Hurry Down Sunshine, by Michael Greenberg

The one question that "Hurry Down Sunshine" indirectly aims to answer is how do humans lose their sanity; where does reason go when madness comes? It is a painfully personal memoir of a father and his daughter's descend into madness. As most memoirs, "Hurry Down Sunshine" is episodic in nature, but whereas in other memoirs I have read this literary device is used to break the monotony of the narrative, Michael Greenberg's mastery renders the episodic style poetic, lyrical and beautifully woven into a story so painful you might want to pack a box of tissues. I mean this in a very positive way. As an instructor at an all-girls preparatory academy, I have seen my share of teenage girls issues--from heartbreaks to sports disappointments to issues of self-esteem and self-view, my last ten years as an all-girls academy instructor has taught me a great deal. Nothing, however, could have prepared me to read this touching and amazing book.

Michael Greenberg's book is as beautiful as it is powerful--a must read for both parents and young teenagers. Think the best and most powerful writing by Kay Redfield Jamison and render it ten times more personal and agonizing in its powerful message. This is a volume that encompasses a difficult topic and a narrative so personal both Greenberg and his daughter Sally come across as good friends--friends one wants to accompany on their journey into an unknown future. One might find one's self praying for both father and daughter. One of the most powerful passages comes early in the book when Greenberg picks up a piece of paper Sally had written one of her many poems in.

"And when everything should be quiet

your fire fights to burn a river of sleep.

Why should the great breath of hell kiss

what you see, my love?"

Again, this makes me think of all of those pieces of paper I some times pick from the floor at the Academy. Most are simply notes from one girl to another, badly written and full of misspellings. But there are times when I come across a jotted line, a broken phrase, a deep thought put down on paper in the middle of a boring class session and I begin to wonder how many of my students are not much different from Sally, how many of them may be crying out for help in some personal frequency not even their parents can decipher. Ten years ago, when I began my labor of love at the Academy, the book to read was "Reviving Ophelia." Today, I have to recommend--without reservation--"Hurry Down Sunshine." It is a must read for parents, students and teachers. The power, passion and revealing emotions in this book will no doubt enlighten anyone who reads it and takes it to heart.

Paul Auster's "Invisible..." Taking My Time with a Jewel

Once again, the best writer pound-for-pound in the world delivers a jewel of a novel. While I have to admit "Invisible" is not for everyone, it is perhaps vintage Auster--the mature craftsman going back to the intricacies of prose that made him a literary fiction master. When I say that "Invisible" is not for everyone, I don't mean that only the "Austerites" of the world should be the only ones to read it, but not knowing the dimensions of Auster's previous works would prove a hindrance for someone trying to read him for the first time with "Invisible." I've made the suggestion on this blog again and again, that if one wants to start to read Paul Auster's work, one should stick to "The Music of Chance," "Leviathan," "Oracle Night," or "Moon Palace." Starting out with "Man in the Dark," or "Travels in the Scriptorium" won't do it for a beginner "Austerite."

"Invisible" is the type of novel that shocks and awes; that is to say, the twists and turns of the narrative (not a point A to point B format) makes the reader stop and re-read, trying to make sure of what exactly what it was that they've just read. As a long-time Auster fan, I've come to expect just about everything from the Brooklyn genius. When "Invisible" (a narrative told in four interlocking parts) turned to the protagonist's incestuous relationship with his sister, I realized that anyone else would have been turn off and disgusted. And this is where Paul Auster puts it all on the line. The artist needs (is obligated) to take risks in creating art; without those risks, the artist turns mundane and stale. I assume that there will be two types of interpretations, both of which, I believe, he took into account. First, the experienced literary fiction reader will understand the risks as an artistic "pushing of the envelope" to the very extreme of art. Secondly, the inexperienced literary fiction reader might consider the entire narrative obscene, and Auster as "just another dirty old man" distastefully showing the world what's on his mind. Again, it's difficult to understand the workings of an artist. I think Paul Auster took a great risk in writing so explicitly about the protagonist's relationship with his sister, but looking at it objectively, I have to say that Ars Gratia Artis carries the day in Auster's most powerful book yet.

