Frequency of Silence

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

2011-12-04T13:12:00.010-05:00

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"

2011-11-21T15:12:00.003-05:00

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

2011-10-18T16:01:00.001-04:00

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

2011-09-19T14:45:00.000-04:00

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

2011-08-26T03:23:00.004-04:00

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!!!!

2011-07-28T15:59:00.004-04:00

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

2011-07-01T15:26:00.001-04:00

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

2011-06-18T13:18:00.002-04:00

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

2011-06-14T14:35:00.002-04:00

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

2011-06-08T09:23:00.001-04:00

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!

2011-06-02T20:05:00.001-04:00

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

2011-05-31T11:10:00.002-04:00

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

2011-05-22T12:47:00.003-04:00

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

2011-05-02T19:28:00.000-04:00

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

2011-04-22T17:38:00.001-04:00

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

2011-04-15T16:56:00.000-04:00

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

2011-04-02T12:02:00.000-04:00

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.

Death of a Reading List

2011-03-19T16:18:00.002-04:00

It isn't because I don't want to complete it; nor is it because I find it to be a chore (as many people who dislike reading lists claim). There are reasons I cannot explain here, but I have been to the doctor and the words "acute" and "chronic" were used several times. Due to this, I had to make a decision: whether to continue both my reading list and my research work, or, as the doctor recommended, choose to do only one. I have decided to work on my research project because I strongly believe it will prove more edifying in the long run.

I will continue posting here, both about the research and also about the one book I have selected to read for pleasure: "The Stories of John Cheever." I will be doing this with a sharp eye to the craft and technique of one of the greatest (but under-rated) writers of the 20th Century. There will be some sporadic work on the typing of my numerous Moleskine notebooks (far too personal to publish here).

Joe DiMaggio and the Art of Useless Information

2011-03-13T20:23:00.001-04:00

Joseph Paul DiMaggio died in 1999. He's still the quintessential American icon to the Greatest Generation. To later Baby-Boomers he was known as the guy in the Mr. Coffee commercials. To Generation Xers, Joe DiMaggio is that guy who is mentioned in the famous song by Simon and Garfunkel "Mrs. Robinson." Theories abound regarding this ageless song and its relationship to the Yankee Clipper. The last time I checked what these theories were, I found that Paul Simon stated in some television show that it was a matter of a rhyme and beats and that Joe DiMaggio fit better than say, Mickie Mantle. Of course DiMaggio's marriage to Marylin Monroe and his devotion to her after her death is also widely known as one of the greatest love stories of all time. But getting back to the theories of "Mrs. Robinson" and what it all means.

"Where have you gone Joe DiMaggio? / A nation turns its lonely eyes to you /

What's that you say, Mrs. Robinson? / 'Joltin' Joe has left and gone away."

Roger Kahn explains that "These lines [the song verse] touched throngs who had never seen him play. DiMaggio himself, who is made uncomfortable by certain public displays of sentiments, insists, 'I've never been about to figure out what that song means.'" I don't proclaim to have solved the puzzle or have the final answer, but there seem to be two elements to the puzzle that make sense to me--Simon and Garfunkel did include Joe DiMaggio in the song perhaps to evoke a sense of what sociologist and cultural anthropologists call a "central point of optimism" (presently known as gravitational optimism). 1968 America looked very much like 1939-1941 America. Back in 1941, when DiMaggio ran his hitting streak of 56 games, "[a] sense, a deep quivering anxiety, grew in America that the world was headed for terrible storms. In March 1938, spring-training time, Hitler's soldiers occupied Austria, and in Nazi 'rite of purification,' twenty thousand books were burned in Mozart's birthplace, Salzburg.... The Spanish Republic was falling before the onslaught of Francisco Franco's forces, supported by German bombers and Italian fascist troops. The Japanese swept south in China, raging through Nanking, and Japanese aircraft bombed and sunk the U.S. Navy gunboat Panay.... DiMaggio, the handsome, hawk-faced newcomer, won enthusiasts for the game. Millions of Americans were relieved to turn away from headlines recounting war and violence and plunge into the sports section. There they could read of DiMaggio's summertime heroics.... People complained that the hard news was depressing. The hell with Hitler. Maybe he'll go away. Let's see what's doing with DiMaggio."

As I said, the late 1960s resembled the early 1940s. The generation that fought and won World War II was (during the late 60s) in their mid-40s, early 50s, still working hard, still believing that despite the events taking place (Vietnam, the counter-culture movement, drug experimentation, etc.) they still held some optimism. But the thing that was really missing was a Joe DiMaggio to turn their attention away from a war gone wrong and a generation of young people ran amok. There was no DiMaggio then... hence the line from the song. The song was released in 1968 in the soundtrack of that most iconic film "The Graduate."

This is only a theory, one theory among the many. It's hard not to think of these things when your brain seems to be open 24 hours a day, seven days a week. Useless information? You be the judge. In the meantime, I'll be looking for our generation's DiMaggio.

The Mother of All Scores - Sharp Eye and Quick Hand Save the Day

2011-03-07T12:47:00.000-05:00

Here's an amazing treasure I acquired over the weekend. I could hardly believe my eyes when I picked up the book and looked behind the title page. First printing! Dustcover and edges nearly mint condition. I saw the film for the first time back in 1977 and was, as a young pup, confused to no end (and my sister didn't bother to explain!) At any rate, I picked it from the shelve on account of that memory and I'll never regret it as long as I live. Paid: $4.94 Listed in excess of $250.

I add this to other treasures such as A Rumor of War, by Philip Caputo. Hemingway's seventh printing of A Farewell to Arms, along with first printings and autograph copies of major works by Paul Auster and Haruki Murakami.

Fun With the "Basics" -- A Project I Did Not Plan For and Have No Time For

2011-03-05T11:24:00.002-05:00

I have walked into a project I had not planned for, but I am completely excited about. Here's a photograph of the little treasure I have been accumulating. For the past month or so I have been collecting these little "Brief Insight" series. Originally they were priced at $14.95 each and though the attraction and the temptation (a deadly combination) were strong, I decided to pass. I spent a few months gnawing on regretfulness. However, the wait paid off. Apparently there wasn't much interest in the series and Barnes & Noble reduced them to $6.95 a piece. I originally purchased "Literary Theory," "Consciousness" and "Existentialism," and having gone in way over my budget, I had decided these were enough.

