Housebreaker of Shady Hill
5--The Sorrows of Gin
6--The Duchess
7--The Scarlet Moving Van
8--The Lowboy

I am afraid that if I keep including more and more I might as well just list them all.  They are all excellent.

The Dangerous Paths of the Idle Mind: The Soundtrack of "My" War

Away from courses, teaching, and committees for the summer and this is the first thing I can come up to write here?  It might end up being one sad, unproductive summer if I don't watch out.

A few nights ago, engaged in hand-to-hand combat with a terrible bout of insomnia, I broke down and turned my television on.  Some channel was playing the movie "Jarhead," a movie (and a book) I had refused to read or watch for some time.  The book I tackled some years ago; the movie I just swallowed a couple of nights ago and I still feel like vomiting.  At any rate, this is the story of how I developed a ridiculous impulse to write an entry on this blog dealing with Operation Desert Shield/Storm and the music soundtrack of the war itself.

There are many reasons why I found the book attractive when it first came out in 2003, some more obvious than others.  Regardless of my personal experiences in 1990-1991, the fact that the book was published in the months leading to the controversial Iraq invasion was enough to stimulate my overriding impulses to keep my budget that month and I went out and bought a hardcover first edition at the outrageous price of $24.00 which I couldn't afford at the time. It sat on my shelve for a couple of years before I read it.  One of the things that bothered me about the book was a criticism shared by most combat veterans from that now seemingly distant conflict.  With all my respect to Mr. Swofford, the book was preachy and at times even horribly pedantic.  Parts of the books seemed more interesting in proving which Marines fought real combat and which Marines distributed out shit-paper and toothpaste at the supply depot.  Michiko Kakutani's statement from "The New York Times" went as far as comparing it to Michael Herr's "Dispatches," which many found insulting and emblematic of how ignorant the media can be about serious matters such as men at war.  Again, I was divided on what to think--2003 was not the easiest year for me personally and whatever attention I could give to book criticism was very limited.  The common criticism among former Jarheads was that Swofford wanted to sound like a professor of Marine Corps history and insisted in pointing out details about the Corps that were either unimportant or irrelevant to the narrative.  I remember that (for whatever the reason) I tried defending the book at the last "India" Co., 3rd Battalion, 6th Marines reunion.  It was a futile effort--most of my former brothers in arms had watched the movie, not read the book.  For this reason, I was been divided on whether to watch the movie or not, until a few nights ago.

The main objective of this entry is to prove a slightly off comment I watched in the film but cannot remember whether or not it was in the book.  Swofford laments the fact that the helicopters flying overhead with loud speakers were playing music from the 1960s, Vietnam music.  It's not clear to me now whether it was The Rolling Stones or The Doors, but music from the 60s it was.  Swofford's commentary was something to do with the shitty music of the early 1990s, particularly from the duration time of the war itself.  I did a little research and found out he was absolutely right--top music lists from the fall of 1990 to the spring of 1991 were full of fluffy, bubble gum popular tunes.  But wait... during that time wasn't I listening to Don Henley's "The End of the Innocence" and Tom Petty's "Full Moon Fever" and also the soundtrack from Ken Burn's "The Civil War?"  Sure, some of these were released in late 1989, but most radio stations (including the Armed Forced network) were still very actively playing both Don Henley and Tom Petty.  Songs like "Free Falling," and "The Heart of the Matter" were not only philosophically insightful but also comforting to a nineteen or twenty-something 3,000 miles from home, missing his girlfriend, sitting on so much sand; Swofford called it "the sweaty arm pit of the world."  That was the soundtrack of my war, and there isn't a single time since I've heard any of those songs played on the radio when I don't get pulled back to that confusing war.  In the absence of music of real substance, all one had to do was pop in a carefully selected (operative words) cassette and dream on. Peace.

On Not Taking One's Self Too Seriously: Perhaps a Writer's Best Tool

Books on how to write fiction abound.  One advice that is constant in a great majority of them is not taking one's self too seriously--especially upon finishing the first draft.  I not only find this advice wise, but also see it as a deterrent to writers' block.