Many people ask me about my obsession with Paul Auster's work. I have little to say to them other than only those who examine art deeply can be confounded when facing genius. If one doesn't take the time to appreciate everything to the maximum, whether it be Shostakovich's Complete Symphonies, Sylvia Plath Collected Poems, or Marcel Duchamp's theories of "Ready Made" art, one will miss the point altogether. Explain Shakespeare's works and how they evoke genius--there's a reason why Hamlet still resonates today. At any rate, I am not expecting generous or positive press for "Invisible" just as I didn't for "Travels in the Scriptorium," or "Man in the Dark." However, there's always a critic out there with the objective and sharp eye for quality literary fiction: "I don't think people read Auster because he's beautiful, although his spare, exact language has always reminded me of Mozart minus the emotional colors. He's a good read because he's confounding. Many writers are sure they've got the answers, but it's often more honest to admit there's no answer at all." This is from "The San Francisco Chronicle's" Laurel Maury.

I have nothing but praise for Paul Auster's work. I think he is the most generous writer today--generous in the sense that he has confidence in the reader and, as a result, he surrenders the narrative to the reader completely, without explanation, and the reader will make her own decision. Austerites everywhere are already waiting for the next masterpiece from the one and only American literary master.

One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich: A Walk Through the Gulag

The main criticism I get from teaching this book is that it deals too closely with action-related scenes, and not enough with what the literature of the oppressed really is about. Almost one third of the book is spent learning how to lay brick and mortar. I personally love the book, but it would be a disservice not to point out what others (my students) think is a wave of mundane details that deliver a pat rather than a literary punch. I am most interested in reading deeply into the existential structure of the novel. While there are very few passages to point out as support for an existential interpretation, the few that I found on this re-reading might go far to prove my point. One thing that I find fascinating about the novel is that despite the title "One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich," most of the time the protagonist is highlighted the narrator uses his last name, Shukhov. That in itself began my inclination to interpret this as an existential novel. What is it about the last name that promises more intimacy than the first/middle name featured in the title? Dehumanization? I rather think that the last name, being the element of trace into the past, genealogy, ancestry, etc., would be more self defining. I don't want to bog down with interpretative stretches, only these passages made me think of anti-Sartre commentary in some inordinate way: "If you suffer, it must not be for murder, theft, or sorcery, nor for infringing the rights of others. But if anyone suffers as a Christian, he should feel no disgrace, but confess that name to the honor of God." This passage comes across as masochistic if one reads it with the intention of proving that religion explains away one's suffering and gives meaning to our suffering itself. These workers are doing hard labor in -22 degrees cold weather, with only basic clothing. I would have to promote the idea that that suffering really has very little to do with God and the church doctrine. By breaking the law--either that of the state or the church--man puts himself in a sphere all of his own. What Nietzsche declared as taking one's destiny in one's own hands, leading to Ubermensch, (or in Dostoyevsky's view: I kill because I can.) is nothing more than another morality which can be as addictive and as damaging as the metaphysical embrace of the suffering. Another passage that recalls existential theory is that of Shukhov being patted down before they take the squad out to work that morning, "Shukhov was in regulation dress. Come on, paw me as hard as you like. There's nothing but my soul in my chest." This passage is reminiscent of Viktor Frankl's "Man's Search for Meaning," when he says something to the effect of "We had nothing to lose but our ridiculous naked selves," as they were entering the Nazi Concentration Camp.

This is a stretch, and you must forgive me for making it, but "One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich" is very much in structure like Clint Eastwood's "Unforgiven" film. The tension builds and builds and builds, and then the story resolves itself in a split second twist of violence and self-made justice (read, own moral standard). The only reason I am making this point here is that in teaching this book for over 10 years, I always heard my students say something to the effect that the book drags and then all of a sudden, it ends. It's about 50-50 when it comes to whether they enjoyed reading it or not. Thankfully, it's a quick read... young people today do not have time for painful stories of suffering and despair. Little do they know.