Fast-forward to a couple of weeks ago, when, without warning, a colleague of mine came to visit me. He noticed the three little volumes parked on the center of my desk and was intrigued. Five hours later, I found myself agreeing to collaborate with him on a project that had been "swimming" (his word, not mine) around his head for a while. The project is an ambitious examination of individual consciousness, psychology, cultural trends and the belief that physics might hold the key as to where the human consciousness resides. In short, he wants to theorize (using Stephen Hawkins definition of scientific theory) that a combination of human thought and physics (on a sub-atomic level) might direct scientists to the place where "individual consciousness" resides. His main idea is that we cannot account for a number of spaces at the sub-atomic level and that as string theory is trying to "tie" everything together, this might add to the idea that the metaphysical exists deep down in us. I was baffled. Why in God's name and the Continental Congress would he take the time to explain this to me--what would my part be in this "wild menagerie" of ideas? I wasn't convinced and told him I was far too busy to make a commitment.

Another week goes by and the thorn on my side does not go away. I called him. He explained that he wanted me to bring in the philosophical, semantic, and language branch into it, as well as a literary-historical perspective into the project. Of course, no one is getting paid for this. There's not even a private/public grant in the horizon for the project; needless to say, there's not to be sabbatical work either. This is for the joy of learning... nothing more, nothing less. I told him to count me in.

I immediately went back to Barnes & Noble and got the rest of the series--these include "Social & Cultural Anthropology," "Mathematics," and "The Void." In addition, everyone in the project (four of us, so far) must read the following: 1) C.G. Jung's "The Undiscovered Self," 2) James P. Carse's "Finite and Infinite Games," 3) Stephen Hawkins' "A Brief History of Time," 4) Brian Greene's "The Elegant Universe," 5) Richard P. Feynman's "Six Easy Pieces," 6) "Soul: An Archeology," ed. Phil Cousineau, and 6) Ken Wilber's "The Marriage of Sense and Soul." I have some of these, and the ones I don't have, my fair and considerate colleague is going to provide for me (the one and only incentive). At any rate, I am pumped. If the only thing that comes out of this is that we learned a great deal, it would be enough. Deep down, I believe he is trying to do this mesh of ideas in order to get more funding for the humanities at our "financially troubled" institution. I can't be certain of this but it smells to me like it, and I won't be surprise if it turned out that way. Again, we will learn, and that makes the pleasure of learning and the effort completely worth it. The problem, of course, is time... time, time... as T.S. Eliot stated, "is an enzyme." There's a "connection" for you! :-D

Character Motivation, Psychology & Resolution in Henry James' "The Portrait of a Lady"

2011-02-20T10:50:00.000-05:00

The last part of "The Portrait of a Lady" demands a great deal from the reader. There are complexities that seem to only become clear under close examination of the characters' motivations. This doesn't mean, of course, that the reader should put on the proverbial Freudian hat, but rather that the reader dig deep within the characters egos. This is far more demanding when examining Isabel Archer's actions during the last third of the novel. Certainly, there are enough characters for the reader to exercise this interpretation, and it is possible for her to do so.

The middle chapters of the novels seem to pass rather fast in terms of the events that affect Isabel directly. Her marriage to Gilbert Osmond is abruptly brought in as the reader finishes a chapter. James' confidence in the reader's ability to interpret this is amazingly conceptualized; that is to say, a few sentences into the chapter the reader realizes that Isabel's life has changed drastically, and the imagination it takes to understand the abrupt change demands quite a bit from the reader. The events, however, are quite satisfactory as the reader moves on with the plot. This, I believe, encourages the reader to look at Isabel Archer's character before and after. Where did all that confidence and independence go? Was it all accountable to the innocence of a young woman not in tune with the world? The masterful manipulation by Madame Merle allows the reader to (at least) feel some sympathy for Isabel. Nevertheless, Isabel begins to rise to the surface as a realistic heroine and takes charge of her life knowing living with Osmond is not the place for her. Even when the reader discovers she is back in Rome, James is not specific about what she went there for, and, the meeting between Henrietta Stackpole and Caspar Goodwood at the end of the novel (where Henrietta pleads with Caspar to be "patient") leaves the open interpretation of 1) Isabel goes to Rome to divorce Osmond, or 2) Isabel is living alone in Rome and Caspar should go there to meet her. 3) Isabel goes back to Rome not to fulfill her marital promise but rather to keep a promise she made to Pansy, Osmond's daughter, who is not in a convent against her will (?). That is the beauty of this novel--it is a novel, after all, of possibilities and James' masterful hand keeps it so until the very end.

There are, however, some problematic behavior by Isabel Archer. First, the precipitation of her marital problems occur in one chapter. Before that chapter, the reader could see trouble brewing, but it was not clear as to whether or not Isabel would take the necessary steps to take herself out of the situation. On the contrary, Isabel begins to manage Pansy Osmond's life almost as if Pansy was a mirror image (a portrait) of herself. When she realizes that Madame Merle is after the planning of Lord Warburton's interest in Pansy, Isabel takes the necessary steps to steer Pansy away from Lord Warburton and into Edgar Rosier's hands. Of course, the reader sees this as a romantic endeavour; here is Isabel Archer making sure that the awful thing that happened to her now happens to Pansy. Of course, Isabel is feeling pressure from everyone; in every corner she turns there are a pair of hands she has to avoid knowing they are there to control her into the next disaster in her life. For example, when Isabel feels the pressure from Caspar Goodwood, and the obligation to visit her cousin Ralph Touchett (who has come to Rome at the worst time possible for his health), she resort to a trick which reminds the reader of Madame Merle herself. ... [S]he had given him [Caspar Goodwood] an occupation; she had converted him into a caretaker of Ralph. She had a plan of making him travel northward with her cousin as soon as the first mild weather should allow it. Lord Warburton had brought Ralph to Rome and Mr. Goodwood should take him away. There seemed to be a happy symmetry in this, she was not intensely eager that Ralph should depart (bold mine). There is, of course, pragmatic justice in all of this--nevertheless, the reader might consider Isabel a masterful puppet master of the Madame Merle kind.

The novel offers an immense number of opportunities for the reader to "analyze" the characters from their motivations and judgments. Isabel going back to Ralph's death bed against Osmond's wishes can be interpreted in many ways. First, Isabel sees (during their meeting in Osmond's studio--where he is copy-painting a watercolor out of a book) not only as unoriginal, but so immersed in his own ego that whatever she does is of no importance to him. She draws the parallel to Pansy and her father's control of her destiny as another example of Osmond's monster psychology. This is one of the pieces of evidence a reader might interpret as a motivation for Isabel to go back to Rome after Ralph's death. Again, as I stated earlier, Isabel could be returning to Rome to rescue Pansy. Certainly, Caspar Goodwood appears too relaxed, too self-satisfied in his meeting with Ms. Stackpole at the very end of the novel to indicate he has now thrown all overboard and given up on Isabel. The novel ends, of course, but the reader is allowed (for the millionth time) to see into the characters' psychology and motivations and decipher magic beyond the pages of this masterpiece. If, as many old rock and roller believe, Eric Clapton is god, then Henry James is Zeus.