This is a pile of draft (some fiction, some academic research) next to my desk.  I printed the "Parish Newsletter" from "The School of Life" from the wonderful online lecture by Alain de Botton "On Pessimism".  The goofy Marx brothers glasses are rather necessary in not taking one's self too seriously.  The idea is certainly not a new one--expect the worst, and you shall be pleasantly surprised.  The trick is to not be disappointed when the rejection notifications begin to pile up.  That, I believe in my non-professional opinion, is more an issue of behavioral/psychological individuality.  How we take on rejection is in essence a matter of managing our tolerance for the same.  We work incessantly and we are not rewarded for our efforts.  It is a matter of perspective, of course, but in America (especially newer generations) perseverance is often spoken about but little applied.  Immediate gratification is the term on the streets.  de Botton explains that we mustn't take anything against us personally, and that not knowing failure signifies for him a half-empty life.  Writing is such a thing.  People who write are often called eccentric, rare birds, among many other names.  Bitterness accumulates and whatever eccentricities emerge from it have little to do with being a writer, or, more precisely, trying to write.  Rejections are not to be taken personal.  Most of the time, we don't even know the person sending the rejection notification.  Frankly, I am more afraid of a jury summons order or my American Express bill in the mail than I am of rejection notes.  It's a matter of opinion, and, as de Botton explains, it is a matter of perspective.

Farewell... Inmate 44.904 Jorge Semprun 1923-2011

Jorge Semprum, French resistance fighter, essayist, philosopher, author of "Literature or Life" and holocaust survivor (Buchenwald camp) died in Paris this morning.  Here is the beautiful remembrance page from "El Mundo" in Madrid.

20 Years: Bret Easton Ellis' "American Psycho" Still Relevant After All These Years!

What is really important about Bret Easton Ellis' "American Psycho" is its social criticism--not to mention the existential issues, depictions of mental illness, and even some pathology still not cataloged by the American Medical Association.  All part-humor aside, this is a novel that stands the test of time not only because Patrick Bateman is an accurate picture of the late 1980s excess, but because since the late 1990s and onto contemporary American society we have taken excess to much higher levels.  Patrick Bateman is what Goldman Sachs, Freddie Mac, Fannie May, and Enron would look like if by some misguided science project we could give a face to the "faceless high-command" who robbed America blind in the last 10 years.  But the greed is not the most important theme.  What gives Patrick Bateman his staying power is the accuracy of a superficial and disturbed mind.  Bret Easton Ellis' technique and craft achieved a Raskolnikovian figure, a "Bigger" Thomas with an MBA and that kind of intellectual violence that later made "Pulp Fiction" attractive to nuclear physicists and Nobel prize winners.

In the last few months, and unknowingly of the anniversary, a couple of my friends (in separate occasions) were talking about the "American Psycho" movie and Christian Bale's performance.  Mary Harron's work as director has much to do with how well the book translated to the screen.  One of my friends actually mentioned how much he enjoyed the monologues, the overly-intellectual, technical and erudite analysis of Genesis' music and wished he could memorize them.  I wouldn't go that far, but I can see why someone would want to burst out one of those monologues during a boring party!

Getting back to the book, there are--admittedly--parts of the book that read like explicit pornography.  The scene with Christine and Sabrina is such an example.  However, if one is to blush over it, then one must blush to Diane DiPrima's "Memoirs of a Beatnik."  If the argument about "American Psycho" being pornographic and written by a male author seems lopsided, Diane DiPrima's book exceeds the illustrative nature of Bret Easton Ellis' work.

"American Psycho" is one of those rare classics, incomparable, often insurmountable in creativity and originality.  Yes, I am re-reading it as soon as the teaching semester is over.  Put down the DVD and read the book... it's about time, if you haven't read it.