The Way of the Warrior and Its Relevancy

It's been a couple of years since I posted "The Aeneid, 4,000 and Time to Own Up" and with every problem I face today, it all seems more and more relevant. All of this pushes me to believe in The Way more than ever. It began 25 years ago, when I discovered for the first time a small volume of practical entries on how the warrior should behave. I was a young U.S. Marine, and direction was not something I had an abundance of (if I had any sense of direction back then, I wouldn't have joined). Then in 1995, while living in Japan, I immersed myself completely in the Way. The Way has been with me for that long, and the lessons I have learned from it echo in the walls of every single one of my life experiences today. In its most basic premises, the Way of the Warrior postulates the idea that when given a choice to live or die, death is the better option: "The Way of the Warrior is found in death. When it comes to either/or, there is only the quick choice of death. It is not particularly difficult. Be determined and advance. To say that dying without reaching one's aim is to die a dog's death is the frivolous way of sophisticates. When pressed with the choice of life or death, it is not necessary to gain one's aim. We all want to live. And in large part we make our logic according to what we like. But not having attained our aim and continuing to live is cowardice. This is a thin and dangerous line. To die without gaining one's aim is a dog's death and fanaticism. But there is no shame in this. This is the substance of the Way of the Warrior. If by setting one's heart right every morning and evening, one is able to live as though his body were already dead, he gains freedom in the Way. His whole life will be without blame, and he will succeed in his calling." I don't believe in the entire literal dictum of the Way, but the parts that I have highlighted here are constant in my life and have been for a long, long time. For as irrational as this passage sound, there's a sense of qualification to the statement. This is particularly seen in, "We all want to live," and "This is a thin and dangerous line." The anthologist (the entries are part of Japanese history and folklore and are, in large part, apocrypha), Yamamoto Tsunetomo is clear in telling that the Way is not for everyone.

Now, does the Way mean we live a morbid life, awaiting every day the certainty of death and in that way ruining our lives? Of course not. One must apply these principles in a series of metaphors and analogies, and only call on them in moments of desperation. It is in those crucial moments when the Way is most relevant: "The Way of the Warrior is in desperateness. Ten men or more cannot kill such a man. Common sense will not accomplish great things. Simply become insane and desperate. In the Way of the Warrior, if one uses discrimination, he will fall behind. One needs neither loyalty nor devotion, but simply to become desperate in the Way. Loyalty and devotion are of themselves within desperation." Again, the key is to interpret all of this in some way that it applies to life in metaphorical ways--to take it literally is suicide. By desperateness the author refers to the idea of not thinking how to proceed. If faced with such a crucial moment, it is better to clear one's mind of judgment and charge as in an act of madness. Again, the idea of desperateness comes clearly through here: "For a warrior, a single word is important no matter where he may be. By just one single word valor can be made apparent. In peaceful times words do not show valor. In trouble times, one knows that by a single word his strength or cowardice can be seen. This single word is the flower of one's heart. It is not something said simply with one's mouth."
This is the other critical part of living out the Way. In many ways, this is not different from Christianity. It is written that Judgment Day (or death) will come like a thief in the night. The Way explores the same principle by means of a code for living; a Ten Commandments, if you will (but instead of just ten, there are hundreds of little apocrypha).

There are by far too many of these kernels of truth I could post here, but it isn't necessary. The real way of experiencing the Way is somewhat archaic and at the same time absolutely present in today's world. Imagine going on patrol in one of the streets of any major city in Iraq and not knowing whether the next step you take will be your final. Or perhaps finding that the GPS equipment they gave you was not working properly and now you are in some obscure Taliban-infested ravine in Afghanistan and the only way out is to FIGHT your way out. The Way of the Warrior does not only apply to this type of situation. All of life is at its core.

Lost in Place

I've lost so much in the last month that it is nearly incomprehensible to me how I've managed. In the same token, I now have time to finish several of my projects that I have been ignoring for the better part of two years. I've finished another Moleskine notebook, and I continue to write every day a minimum of two hours. The diaries of Christopher Isherwood are driving me insane, really, in a good way. I knew starting off that the task of reading this massive volume was going to be a tough going, but after 580 pages, and as I am starting to see the end of the tunnel, I feel rather prematurely nostalgic about what I am going to miss from reading this book. First of all, Isherwood's voice--it comes clean and loud through all of his writing (even the most mundane entries). Also, there's a great deal of detail about addresses of places he frequented; I am now one of those who "Google Earth" every address I find in any of the books I am reading. It's a sickness, I tell you, researching this so obsessively. I still have 400 pages to go, but I may have to put it aside and read some short fiction. All of this non-fiction reading has given me a metaphorical headache. And to think that I had proposed for next year to read only biographies! I better rethink that, pronto.