Henry James' "The Portrait of a Lady"

2011-02-11T13:10:00.003-05:00

It is believed that William James (the other half of the American genius brothers) told his brother that his novel "The Europeans" was, as I quote here from literary article included in my edition of the novel, too "thin." Henry James did not leave a written reply to his brother, but literary minds speculate what the response might have been (a very not pleasant one).

I am re-reading this novel for the first time since my junior year of undergrad (quite a few years ago). It reminds me of another novel, "Anna Karenina" by virtue that the title doesn't fully describe what the reader will find inside the covers. "The Portrait of a Lady" is certainly about Isabel Archer; the narrator explains this early on. Yet, as the novel becomes more and more dense with female characters establishing their will and freedom, the title of heroine could fit any number of them. With "Anna Karenina" the same thing happens. The novels is not simply about a heroine, but about every single connection to characters and their motivations. In "The Portrait of a Lady," the portrait could very well be (besides Isabel Archer) Mrs. Touchett, Madame Merle, Henrietta Stackpole, Pansy Osmond, etc. I would even go as far as pointing out that the portrait could very well be about Lord Warburton's sisters, their "cameo" appearance in Chapter 9 notwithstanding. The portrait could exalt or criticize the new liberation of female roles, as well as push several of these characters into "pigeon holes" of Victorian standards. But sticking to the theory that the portrait is all Isabel Archer, the narrator pushes the character through a plethora of extreme changes, efficient in terms of the plot and realism of the character but perhaps disappointing to some for the large jumps between the same changes. The reader meets Isabel as she arrives in England; she is portrayed as an independent, hungry for freedom young lady that is full of idealism and itches to exercise her power. Yet, as the novel turns back the clock and relates Isabel of yore, the reader begins to discover a very different Isabel. She is the youngest of the Archer sisters, not yet married. Isabel, a voracious reader of literature, is full of vistas of a life of adventure. When her aunt, Mrs. Touchett, "rescues" her from her life in America, Isabel takes that as a "sign" to exercise her freedom and power. The problem the reader is left with here is that of whether or not Isabel knows what she is doing. In turning down Lord Warburton's proposal, Isabel is not simply turning down the English nobleman because of the precipitous offer, but rather because it is a new experience for her--the opportunity to say "no," for "no's sake." It is with this in mind that the reader later sees Isabel confront Caspar Goodwood, her original beau who's come all the way from America to try and see if he cannot convince her of the sincerity of his marriage proposal. Apparently, as we learn from Henrietta's conversation with Isabel, Caspar had been "told" to wait a few years and "see." Caspar and Isabel meet in Chapter 16 and their conversation doesn't simply remind the reader of her refusal of Lord Warburton, but it takes into a severe form of language all its own:
"Are you enjoying your visit to your uncle?"
"Very much indeed," She dropped, but then she broke out. "What good do you expect to get by insisting?"
"The good of not losing you."
"You've no right to talk of losing what is not yours. And even from your own point of view," Isabel added, "you ought to know when to let one alone."
Yet, in saying this, the reader sees Isabel commit a blunder of intentions by telling Caspar Goodwood:
"Until when?" [Caspar asks Isabel how long will she take to make up her mind].
"Well, for a year or two."
"Which do you mean? Between one year and two there's all the difference in the world."
"Call it two then," said Isabel with a studied effect of eagerness. [bold mine].
"And what shall I gain by that?" her friend asked with not sign of wincing.
"You'll have obliged me greatly."
"And what will be my reward?"
"Do you need a reward for an act of generosity?"
"Yes, when it involves great sacrifice."
"There's no generosity without some sacrifice. Men don't understand such things. If you make the sacrifice you'll have all my admiration."
The issue here is not simple. Isabel is not suffering from "having her cake and eating it too," but the reader is somewhat sympathetic of Caspar. It is only later, when Isabel succumbs so quickly to Gerald Osmond's proposal that her conversation with Caspar Goodwood becomes problematic inasmuch as Isabel's real sense of freedom and power. Yet, the reader understands that there are forces beyond Isabel's control here--the same way that there were powers behind her acceptance of Osmond, as Madame Merle orchestrate the union based simply on the benefit to Osmond of Isabel's inheritance. Lord Warburton also comes to mind, but the reader is not yet to the point of disappointment; Isabel is still calling the proverbial shots. Her inheritance offers so much freedom that poor Isabel is blinded by its intense shine. It's not immediate freedom, but freedom in the future, just beyond the Italian horizon.

What strikes me in this re-reading of the novel is that of the sincerity of the language. What I mean by this is that James at 30-something (when he wrote "The Portrait of a Lady") had already mastered the many variables of language spoken by his characters. That is to say, he wrote in the "proper" American English of the 1800s for Isabel Archer, Ralph Touchett, Pa' and Ma' Touchett, Caspar Goodwood, and Henrietta Stackpole, at the same time mastering the language system of the Victorian English and the American Expatriates (including the Touchetts); all of these share a single sphere of beautiful dialouge and to add to that, the masterful descriptive passages by the narrator.

There's a great deal of sincerity being offered in the novel, particularly in the dialouge. There are several clashes between characters that border on the insulting, or at least it does to a 21st Century reader. The truth is that there's no insulting intended whatsoever, just absolute radical honesty. Of particular importance is the point-counterpoint of Mrs. Touchett and Henrietta Stackpole:

"We judge from different points of view, evidently," said Mrs. Touchett. "I like to be treated as an individual; you like to be treated as a 'party.'"
"I don't know what you mean," Henrietta replied. "I like to be treated as an American lady."
"Poor Americans ladies! cried Mrs. Touchett with a laugh. "They're the slaves of slaves."
"They're the companions of freemen," Henrietta retorted.
"They're the companions of their servants--the Irish chambermaid and the negro waiter. They share their work."

A couple of things become evident here besides the fact that the women do not like each other very much. The reader has to theorize how people could talk to each other like that and not come to blows. The answer, while not evident, can be assessed by the reader as the story enters its Italy chapters: the European Victorians had a penchant for the brutally honest, even if it drove people to feuds or suicide--our American Victorians, while mastering the language, seem to the reader to lack the certain "ring" of it. Yet, all Victorians retained their civility quite remarkably. Henry James captures this so well, it is really a testament of his genius.

In the next entry, I will write about Isabel's succumbing to Gerald Osmond, Madame Merle's cruel dealings, Lord Warburton and Pansy Osmond (and particularly Isabel's role as step mother to Pansy and what it all means), and Isabel's final resolution.