Touching Peace: Practicing the Art of Mindful Living

I always wondered what the other side knew that I did not.  The numerous fliers tacked to the bulletin board in the faculty lounge announcing all sorts of spiritual retreats, cosmological quests, experiences of the hypno-self and the spirit, conscious meditation, superconscious meditation, always made me wonder, "how does one become a spiritual cosmologician?"   Also, because of the research work I am engaged in right now, and having to sort of force myself to look at consciousness from an objective position, I thought I was even less prepared for reading anything related to this type of view point.  Only recently was I able to realize what I was missing.  Thich Nhat Hanh is one of those individuals I wondered about before I read his book.  His works is never long; most of his books are under 120 pages. I found "Touching Peace: Practicing the Art of Mindful Living" on a pile of books labeled "free."  It's the best time of the year--at the end of the study year calendar and faculty members are doing their spring cleaning of their offices and free books flood the halls!

My first reaction to the opening pages of "Touching Peace" was the same I've had for years when confronted with sort of what I call "new agey-granola based-do it yourself-organic-hippie" stuff.  Despite the fact that it seems like I am poking fun at the whole spirituality based life, I was always curious how people could live with the sort of peace that always eluded me.  When Hanh states that "Trees are beautiful, refreshing, and solid. When you want to hug a tree, it will never refuse. You can rely on trees. I have even taught my students the practice of tree-hugging," I thought I would put the book back in the "free" pile.  But being that it was only the fourth page, and the book didn't seem like a time consuming one, I persisted.  I HAVE NEVER BEEN HAPPIER TO END A BOOK!  This was the book I was missing all of my life.  The book began to "talk" to me directly.  After the first couple of chapters, I went outside to a perfect weather day, so blue it hurt your eyes to look up, but when I looked up the blue sky seemed different.  A little walk around campus offered even more insight: the trees felt so alive!  I don't think I had ever been so awake to nature before!  And read on I did with this little jewel of a book.  Thich Nhat Nanh has a new fan.

The book is a little dated, but in a way that made it speak to me directly.  Originally published just after the first Iraq War, "Touching Peace" comments on the act of war and the permanent damage it creates in the world.  Hanh states: "If we get angry, countless obstacles will be set up, blocking our way.  So, without anger, we have to find a way to tell the president [George Bush, father] that God cannot bless one country against another....  Look at the 500,000 men and woman from America and the West and the 1,000,000 Iraqi soldiers who spent months waiting for the land offensive to begin.  They had to practice killing day and night in order to prepare.  During the day, they wore helmets, took up guns and bayonets, jumped and yelled as if they were not human beings, and plunged their bayonets into sandbags representing the enemy soldiers.  If they did not become less than human beings, they could not have done it. They had to become inhuman to learn to kill. They did that during the day and during the night they did the same in their dreams--planting seeds of suffering, fear, and violence within their consciousness.... Then the war came. The actual killing was massive, and we called it a victory. When the 500,000 troops returned home, they were deeply wounded from practicing so much violence in reality and in their consciousness."  

To those who are familiar with this blog and some of the entries I have written regarding my war experience, the quote might strike as having been sent from heaven.  I do believe in miracles, always have.  I really believe this book waited for me to pick it up and read it.  It's like opening a door I always knew I had to open in order to reveal great truths about who I am and where I want to go from here.  It's been more than an eye-opener.  I meditate now (not every day, but I am learning) and I find it easier to be present in the moment rather than years behind or years ahead of myself.  I cannot recommend this book enough.

Research Update: Learning About the Nature of Physics and Consciousness

There's the physics that only a few experts and their posse can understand, and then there's physics for the rest of us.  Never mind that I took three physics courses as an undergrad (yes, with labs) and had to work harder than I ever did to get a decent grade in the last course.  I was way over my head on that last one (acoustics and space).  At any rate, I have been reading and understanding anew massive questions about the nature of the physical world and our perception of the same.