I am taking a short detour to re-read Alexander Solzhenitsyn's "One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich" because and simply because I want to. The weather has been terrible here for almost a month--cloudy and raining all of the time, with only sporadic cameo appearances by the sun that last less than 15 minutes. Solzhenitsyn's little masterpiece is as short as Isherwood's diaries are long, so I won't be away without an entry for as long as I have been lately.

I want to thank all of those who have sent me an electronic mail to wish me well. I have printed all (every single one) of those notes and I've placed them in a prominent place on my desk. Really, thank you from the bottom of my heart! I'll never forget all of your kindness.

The Power to Write: Exercises

"The Power to Write: A Writing Workshop in a Book" is an insightful volume for the person who wants to pick up a pen and start writing the moment the ink hits the paper. There are many--as I pointed out earlier--good things about this book. The exercises, however, are not one of them. The exercises appear vague and aimless at times. I am not saying this to sound mean or harsh, but things like, "Write a story that begins with a scene where you were feeling elated, but then something happened to make you sad, furious, or extremely frustrated" appear without point or reason, and may go a step farther to discourage the young writer with poor results. I completely understand the level of apprenticeship this book is supposed to address, but vague starting points always lead to vague endings, and in that sense this book suffers from an excess of exercises such as this one. There are some good ones, but then again, just one exercise after the aforementioned one, "Write a story that begins with a scene when you were so angry that you couldn't help expressing it in public, much to your great embarrassment later." Emotions are probably the hardest thing to convey in writing, especially since your readers depend so much on what you actually describe to attain the desired result. This points to another dilemma--why are writers like Dan Brown, and other popular ones, who are so successful do a dismal job at conveying emotion? I mean, take into consideration the fact that the reading level of such bestsellers is approximately in the sixth to seventh grade spectrum, and you find that the effort to convey real emotions in this type of book does in fact reach its intended audience.

Again, I am not trying to criticize without cause; I may be mean in other ways, but not that way. I will probably have another entry praising Ms. Adams' book, but until then, I am reluctant to pursue exercises like the above. The positive aspect of this book is that of placing importance on KEY PRINCIPLES of fiction writing. This part of the book is perhaps the most beneficial--a clear list-like plan to follow through and finish a draft of either a novel or a short story. The example stories for Key #5 and #6 were particularly discouraging to me. I, again, understand the aim of the book, but the fact that 1) when writing about emotion in characters Ms. Adams selects examples that go overboard with depicting emotions do not do the book justice. As a beginner, I feel these examples to be over-simplistic and leading me to try and imitate something that is not perhaps the best example possible. It isn't that Ms. Adams' book is not good, it is simply that is full of contradiction: great writing advice and poor examples and exercises.

The Contradiction of TRUTH.

In searching out the truth be ready for the unexpected, for it is difficult to find and puzzling when you find it. -- Heraclitus.

A few weeks ago, I presented my students with a dialectical problem. "Why is it," I asked provocatively, "that when we tell the truth, we get in more trouble than when we lie." To be sure, the entire question appears as a massive generalization, but, immediately after, I asked them how many of them thought they had more opportunity to get away from being grounded by their parents by telling a lie. The count was an overwhelming 27-3 in favor of lying. When presented with the following situation, most of them again chose to lie. Dilemma: They are three hours late past their curfew. Their parents are anxiously waiting for them. They haven't called, or answered the cell when their parents tried to reach them. The moment of (no pun intended) truth comes... Tell an elaborate lie about a flat tire and their cell phone falling inside a toilet and obviously out of order for good, or tell the truth about simply not caring to look at the watch, and, even if they did, caring very little to conform with rules they feel are past their interest in caring for? Again, the numbers were dismaying.