Local Library Book Sale -- Beware of Book Dealers Carrying Hi-Tech Equipment

2011-02-02T20:03:00.000-05:00

We are proud of our library in this town. It has been rated the best in the country several times in the last few years. I support the "Friends of the Library" group and pay my dues religiously. My experience today, however, left me wondering if my library cares about due paying members of the "Friends of the Library" group. Case in point: Book dealers who join the "Friends" simply to be able to go in for the preview sale. Some of them come from miles, perhaps even out of state. I've had this experience several times; one time back in college, I was almost run over by a pair of "book sale pirates," as one of my buddies used to call them. The incident became the closest to a physical confrontation I've had since leaving the Marine Corps. At any rate, today's book dealers were curtailed from running, but not of bringing hi-tech equipment. I saw about a dozen of them carrying hand-held sort of Blackberry thing with a bar code scanner. When I asked one of them (a lady so as to prevent a physical altercation) what she was doing, she said "I scan them and the computer tells me what I can re-sell it for later." I believe in free enterprise--hell, I'll even concede some (not many) of the merits of capitalism, but this is quite ridiculous. Reminded me of those "Speed Traders" on Wall Street with million dollar hi-tech equipment and Ph.D. mathematicians writing algorithms (quite an advantage) and the "mom and pop" financial planner outfit having to compete with that. So, needless to say--although I suppose I should make the disclaimer--I am not going to re-sell what I bought today.

At any rate, I can't keep complaining. I "scanned" the shelves and got away with some gems:

1--"Think" by Simon Blackburn (of the series I have "Being Good" and "Truth: A Guide").
2--"Living Fiction" by Annie Dillard.
3--"Answered Prayers" by Truman Capote.
4--"The Dante Club" by Matthew Pearl.
5--"Einstein's Dream" by Alan Lightman (author of "Good Benito," which I found unreadable).
6--"The Wapshot Scandal" by John Cheever (SCORE: First Edition with dust jacket).
7--"Queries and Submissions" by Thomas Clark (Writers book).
8--"The Writer's Guide to Queries, Pitches and Proposals" by Maia Allen (Writers book).
9--"The Hour I First Believe" by Wally Lamb (another First Edition, just not as special).
10--"The Complete Stories" by David Malouf.
11--"Final Exam: A Surgeons Reflection on Mortality" by Pauline Chen.
12--"Damage" by Josephine Hart.
13--"The Gentle Infantryman" by W.Y. Boyd.
14--"West of Kabul, East of New York" by Tamim Ansary

Post-Modern Avant Garde Latin American Music - Coriun Aharonian

2011-01-17T12:33:00.000-05:00

The Uruguayan composer and musicologist, Coriun Aharonian came to the university to give a series of lectures on the future of contemporary music and how it defies the categorical frameworks of "Historical Post-Modernism." It was, despite the language barrier, a great and interesting lecture series. I was very surprised that Aharonian chose to give the lectures entirely in French--the surprise factor has to do with the fact that most Uruguayans are fluent in English, as English is considered the second official language of Uruguay. At any rate, what follows is a rough translation of Aharonian's answer to the question: "You have been confined to live in the present cultural and historical epoch... how has that affected the evolution of your work?" My translation is as accurate as I could get it down. The excessive use of ellipses [....] injected throughout is an effort to capture the conversational and vocal nuances.

Q&A (student): "You have been confined to live in the present cultural and historical epoch... how has that affected the evolution of your work?"

Maestro Aharonian: "I am not sure if there has been an evolution or a devolution, but I have had to live some unique stages of an epoch of change and intense discussion which I always find positive.... I have had to adapt to situations of inheritance regarding the nationalist impulses of the times when I was a child and beyond the reactionary processes against that nationalism by the generation of my musical 'fathers....' I began searching for a new universalist Euro-centrism in order to react against something that was a 'decorative postcard' and a search for identity that is not decorative in nature, that is not superficial, that is not banal.... In this sense, a large quantity of language aspects develop along the members of my generation (also in the previous and in the one that follows).... There have been coincidences in various language elements which perhaps also appear in my work.... For example, the measure and management of time, the importance of silence as a sound space, the non-discursive processes of language (this is very important), the construction of expressive blocks and the appearance of an interest for repetitive elements that are not repeated in a mechanical manner is also a very important distinction that separates us from the Anglo-Saxon minimalist movement. Thereafter, there was an interest for both the violent and at the same time for the small and delicate thing, not understanding them in opposition or exclusive.... [My work] has been a dialogue with a European vision that consider us primitive; that is to say, the other cultures that in the case of Latin America those cultures are our own.... [T]he relationships with technologies that are always so difficult in the developed countries but even more so in the Third World.... in that respect, the Third World has had a more natural management than that of my colleagues in the Developed World [here Aharonian uses the more typical but less politically correct 'First World' and 'Third World' to distinguish between the two cultures].... I believe we realized, before our First World counterparts, that the use of new technologies is not in opposition or substitutes vocal or instrumental music in composition.... I have been in search of the sincere interest for breaking frontiers of language in the rediscovery of the magic of those esoteric things that appear as such but really aren't. It is the taking charge of the ideology and the polemic in general. I am trying to write pieces that have been floating around me and around many of my colleagues--all of these things leave me both emotionally charged and spent at the same time."

Again, my most sincere apologies for a translation lacking grammatical coherence. I have tried to get the main ideas right and because of this other textual elements have been ignored.

Roll Over "Mahler" and Tell the Intellectuals the News

2011-01-02T13:32:00.000-05:00

I am not quite sure how to articulate this post, and I know I am taking some serious chances here--but what the heck, you only live once. I feel I am becoming Isherwood by way of "bitchiness" and criticism of my associates. What I mean to say is that there is a dispirited type of negative energy hovering over most scholarly circles. In various conversations I've had with college and university professors, it has become apparent to me that those residing in the upper echelon of academia abide by a code of "royal" artistic enjoyment versus the "commoner" appreciation. Case in point: One mustn't dare (especially during the refreshment part of the after-lecture setting) to argue, even for one second, that the music of Mozart, Bach and Beethoven is not blasé compared to that of Gustav Mahler or Richard Wagner. At the mere mention of Van Gogh or any of the Impressionists, people around me cringe with displeasure while they almost whisper to me, "Oh, but you haven't heard of Gerhard Richter, or Jean-Michel Basquiat." And of course, no matter how many times I try to defend my preferences to more traditional expression of art (both in visual art and music), they promptly sail away seeking another, more artistically sophisticated conversation partner. This has happened to me several times, and, just recently, with a very tall level of displeasure. Perhaps I should stick to topics more mundane, such as the quality and preference of one cat litter brand to another. (Yes, I realize I work with strange people... or perhaps I am the strange one).