First, I had to try and discover a basic definition of consciousness because that's where the research is aiming.  But having a habit of starting backwards, I read "The God Particle" by Leon Lederman, and it did help me to grasp some of the premises of "Consciousness" by Susan Blackmore.  Blackmore presents a beautiful and clear premise about consciousness studies.  It's wonderful, she states, that we live in an age of so much scientific advancement that the question of consciousness is now embraced by scientists who for years (if not centuries) had denied even the existence of such a question.  We cannot, she continues, extricate ourselves from consciousness to study consciousness.  This becomes the first Hard Question of consciousness studies.  We are all subject to the same physical laws that govern the universe.  As a result, the study of consciousness might find track in looking at the seat of consciousness; that is to say, where the soul sits.

The balance between experience and how our physical self responds to it is perhaps the best starting point.  Philosophers declare these experiences under the umbrella of the term "qualia."  Simply put, qualia refers to perceptions of the world that are divided between unique and universal.  For example, Blackburn refers to "[t]he redness of that shiny red mug is a quale; the soft feel of my cat's fur is a quale; and so it is the smell of coffee."  The qualia in how it relates to consciousness is, again, the division of perceptions that are agreed upon, and factual references that are universal and remain unchanged no matter the perception.  Blackburn refers to "Dualism" (as in Rene Descartes) in an attempt to draw a parting premise.  Throughout the ages, humanity has been molded (for the lack of a better term) in the belief that there are two realms of the world.  The first realm is the "us" inside.  The second realm is the "the" out there.  The question, however, can be argued to be related to the development of culture and civilization rather than a conscious effort by humans to question their existence and their sense of self.  For example, it can be argued that this dualistic idea comes from the clash between the developing human (hominid, etc.) with the environment and developing cognitive experiences which where translated into the recognition of self and others.  Nature, for example, must have been a perplexing discovery (to draw an understatement) and this discovery might have given rise to the explanation of phenomena as a creation of the "other."  The sun, as another example of outside of individual consciousness, becomes the controller of phenomena and thus religion developed.  Of course it isn't that easy a theory.  Matter and energy has existed in the universe since whatever it was happened at the beginning (Big Bang, God, etc.), and whether that matter was controlled under some confine of physical law was not define as such until rational beings began to discover it as such.  But I digress (to draw another understatement).  If I have taken an over-simplistic view of these premises, I am deeply sorry.

Blackmore relates Descartes theory clearly, "the mind is nonphysical and nonextended, while the body and the rest of the physical world are made of physical, or extended substance." Blackburn positions this explanation very well, and follows it up with the quintessential inquiry familiar with anyone who studied Descartes, "How do the two interact?"  Other philosophers or/and scientists completely reject the dual idea and resort to a unified theory, monism of sorts.  This guides the path to a narrower place which offers just as many questions as dualism itself.  Even if a person describes herself as a materialist, a monist in belief, the position still ignores the question of consciousness.  The world really can't just be that "solid" a material.  With new developments in science and neurobiology, materialists come armed with good research and data as to how the objective brain gives rise to 1) phenomena, 2) experience, 3) qualia.  It is clear enough to state that the brain is a matter, objective in the sense that it is tangible, real to the touch.  However, some problematic questions still persist.  How does the interaction of brain cells give humans the power to experience reality, to be conscious of what is around them (whether physical or not)?  Susan Blackmore cites Thomas Nagel as an example of consciousness as objective reality.  In 1974, Nagel used the premise of a cave bat.  "If there's something it is like to be the bat--something for the bat itself, then the bat is conscious.  If there is nothing it is like to be the bat, then it is not."  Interpreting this can take an examiner in different directions.  For one, the argument of whether or not animals are self-conscious is one that--despite the attempts in recent years by animal activists--still has no answer.  The bat would have to know the concept of his self; that is to say, because I am part of a number of bats in this cave I can recognize we are all bats.  Furthermore, the ability of a rational human being to recognize the bat makes the bat conscious.  Nagel goes on to make another comparison, "if you think that there is something it is like to be the worm then you believe the worm is conscious." If this seems like one of those "why ask why?" questions, then I am not doing a fair job of explaining it.  There's a good possibility that we can all account for an experience with an animal (a dog, cat, bird, etc.) in which we've come to believe the animal knows, or has self-awareness.  Perhaps it is the inability to remember that is the biggest determent to whether or not animals are self-conscious.  My cat walks by the full body mirror I use to practice the cello--she does so every day and I believe she's come to realize that the image of the cat outside of her "self" is not another cat but simply a reflection.  Yet, she forgets from time to time and fusses at the mirror as if for the first time.  However, Blackmore explains clearly that "it is no good talking about perception, memory, intelligence, or problem solving as purely physical processes and then claiming to have explained consciousness."  The argument remains irreconcilable due to the separation of physical matter and metaphysics.  There is an explanation--a very interesting one--in the book related to a "Zombie-like" entity, as to whether or not the dualistic is present in the zombie.  If the zombie is physical, walking around the world without perception/phenomenological ground, then the internal "self" doesn't exist.  The zombie doesn't exist not because it is a figment of our imagination, but because there's no recognition on the "inside" of the zombie.  And just like the bat argument, this one is another pocket of vacuum in this big inquiry.