And this is the great contradiction of truth. Young people today feel that telling the truth is not "hip," that somehow the ability and elaborate techniques of fooling parents in general seem to be collected in a little black book that youngsters reach for in times of trouble. Tell the truth and be grounded. Tell a lie, and you might just be able to get away with it. The more elaborate the lie, the better. The significant details, they are quick to point out, are always the smallest and most perplexing stupid pieces of false information. For example, the cell falling in water and ruin forever. Most of my students also agreed that they would ruin their cell phone on purpose before they got home and were willing to go without a cell phone for a few weeks if it meant not being grounded. So we reach critical mass rather quickly with this little business of telling the truth vs. exploiting a falsity. Where is all of this convoluted apathy towards truth coming from? What is it that makes us so ready and willing to tell a lie?

I suspect that there is no answer to the aforementioned questions. I also know for a fact the price of telling the truth, and the stupefying events that follow the roots of truth and certainty. There's no way around this dilemma in a world turned relativist. The either/or propositions that have existed since the start of civilization are in peril of disappearing forever. I may be a little alarmist when referring to this, but it can be argued, quite sufficiently, that in a world turned mad with litigation and liabilities the important role of TRUTH has been diminished and watered down. The main culprit might just be convenience (as evident in the example of curfew and the students), or simply the fact that the truth is too heavy to carry, and too cumbersome to put in order when seen with the eyes of logic and reason. Whatever the reason, we might soon find ourselves paying the consequences of our turning a blind eye to truth, whether by choice or circumstance. I submit we run the peril by our own rational choice.

Not the Same to Talk About Bulls Than to Be in The Bullring

I wonder how many times I've tried to describe my writing process, and the sense of almost euphoria it provokes in me even when writing the most mundane things. But talking about writing, as the Great Bastard once said, is to ruin the writing itself. I've been reading what I call "remediating" writing books/manuals simply because I want to refresh the little knowledge of the process I have. Certainly all of these books are helpful, the more basic, the better. I have been reading "The Power to Write," by Caroline Joy Adams, and I find it to be a treasure of key and important advice, but also one of those fluffy, dream-like, organic, do-it-yourself type of books that will probably give Natalie Goldberg (if I am so obscene as to say) an orgasm. I know I am being ridiculously mean in saying that, and I certainly have no reason to declare the book a 50-50 affair. I've learned a great deal, (as I have learned from Natalie Goldberg's hippie approach to all things Zen and writing). Caroline Joy Adams has a clarity that is hard to match. It was only when parts of the text were "calligraphied" covering entire pages that I felt a little cheated. Were these put in for aesthetic value, or was it in the effort to inspire. I take the latter rather than the former, but it still doesn't explain what the value of those full-page quotations is. Here's an example: "You have the power to write... so take up your pen, open your heart, your mind and your soul, and just let the words start flowing..." Inspirational, yes... to quite a high degree, but a full page worth... I just can't see it.

The sample stories in "Key #2: Start your story with a powerful opening" are excellent. Particularly, "Real Reason" because it explains so clearly the importance of what words evoke in us. I learned how to make the word squeeze the emotion out of me. Openings are covered in detail about technique and style, and the importance to "grab" the reader. It is hard to objectify one technique over the other when talking about this mainly because what is good, as Borges once said, belongs to no one. Mrs. Adams is a great teacher of writing. This books is a great mix of the harsh reality of a writer's work and the ever-romanticized aura of eccentricity that, without discrimination, follows all of those who want to write. It's a hard gig, Jack... Adams got the balance right!

Literary Detours: Christopher Isherwood's Diaries

I find myself again and again lost in this massive volume. Isherwood's diaries are endless; one thinks of this man's habitual compulsion to write, and how we all now benefit from his insight in life, love, politics, and the Hollywood world. His insight into Vedanta and other Hindu mysticism is quire remarkable for the time he writes. Right now, "I am a Camera" has really taken off, and Isherwood, for probably the first time in his life, feels financially secure. How did these people live, I keep asking myself. Things have changed now, I suppose, but back then meaning you could depend on your friends was something far more significant than it is today.