I am not here to pass judgment but rather to try and come to terms with an idea that has been stabbing my side since I was in high school. If it really is like Harold Bloom states ("Shakespeare is beyond criticism") who then decides when art becomes blase or commoner? Borges also chimed in years ago regarding that "what is good in literature belongs to no one." I've played both Mahler and (by way of comparison) Rachmaninoff (with the Washington Symphony), and both express those sweeping waves of strings instruments consistently throughout their pieces. Mahler prefers a bit more brass than Rachmaninoff, but why do so many people prefer Mahler? Is it more a sophisticated taste? Is baroque music really as one of my most recent colleagues argued that it was "bah-roke" and couldn't be fixed. (Yes, I also shunned at the joke). I don't say this to take away from Mahler's music--as a matter of fact, playing a Mahler symphony (the 4th or the 5th especially) can take the air out of any of the top orchestras in the world. I remember finishing rehearsals for both of these Mahler symphonies and feeling like I'd just finished a five hour work out at my local Bally's Fitness. Is it really that difficult to understand that Mahler is Mahler and Bach is Bach?

Is it part of the discourse, or how people like to listen to themselves sound at such gatherings? The phonetically deficiencies of "J.S. Bach" as opposed to "Gustav Mahler," or "Van Gogh" not as smooth a pronunciation as "Basquiat?" I really don't know what to make of it. I find myself perhaps a stranger in a strange land among these academics. Funny world we inhabit. Next thing you know, we'll be arguing that art is not really blue.

Happy Christmas 1983 - Unknowing Gifts Found at a Used Book Store

2010-12-09T10:30:00.000-05:00

My usual watering book "hole" is a local used books store (actually two locations in town) where I go to look for treasures. Often I don't have the money to buy them, but a nice British subject living here in the Colonies and working at one of the aforementioned stores usually puts the books aside for me to purchase later. At any rate, I go there at least once a month, and, since time is always so limited, I have a store map I follow. Principally, of course, I aim for the Literature/Fiction section. There I go "author-hopping" beginning in the "As" (Auster, of course, disregarding the fact that I can't really find anything there--a sign that people who read Auster tend to keep their books), moving alphabetically but with a sharp eye for the following: anything out of the ordinary on the Dostoevsky section; anything Scott Fitzgerald simply because there can always be a treasure hiding in some corner of the "F" section; Hemingway because of my love/hate relationship with the Great Bastard; the "Ms" are always fun... mainly Murakami (very much in the same vein as Auster, one can't really find anything at used book stores because his readers--like Auster's--are fans and tend to keep their books); Norman Mailer, also in the "Ms" on the strength of the titles I have enjoyed so much over the years; from the "Ms" there's a huge jump to the "Ss" to see if I can find anything by Robert Stone. After I do my map trek, then I take a bit more time to go back and see if I didn't miss anything else from the other letters of the alphabet.

This past week, I got extremely lucky (as I did a few weeks ago--more on this later) and found a FIRST EDITION/FIRST PRINTING of Murakami's "The Elephant Vanishes;" back then, the second book published in the U.S. market. While at the "Ms" I noticed a copy of Norman Mailer's "Ancient Evenings," one of Mailer's obscured titles; no one ever remembers he actually wrote some of these. Inside, I found a Christmas card from one Char to his wife, Joan. I read it and felt it necessary to take with me, so I sneaked it inside my Murakami purchase. I know, I know... but it was such a wonderful gift, really... who could contain himself after reading the card?

The problem was that when I finally had time to re-read the card, it didn't feel as sweet as it did the first reading. I don't know why, but the prose felt forced, as if following a model too closely. I've said before that I am not the world's greatest writer, despite the fact I teach people how to approach it. I'll let you be the judge. This is the text of the card...

To Joan:
This is Christmas day 1983. We have traveled a long way together. Out children and the things we have done have been a great pleasure to both of us. The kids are out in the world now making their own ways and finding their places as we had done. It is a time to be happy that they are well educated and healthy and well prepared for their futures. It's a time to be happy that we too are healthy, that we have so many good friends, that we are fortunate to have so many material things, and that we are about to make changes in our home and lifestyle so that we can better enjoy the years that lie ahead. Let's try to talk to our kids today and please be happy, Char.

I am trying hard not to be critical, but the message feels a bit "forced," as if Char was going down a standard list of things to include in the message. Perhaps it's my cynical side making a nasty appearance. Again, I'll let you be the judges of this wonderful Christmas message.

Paul Auster's "Sunset Park" -- Coming To Terms With The Fact Talent Has Its Limits

2010-12-07T12:51:00.001-05:00

I will still praise "Sunset Park" as an excellent novel, but a disturbing pattern began to develop around the middle of the novel that, while it didn't exactly disappointed me, it made me realize that even geniuses have faults. Again, I still think the novel is a must-read, a very human, existential and compelling portrayal of feelings that is second to none. Perhaps it is my inability to fully understand the structure of the novel and the flow of the narrative, but I felt some discontentment the deeper I got into the plot.

First, the structure of the novel is that of chapters entitled with the names of the characters center to said chapter. For example, the protagonist, Miles Heller has a number of chapters where most of the action is based on allowing the reader to obtain, digest and piece together Mile's fragmented last seven years of his life. The same goes for the rest of the main characters. There is, without a doubt, a conjoining pattern to all of this, I just haven't discovered yet. I wonder if this is not the reason why, at times, it feels like too much information is being jammed in so as to appear crammed with bits and pieces I am not quite sure add anything to the character's portrayal. For example, the father-son relationship for which Auster's work is notorious is once again excellently examined. Miles and his father, Morris, relate in a constant shift between past and present. In addition to what the reader can absorb on the surface, the character of Alice, a struggling PhD candidate writing a dissertation on The Best Years of Our Lives is displayed as another element in the individuals' dismantlement in views of the past/present environment and personal inclinations toward melancholy. A key scene to this post-World War II classic is examined by Alice--the father trying to bequeath war trophies to his son, and his son's indifference to the trophies (a Japanese flag and Samurai sword). This scene is connected to others in the film--the character of Harold Russell's inadequate relationship to his father and mother (but particularly his father) when his hooks (hands) become a fixture of challenge ahead. All of this adds to Miles and his relationship to his father. There are periphery relationships too disconnected to mention here: Miles' mother, the actress MaryLee Swann, absent for most of Miles' life; Morris Heller's second wife, Willa, whose son Bobby from a previous marriage Miles' has been "blamed" for killing in a bizarre accident; other relationships like the one between Miles and Bing Nathan, a childhood friend whose long-term friendship is now being saturated with homo-erotic tendencies--all of these seem, in some way or another, linked intricately with an almost invisible line to the relationships in The Best Years of Our Lives.