From here the argument takes on the human brain.  How can we examine consciousness and assume that all consciousness are alike, or, rather, that since human brains are average-wise about the same size, what happens when we encounter a damaged brain?  Does consciousness operate differently there?  What about critical mental illness?  Are psychotic patients in lack or in possession of a different consciousness?  That is all for now.  The semester is coming to an end and there's much to do before the summer.  Shalom.

Stephen Dobyns and The Most Perfect Theater of the Absurd

I had a few days off from research work to re-read a text which I hold as one of the funniest and most humorous by any contemporary author alive.  I include the critical text here as a way of sharing the humor and the good times.  Last time I read this out loud to my students, I suffered from one of those belly-aching, hyperventilating, unable-to-stop laughing fits.  It lasted nearly 10 minutes and I frankly thought I was going to die of laughter (not a bad way to go).  At any rate, the following passage comes from Stephen Dobyns' "The Wrestler's Cruel Study."  This was a gift (during that incredible summer of 1997 in Washington DC) from Dr. M., a doctor who was involved in the mental health examination of some of the people involved in the Watergate investigation.  At any rate, the novel is the story of a celebrity wrestler whose fiance has been abducted from her apartment.  Along the way, the protagonist blends into a series of characters that is beyond the humorous.  The novel has been called "very, very funny," but also "a blending of philosophy, the gimmick of pro wrestling and a mixture of fairy tale and Gnosticism."  At any rate, in this scene, three English professors from Hunter College are discussing the future of literature and the language:

"Three English professors from Hunter College are having a colloquy, although the words 'English' and professor are no longer part of their vocabulary.  They are theorists in textual studies and it is only to their dean that they are still English professors.  As theorists they are engaged in the production of significant texts in the same way that Chaucer and Shakespeare and Milton once produced significant texts, but while the texts of  Chaucer and Shakespeare and Milton have been deconstructed--that is, they are going down--the texts of these three gentlemen from Hunter College have been superstructed--that is, they are going up....
    'Of man's first disobedience, and the fruit of that forbidden tree, whose mortal taste brought death into the world'--just what kind of bullshit is that, anyway?' says one of the three men, whose name is DeMaus.
   'By pointing to the man,' says the second of the three, whose name is Vogel, 'the problem becomes a gender issue.' 
    'Even the word 'first,' says the third, whose name is Sosage, 'privileges defunct mathematical systems.'
    'And what is disobedient?' asks DeMaus. 'Doesn't this valorize a methodology of behavior which it is our duty to question?'
    It might be assumed that DeMaus, Vogel and Sosage are up drinking rather early.  In fact, they are drinking rather late, having begun the previous evening.  As theorists they no longer have the tweed and facial hair of traditional academics; instead they wear black leather jackets and black pointed boots, and Vogel has an earring.  All three are in their thirty and clean-shaven.
    'Consider the phrase 'fruit of that forbidden tree,' says Sosage. 'Just what is 'fruit?'  To point to one part of the tree and argue it is better than another part and to call that valorized part of the tree 'fruit' is to abrogate other arboreal components which certainly have individual validity, and even to say that these other components lack the taste of the supposed 'fruit' is indubitably an attempt to objectify an experience which at best is subjective and ephemeral.'
     'Even 'forbidden' is problematic,' says Vogel.
     'To tell you the truth,' says Sosage, 'I'm astonished he ever got that fucking thing published.'
In comes Wally Wallski, one of the central characters of the novel, not expecting a confrontation but observing the professors from a safe distance at the bar...  the professors continue ranting about the canon.
   'Defunct' says DeMaus.
   'Dismanteled' says Vogel.
   'Demolished' says Sosage.
   'Devastated' says DeMaus.
   'Despoiled' says Vogel.
   'Destroyed' says Sosage.
   'It seems to me,' says DeMaus, with the air of one struck by a new idea, 'that since Chaucer and Shakespeare and Milton have been deleted, we owe it to humanity to take their place in order to avoid the creation of an unfortunate vacuum, which, we understand, nature abhors.'
   'Shouldn't one of us be a woman?' asks Vogel.
   'Or gay?' asks Sosage.
   'Perhaps,' says DeMaus, 'they were.  Who's to say that Shakespeare wasn't a woman or gay or a writer of color? And isn't the same also true of Chaucer and Milton?....
  'In fact,' continues DeMaus, 'we could easily establish that our fellow drinkers are the entire male hegemonical canon.... You there, calls DeMaus. Come here a moment.'
   Wally Wallski slowly walks over carrying his fifth beer....
   'What dead writers have you heard of?' asks DeMaus.
   Wally Wallski isn't much of a reader but as a fisherman he has a soft spot for Ernest Hemingway and has listened to the cassette version of 'The Old Man and the Sea' several times.
   'Ernest Hemingway,' says Wally Wallski.
   'By the power invested in me by the Modern Language Association,' says DeMaus, 'I make you Ernest Hemingway. I warn you of your duties and remind you of your privileges.'
   Vogel shakes Wally Wallski's hand. 'Congratulations. I've always admired your stuff.'
   Sosage gives Wally Wallski a glass of gin and pats his back. 'I'm really looking forward to your next book,' he says.
   Wally Wallski feels overwhelmed by the responsibility. 'What does it mean to be Ernest Hemingway?' he asks. He's not even a very good speller.
   'It means you're a fisherman par excellence,' says DeMaus.
   'It means you're Papa Macho, the first twentieth-century tough guy,' says Vogel.
   'It means you are boss of the simple sentence,' says Sosage. 'See Spot run. See Spot rise. Sun also rises.'
   'Tough guy?' asks Wally Wallski.
   'No one can push you around,' says DeMaus. 'Can you imagine someone pushing around Papa Hemingway? Absolutement pas!'
   'Of course,' says Vogel, 'you gotta quit this sexist shit.'
   'You gotta stop privileging the male hegemony,' says Sosage.
   'Racial stereotypes are a thing of the past,' says DeMaus.
   'Toughness in the service of theory,' says Vogel. 'Macho correctness in the service of macha prerogatives.'
   'It's mean writing books,' says Sosage, 'in which no one will find a single word offensive or disturbing.'
   'Books where the author,' says DeMaus, 'will always defer to the point of view of the reader.'
   'But I can't write!' says Wally Wallski.
   'That's just the point,' says Sosage. 'The books of the new Papa Hemingway are wordless and silent.'
   'The moment you set down a word,' says DeMaus, 'you compromise your uniqueness.'
   'What makes you great,' says Vogel, 'is your refusal to commit yourself to meaning.'
   'By being nothing,' says Sosage, 'you become all things to all men and women.'
   'And this makes you tough,' says DeMaus.
   'Powerful,' says Vogel.
   'Magnificent,' says Sosage.
Hilarity ensues from the first page of this great novel from the first page to the very last word.  I really can't do the book justice, as this is simple one example of Dobyns' Perfect Theater of the Absurd... It's Beckett but with a modern popular culture/technology twist.
The three professors are really a parody for so many of us who, at one time or another, take ourselves way too serious while at the job.  This cartoon might convey the point better....