The last installment of "Farewell to the Academy" might come this way even earlier than first anticipated. Who knows what will happen. These are very confused now, and I feel like I am living inside a Roque Dalton poem.

Kevin Canty: Master of the American Short Story

They appear out of thin air, it seems. You see them at social gatherings and parties. You know enough to avoid them, but eventually you are drawn into their conversation. They are easy to identify, not just because they are loud (they want everyone to hear what they are saying), but because they have "knowledge to impart." These are the pseudo-intellectuals... the know-it-alls who aim to impress by turning a catchy phrase and throwing it around like it's the newest thing to come out of that vastness of stale ideas that is their little brains. One of these phrases (and I have heard it more than once) thrown around, and one that really kills me (literally and figuratively) is "the American short story is dead." They do sound like college professors, and might actually impress the bar fly hanging on their every word, but the statement is plain false and downright idiotic. If you want evidence that the American short story is alive and well TODAY, all you have to do is read Kevin Canty's "Where the Money Went." Kevin Canty proves mastery of the form both thematically (subject matter) and in terms of technique.

Hitting upon this treasure of short stories has been an eye opening event for me. I've never been resistant to the literary trends (for better or worse), and even "chick lit" (a term I find repulsive) begins to show its value eventually.... after it has been "milked" of all of its commercial and marketing capital. Kevin Canty writes insightfully and with realism about the lives of men in contemporary American society. "Where the Money Went" is a tour-de-force of American existentialism and its relation to men of all social classes; the questions it asks and answers through its vivid characters explore the dark and light comedy that is being a man in America today. Consider this "chick lit" for men, or "dude lit" if you really have to draw a marketing ploy to corner the contemporary fiction share. But Canty does not need that sort of help, not from you, or me for that matter. Rather than summarizing the stories, I will share some of the passages from the stories that 1) shocked me for the depth of their artful mastery, and 2) enlightened me to my own reality as an American male.

In the title piece, Canty displays a great amount of technique (I am not sure if he would be insulted if I called it stream of consciousness). Braxton, the protagonist, engages in a sort of Gregorian chant or litany on precisely where the money went after the divorce. The story is brief, but it packs an amazing amount of detail. For example, there are pauses of beautiful imagery that pop out in the middle of the long list of where the money went: "He watched her topple slowly backward into the water, watched her dress bloom around her in the underwater light like some bright colorful flower and in that moment he had not disliked her." I can't think of a more beautifully composed and artfully constructed sentence in the middle of the acutely painful meditation by the protagonist.

In "The Emperor of Ice Cream" we again meet a character opening up so clearly and agonizingly it bleeds real humanity; I can think of numerous moments of introspection similar to this one: "These were the moments where he felt cut off and stuck inside himself, looking out at the grinning, shouting crowd, smoking and drinking, dancing and flirting away a summer night. Lander thought they looked stupid. This was how he knew how fucked up he was; when happy looked stupid." There's no fault either technically or skillfully in making a character have a philosophical moment; the bad writers over do it... masters like Canty know exactly how to use subtlety, making the reader feel like he is gliding over the surface without realizing he is deep, deep within the character's psyche. Again, this is a matter of technique and art, and Canty possesses both.

Canty pushes the limits of emotion, characterization and just plain humanity in "In the Burn." Just like in "The Emperor of Ice Cream," it is subtlety that makes the complex almost emotionally painful. When I read the following passage, I again felt like all this universality of feelings is both universal and strictly personal. "I'll land on my own two feet, I know it. I was all alone and lonely and sexually deprived when I met her. I can do it again. But just the thought of my little apartment with my little clothes in it sends a willie down my back. One more night of TV, one more night of wondering where I'm supposed to be in this world." When I read this passage to a friend of mine, he pointed out the last eight words as sounding like a broken record; I quickly pointed out that it is the amount of detail that conveys the feeling of both awkwardness and quiet desperation... again, a masterfully written passage both in terms of skill and technique. This is really, without hyperbole, brilliant writing.

I can't recommend this book enough. If you read to explore human questions, of if you read to appreciate good writing, or both, Kevin Canty's "Where the Money Went" is what you need to be reading today. This book should please both readers and readers who read like writers. I recommend it without reserve.