As for the writing itself, one is always safe to bet on Auster's magnificent construction of passages that are as poetic as they are moving. For example, Morris Heller's ruminations late in the novel, "We do not grow stronger as the years advance. The accumulation of sufferings and sorrows weakens our capacity to endure more sufferings and sorrows, and since sufferings and sorrows are inevitable, even a small setback late in life can resound with the same force as a major tragedy when we are young." This is one of the many passages Auster's fans are always looking for every time he publishes. All in all, there's nothing extraordinary about the passage, but if looked at deeper level (not of meaning but semantics), one realizes how much craft goes into a passage like this. This is where Paul Auster always shines--a master language handler and king of the revision process. Hands down the best contemporary author!

I am not a great writing teacher; most of my work at the academic level has been less than stellar. I'll be honest enough to confess to several thousand writing mistakes/errors on this blog itself. Yet, there's an element of grammar in the second half of "Sunset Park" that (while being an issue of contention regarding style) I cannot ignore. The use of the pronoun "you" late in the novel, while artistically permissible, acts as a repelling factor to many writing teachers. This is no doubt a personal preference of mine... or, in fact, not a preference of mine, but one inculcated in my head while I was an undergraduate. One of my professors in an Introduction to Fiction course felt it was his duty to "assassinate" authors he considered "old-fashioned," or "politically incorrect" to prove a point. What that point was, I don't quite remember. But the jest was something to the effect of killing the excitement some readers have when they discover, say, Hemingway's writing. I am only using Hemingway as an example. We had a long discussion in class one day about the use of the "you" in a narrative. The professor indicated that Hemingway was known vastly for this "trick," and may be even to blame for its propagation. He stated that Hemingway, like many others, use the "you" as a cheap trick to draw the reader into the plot, while "real" or "authentic" fiction writers worked harder and drew more talent to achieve the same effect without the use of a pronoun. As ridiculous as that point of view is, it somehow remained in my brain strongly enough to think about it every time I see it in someone writing. Again, this is more my perception (or even misinterpretation), and not Auster's fault. He has paid his dues, really, after 19 novels, to prove that his use of "you" is not a cheap trick but part of the craft itself.

I cannot wait until the next Paul Auster novel. Every release of a new book is an event to me. Let's hope he continues to publish and share his amazing talent with all of us for years to come.

The Sixties - The Diaries of Christopher Isherwood 1960--1969

2010-12-02T13:09:00.000-05:00

I've owned two copies of "The Diaries of Christopher Isherwood Volume 1" in the last five years. The first of these was a paperback edition purchased on the strength of its length--I was due for a long volume reading at the time. Unfortunately, I "lost" my copy of Volume 1 when it suddenly disappeared from my classroom desk one day (I think some student "borrowed it" after I constantly praised it in class), and neglected finding another copy, even online. I came to my second copy on one of my lucky trips to my used bookstore/literary "watering hole," and, as lucky can be, it was a hardcover copy! I fell in love with the Diaries from the moment I read the first page of the Introduction and didn't stop until the very end.

"The Sixties: Diaries 1960-1969" was released a few weeks ago. Needless to say, I was at "Barnes & IgNoble's" door half an hour before they opened. I consider it my "Harry Potter" moment every time my favorite contemporary author publishes a new book. Presently, I am about 260 pages in and I cannot put "The Sixties" down. In fact, I took a nap yesterday in the afternoon and ended up dreaming with the main characters of the diaries, Christopher Isherwood and Don Bachardy. It was something really new!

"The Sixties" sees a much more mature Don Bachardy, and a not so much different than Volume 1 Isherwood. It's very refreshing to read Isherwood's assessments of what Bachardy is going through (growing pains as an artist and as a lover). Their love affair is so expertly detailed in the writing, as well as analyzed by the more "mature" Isherwood. It seems to me he understands Bachardy better as the young man goes to the trials of blazing his own path. Despite moments of real "bitchiness" (what Isherwood himself admits several times), the Sixties show are more understanding Isherwood, dedicated with renewed vigor his practice of spirituality and search for peace. I have not seen the documentary "Chris and Don," and just found out no library in this area carries it (I wonder why!!!), but I really, really want to watch it. Oh, the perils of living on the skirts of the Bible Belt.

So far, I have only underlined a couple of passages and they both deal with the writing craft, of which Isherwood is definitely an overlooked master of the 20th century. The first of these stabs directly at the main problem with writing creatively. Isherwood states: "I shall try to abstain from philosophizing and analysis, and stick to phenomena, things done and said, symptoms." It is a sobering piece of self-advice, and what makes Isherwood so honest about it is the fact that 1) despite the fact that he was a master diarist, and 2) despite the fact that much of what is found in the Diaries crosses over (the experience not so much as the detail) to the fiction side of his writing, he sticks to this idea through and through. Creative Writing 101: Internal monologues devoid of action do have their place in fiction, but can't hold an entire plot together all of their own (unless you are Joyce or Woolf). The other passage was directed a "work in progress" and just as important self- advice: "Yesterday I reread my novel, the fifty-six pages I've written so far. I am discouraged; very little seems to be emerging. Maybe I really have to sit down and plot a bit before I go on. I do not have a plot and I don't even know what I want to write a novel about... No, that's not quite true. I want to write about middle age, and being an alien. And about the Young. And about this woman. The trouble is, I really cannot write entirely by ear; I must do some thinking."

My colleagues criticize my time allowance to volumes of work like the Diaries. They think differently than I do. I am a much slower reader (and grader, too) and it doesn't bother me one bit to find a minimal number of passages to underline (2 passages in 600 pages). My colleagues use their time much more "intelligently," they argue. If it's not helpful on research, it's not worth it. Father forgive them, for they do not know what they say.

Paul Auster's "Sunset Park" -- The First 70-something pages...

2010-11-29T12:07:00.002-05:00

The First 70-something Pages:
I am a fan, I am not going to lie; nevertheless, to categorize "Sunset Park" as anything but the almost perfect novel would be a disservice. How can this man continue to produce books as good as this one is right up there with the mysteries of the Great Pyramids. I know it all sounds hyperbolic, but I contend that with a long list of excellent novels Paul Auster should be considered a national treasure (again, hyperbolic).