Earth Day: Rhetoric versus Reality

We had a little gathering for Earth Day (not on the actual day but an observance nonetheless) with impressive student attendance.  There was a healthy string of speakers and some music and a wide screen documentary about "Climate Change," otherwise known as Global Warming, and various other monikers.

It was an interesting setting and I was glad to see so many people there.  The provost got to the microphone to start the event and her simple, declarative and dry opening statement left me thinking the rest of the gathering and feeling ashamed I can't remember a single word any of the speakers said.

University provost: "Mother Earth is dying."


Me, for the next two hours and more: "No, I think Mother Earth finds a way to rejuvenate herself every once in a few billion years or so... we are the ones who are screwed."


And thus began one of the most convoluted stream of consciousness to-date.  I have to admit that I have an inclination of taking everything literally.  Nevertheless, there seems to be a collective blindness when it comes to rhetoric versus fact.  I don't proclaim to have the "facts" about the environmental changes going on--although I could recite on call some of the historical events that have led us here.  I am simply thinking of how little people seem to notice about rhetoric.  Case in point: "We are taking action in Libya in order to avoid civilian deaths."  I have to admit I have no love for Qaddafi or any of his cronies, but the aforementioned statement sounds like one of the most absurd sentences to come out of the Vietnam conflict: "It became necessary to destroy the village of Ben Tre in order to save it."  Rhetoric, both in politics and in academia, has a tendency to rear its "distinguished" head ever so stealthy that even the most seasoned political journalists (or political science professors) seem in awe of it.  I remember one of my undergrad biology professors constantly saying, "If you want a value statement, go talk to the philosophy department."  It was his catch phrase, or at least I thought it was.  However, Prof. M's insistence was on facts, facts and facts.  You could love biology and have a passion for it; when it came to results, however, you either had the facts or he'd send on your way to the philosophy department. I think I took his advice, again, literally.

Again, I don't presume to have the facts, and, really, since I actually DID go to the philosophy department, I am inclined to make a value statement here.  While the United States and other western countries implement recycling programs, some of which--to some extent--have been very successful, the truth is that all the summits on the environment seem to overlook the amount of pollution in countries like China and India.  Both of these countries are expanding economically.  Their respective industries are churning day and night.  I can't speak on India because I have never been there, but since I visited China in 2009 (for far longer than I would have wanted to) and the pollution there was beyond reason.  Of course, after a few days one gets "used" to it, but I remember stepping out of the station after an all-night train to Changchun, in the Jilin province (China's Detroit or Motor-city) and my eyes (the same eyes that survived Kuwait oil fires in 1991) becoming so irritated I could barely see beyond my nose.  And this is one of the many examples I could site here.  My other favorite: nuclear plan reactors (a la Three Mile Island) across the street from major residential areas.  Japan notwithstanding, the whole thing looked to me as an accident waiting to happen.

At any rate, here's to our dear provost and her thought provoking statement.  After all, it yielded this blog entry.  Happy Earth Day.  Recycle and Reuse (sounds like rhetoric to me)... Mother Earth will thank you.

International Book Day -- April 23, 2011 -- Book Love: A Celebration of Writers, Readers and the Printed & Bounded Book

An important and timely book is being promoted by Tandem Literary and I feel the obligation (both as a book lover and writer) to promote it here.  Book Love: A Celebration of Writers, Readers and the Printed & Bound Book, by James Charlton and Bill Henderson brings to light the important issue of the future of the printed word in a world gone seemingly amok with technology.  I believe we've gone a little soft when it comes to that argument.  "Books will always be around," I hear people always say when the argument of e-readers arise.  Will they?  What will happen to public libraries, some of them facing tremendous financial cuts or closing altogether.  If an e-reader can hold 3,500 books, could the home library be in peril.  Believe me, I am not a Luddite at all, quite the contrary.  I promote books among my students regardless of whether they are traditional or electronic, but the romantic idea of the bounded paper, the permanence of ink and the conveyance of ideas have been around for so long, it would be a misery to have them be in peril and us not notice.

Several years ago, I purchased a volume titled "At Home With Books" (ironically the link is for the Kindle edition) by Estelle Ellis and Caroline Seebohn.  This book was originally published in 1995 and has quickly become a classic favorite for book collectors.  Let's hope "Book Love" become as such.  I wish you good luck and anticipate the publishing date with much excitement!!!

John Steinbeck's "Journal of a Novel" Brilliant Bantering

There are reasons why some of the "not for publication" things authors leave behind are better left, well, unpublished.  The publication of "True at First Light" by Ernest Hemingway in 1999 is such an example of what I mean.  I believe it is the only book of Hemingway's I had to put down and not ever pick up again.  I submit as another example of this phenomenon "Journal of a Novel: The East of Eden Letters," by John Steinbeck.  The volume contains letters the author wrote to his editor and friend Pascal Covici.  The idea came to Steinbeck as he began on January 29, 1951 to sketch his next novel, "East of Eden."  He had a notebook and while using one side of the notebook for sketches of plots for the novel, in the opposite page he would pen a letter to his friend about the novel and about just every topic under the sky.  Steinbeck refers to the letters as if he were "getting [his] mental arm in shape to pitch a good game."  


I had great difficulty getting into the letters/journal style of this book.  The task of writing these letters seemed (at the risk of being sacrilegious) tedious to me.  Of course I understand the premise, but the content of these letters deal very little with the novel and the process of sketching the plots and characters.  On the contrary, they are filled with ramblings dealing with everything about worries over his oldest son, Tom, to venomous criticism of General Douglas McArthur.  There's also quite a bit about Steinbeck's fondness for wood works and inventions.  The rest seemed to be hard to relate to and lacking the engaging power of good journal narratives.

There were, however, a couple of spots I had to laugh at because the amount of detail that goes into making a writer (the little things) were present in this book to the extent that the reader might be tempted to think, "well, at least I am not the only one who is this crazy."  Here's a couple of passages where Steinbeck writes about his preference for specific pencils.

"You know I am really stupid.  For years I have looked for the perfect pencil.  I have found very good ones but never the perfect one.  And all the time it was not the pencils but me.  A pencil that is all right some days is no good another day.  For example, yesterday, I used a special pencil soft and fine and it floated over the paper just wonderfully.  So this morning I try the same kind.  And they crack on me.  Points break and all hell is let loose.  This is the day when I am stabbing the paper.  So today I need a harder pencil at least for a while.  I am using some that are numbered 2 3/8.  I have my plastic tray you know and in it three kinds of pencils for hard writing days and soft writing days.  Only sometimes it changes in the middle of the day, but at least I am equipped for it.  I have also some super soft pencils which I do not use very often because I must feel as delicate as a rose petal to use them.  And I am not often that way.  But when I do have such moments I am prepared.... Pencils are a great expense to me and I hope you know it.  I buy them four dozen at a time.... My pencils are very short now and I think I will celebrate by getting out twelve new pencils.  Sometimes the just pure luxury of long beautiful pencils charges me with energy and invention.  We shall see.  It means I will have to have more pencils before long though.  Would you send me another box?  They are Mongol 480 #2 3/8 F round."


This long passage helps me remember something I read in a Natalie Goldberg book ("Writing Down the Bones") about buying expensive notebooks or pens, etc.  If that's what's going to get you to actually write, then do it.  If one develops some sort of attachment to a specific pen and/or notebook, so much the better.  I know I am guilty (excessively so) of such pleasures.  People don't understand why I do it... but at least I have Steinbeck in my corner of "eccentric" traits.  We all have our private peccadilloes--embrace them before it is too late.

The research work I am doing is going well.  I have little time to work at home and much less at the office.  Nevertheless, the amount of information and things I've learned for the first time is truly wonderful.  I am enjoying it very much.