"Sunset Park" is a return to the fiction that made him one of the great literary fiction authors, away from meta fictions and mind-bending abstractions. This return--after much criticism of meta fiction efforts in "Travels in the Scriptorium" and "Man in the Dark"--can be seen to match the Auster efforts in both "The Brooklyn Follies" and "Oracle Night." This is fiction that is painfully clear, allowing the reader to focus on nuances of language and style without losing the plot in the process. The third person narrative adds to the detachment Auster is trying to achieve after his most recent works but does not in any way take away from the personal observations of one Miles Heller (first part of the book). At the risk of sounding a little prude, my only negative observation is that of Miles Heller's relationship with a much younger woman and their "different" sexual activity brought upon by the young woman's fear of getting pregnant. Aside from this, the first part of the book (first 70-something pages) are both engaging and naturally drawing to the reader. I have been "milking" the first part of this novel because I don't want to burn off and sky-rocket through it in a day (a task I am able to). I am savoring more as the pages break, as if in an endless wave-watching meditation. More to come in the next few days and then on to Christopher Isherwood's Diaries Volume 2 which will be my final book for 2010.

Reading for the Rest of the Year: Literary Fete Sauvage

2010-11-24T22:33:00.001-05:00

I am about to embark on a literary fete savauge, away from all and mentally remote in enchanted woods. I've only experienced this once before--my two favorite literary figures having works published close to one another. The first time it was the year in which Paul Auster and Haruki Murakami both published within weeks of each other (at that, Murakami had two books published that year). And now this new experience... I am going to relish this, every delicious page by page... hopefully, I'll be done by December 31st because I suspect my Reading List for 2011 will not wait.

Where Do We Go From Here?

2010-11-17T11:38:00.001-05:00

Today, I had a very good discussion with my students about lifelong learning. We tried to define it considering all of the variables present in our lives, all the way from the requirements of the college curriculum to modern life and how technology is changing the way we think and act. Really, what is "lifelong learning?" I suppose we could just categorize it as another educational catch phrase: "Critical Thinking," "Reading Across the Curriculum," "Writing Across the Curriculum," "21st Century Education," "Lifelong learning." It seems to fit nicely with the others, no? "What a pity," commented one of my students, "that we have strayed so far from the good life." Now, imagine every one's surprise when this seemingly "invisible" student opened his mouth for the first time in the semester. Most people in the class didn't even know who he was--painfully shy, I'd judged. The Good Life. He went on to explain what it meant, reciting in order the virtues needed to attain that state of being. I agreed with the student wholeheartedly. The most of the class, however, did not. I didn't want to prod any further because I didn't want to put him on the spot, especially being the first time in over nine weeks that he has actually participated in class. Yet, he wanted to tell us... he wanted everyone to hear. His grandfather, he said, had taught him about what the good life really is. His grandfather, he continued, was an uneducated man. He came to the United States from Poland in the early 1970s, got a job at a Ford plant, and sat comfortably to appreciate and enjoy his good life. So, is that it? Is this idyllic idea of the American dream the good life? Not so fast. What this student's grandfather had done was read, and read and read. He read just about every major idea in the Canon of Western Civilization. At work he was an automaton, my student recalled, at home, however, he was a mind dynamo!

A couple of years ago, the grandfather passed and bequeathed his library to his grandson. My student explained how every single book, without exception, was underlined and noted in the margins. He talked about the great care his grandfather took with his books. As a child, my student recollected, he had stared at the floor to ceiling bookshelves and wondered what his grandfather's library meant. Were those books about the car making industry? Were they manuals as to operate machines at the plant? No. With the exception of Mark Twain's Collected Works there wasn't a single other book of fiction. The rest of the library included "The Harvard Classics" collection, Will Durant's "The Story of Civilization," Herodotus, Plato, and Thucydides. When my student received his inheritance, he didn't know where to begin. Time passed, he explain, and he had no interest in the books which had remained in the boxes for years since. Nevertheless, the day he decided to open the first box, he opened the first volume of the Harvard Classics, he discovered a letter from his grandfather. It was a road map, his grandfather wrote in the letter, to a life of learning. He begged his grandson to not take life for granted and to go and pursue the life of the mind. I began to think of this story as a badly written moral story, and even felt an obligation to bring the class back to focus: What is the Good Life?

As my student finished his story, he defined living the Good Life as fulfilling the potential we all have to live rightly--that it was easy to live, but that it was difficult to live rightly. No one reads those books nowadays, he continued. While I agreed partly with him about today's reading preferences, I asked him to explain what living rightly was, at least, in his grandfather's opinion. He explained that his grandfather had devised his own education--that somewhere along his seemingly simple life, his grandfather had determined that he wanted to live rightly. No one knows how to live rightly from the air, his grandfather had written in the letter, knowledge must come from somewhere... and this is what these books are. This is your road map.

Of course, the class continued its normal course of discussion and moving on, but I am absolutely at a loss on how to approach my "silent no more" student the next time class meets. He had defined for the entire class the meaning of a fulfilling life, away from technology, away from second (or even third) rate philosophies--even beyond the religious. Today, we all learned from grandpa: keep it simply and stick to the basics (in this case, the Classics); no discussion of the Good Life could be productive without them.

Literary Detours: Henry James' "Daisy Miller and Other Stories"

2010-11-15T10:58:00.012-05:00

Why in the name of all that is sane and logical did I begin reading James' "Daisy Miller" days from Paul Auster's "Sunset Park" being released? The only answer to this dilemma, I believe, can be found in my reading list for next year. I will be re-reading "The Portrait of a Lady," a novel, which, having the displeasure of remembering how difficult it was to read, gave me many problems of readability. That's not to say James is a bad writer--far from it! Perhaps it was a combination between my inability reading serious literary fiction (I was a very late starter) and the lack of reading practice (the proverbial, "I just finished this paragraph/page and I have no clue what I just read"). What escaped me then--that doesn't now--is the idea that becoming a reader is very much like lifting weights or playing an instrument: the more you practice, the better the chances that you will do it better in the future. Well, after all of these years teaching--and years as a grad student--I've come to the conclusion of giving Henry James' work the attention and respect it deserves.

"Daisy Miller and Other Stories" has been a delight to read; the characters are fresh, albeit the fact that they all suffer from undertones of psychological insecurity/apprehension. What I loved the best is Henry James' style of description of both characters and settings. As a Europhile, Henry James wrote both intelligently and authoritatively about the great cities. When it comes to the characters, Daisy Miller's persona is as complex as she appears coquettish. The most difficult part of understanding a character like her, I believe, stems from the fact that her mind traveled 100 miles per hour. While it was hard to keep up with her changing preferences and attitudes, this was precisely what Henry James' masterfully weaves and depicts. She is a young woman of her age. Daisy's complex behavior not only reflects rebellion against Victorian rules of society but also her own fabric as an imaginary person made "flesh" by a master writer. When it comes to those psychological undertones, one is quick to realize the influence of Henry James' brother (William James) in his works. William James was a professor of philosophy, psychology and even theology at Harvard, developing many epistemological treaties including his major achievement, Pragmatism. Henry James' no doubt benefits from a constant and rich correspondence with his brother (James having established himself permanently in England). Interesting bits of information about these genius brothers can be found in Linda Simon's "Genuine Reality: The Life of William James").

It isn't like "Sunset Park" has had to wait. I've read the first chapter, slowly (painfully so). I am taking in every word and nuance of sound, rhythm, in this flawless prose. Paul Auster is one of these writers that when they die, they leave a large hole in contemporary literature. That's not to say that there aren't better writers than him (although, being a fan, I can't pretend to be an objective reviewer). For example, the empty space left by the suicide of David Foster Wallace might give us some glimpse into the tragic end of a genius writer being missed for all the works he didn't have the opportunity to write. I wish nothing but blessings and eternal health to Paul Auster. Do live to be 110+ years old, dear sir, and enlighten us with many more novels, films, nonfiction, reviews! Dare I say the world depends on it. :-)

I "Saw" the News Today, Oh Boy...

2010-11-08T11:47:00.005-05:00

Driving to work this morning I saw what would probably rank as one of the most devastating automobile accidents I have ever seen in my entire life. Even the infamous "Highway of Death," during the expulsion of Iraqi troops from Kuwait pales by comparison. I am not saying this simply to be gruesome, but seeing the accident as it actually happened sort of put me in a bad state of mind. I've seen blood and guts, been shot at and even stabbed, but hell if I have ever seen anything uglier than this.

The cause of the accident was not very clear to me as I drove by (and yes, I did call 911, as did the other handful of people who stopped and tried to help). In the hopes of not being too graphic, all I can say was that the driver of the automobile was exposed, the entire roof of the vehicle was ripped back like a can of sardines, and what was left of the auto body was wrapped around a utility pole. The driver was not conscious and appeared in a awkward position; blood, however, was everywhere. I could tell it was a woman, and the first thought that came to my mind was to see if I could tell whether or not there was a child seat in the back. Judging by the destruction caused, I would have to believe the car was driving over the 35 mph limit which is standard on W. 130th street. I am no physics expert, but there can be no way that car was sent (obviously) flying through the air at 35 mph, not even at 40 mph.

When I arrived at work, my students were coming in late because of the accident and the traffic chaos it created. Later, another student told me that there was a S.W.A.T. team vehicle blocking the scene and that there was "Crime Scene" tape all over the place.

Why am I writing about this? I am not quite sure, other than to say I was shocked. Is it an indication I am getting a little "soft" around the edges? I don't think that 17, 20, or even 21 years ago I would have acted differently simply because I was a US Marine. Frankly, just like the "Highway of Death," the scene this morning was unbelievable and indescribable. I'll leave it at that, and for John Lennon to explain the rest, "I read the news today, oh boy..."

Reading List for 2011 (Subject to Change)

2010-10-30T11:47:00.006-04:00

This year I had one hell of a time trying to keep track of all I've read. It was around this time in 2009 that I decided I was not going to have a reading list for 2010. What a great mistake that was! Whether or not reading lists are a popular form of keeping track, I find it I do much more reading when I have at least a provisional idea of what is ahead of me in the coming year. As a result, I have returned to the Reading List, and here's a provisional list (in no particular order) for 2011.

"Never Let Me Go" -- Ishiguro.

"The Corrections" -- Franzen.

"The Portrait of a Lady" (re-read) -- James.

"Journal of a Novel" (re-read) -- Steinbeck.

"Things are Never So Bad" -- Dubus.

"The Art of the Personal Essay" -- Lopate.

"Eichmann in Jerusalem" -- Arendt.

"Exile's Return" -- Cowley.

"The Plague" -- Camus.

"Classics for Pleasure" -- Dirda.

"The Spooky Art" -- Mailer.

"In Patagonia" -- Chatwin.

"A Tranquil Star" -- Levi.

"I, Claudius" -- Graves.

"The Stories of John Cheever" (re-read) -- Cheever.

"Portrait of Dr. Gachet" -- Saltzman.

"Proust Was a Neuroscientist" -- Lehrer.

"The Piano Tuner" -- Mason.

"Run With the Hunted" -- Buckowski.

"Motherless Brooklyn" -- Lethem.

"The Enchantment of Lili Dahl" -- Husdtvend.

"Consider the Lobster" -- Foster Wallace.

Of course there might be some "spillage" from 2010 into (at least) a few weeks of January 2011. Of these the most obvious would be "The Diaries of Christopher Isherwood" part 2. and "Sunset Park" by Paul Auster. All in all, I am very satisfied with this prospect list. Since I will be spending more and more time in my office at home, I think the number and selection will prove to be both enjoyable and productive.

I know I've said before that my ultimate plan after leaving the classroom was to read all 12 volumes of "The Story of Civilization" by Will and Ariel Durant, but the effort seems quite monumental to begin with. I need a couple of years to adapt to the idea that I am actually having the time to do it now.

Farewell to Academia... The Real Version

2010-10-21T17:56:00.004-04:00

I am writing today to inform you of my permanent and final decision to leave the teaching profession once and for all. It goes without mention that this was the most difficult decision I have had to make in my life. After giving it careful consideration, I have decided that this is the best path to follow for my young family and my professional career. There are two reasons why I have come to this decision and in the following paragraphs I hope to explain this in a way you all can understand.

Reason #001 - Teaching Legacy and the Academy

In the last month, I have received electronic correspondence from four former Academy students I had in class during the school years 2003, 2005, 2006 and 2008 respectively. I always enjoy reading what my former students are doing, and their words of encouragement and support mean more to me than I could ever express in words. Invariably, these e-mails mentioned how much they appreciated the courses they took with me, how much what they learned at the Academy helped them during their freshman year in college, and how much they miss the Academy. Again, receiving these e-mails over the years (especially during this last year) have always filled my heart joy and beckoned me to a time when my career was at its zenith of success. Since the events of September 2009, I have struggled with the decision to quit the teaching profession. For long months thereafter, I listened to hundreds of recordings of my class discussions and lectures going back to 2003. I cherish the fact that I have so many of them to remember the Academy by. It was while listening to all of these mp3 files (and reading all the e-mails) that I realized I had left behind not only the warmth, love and reverence I had for the Academy, but most importantly, I realized I left my legacy in the halls and corners of that same place I loved so much, for so long. Since late summer, I have been teaching English composition at a local trade college. The courses are exciting and the lessons regarding “life-long learning” I have always tried to teach to my students have not waned or falter. It has been a wonderful experience teaching these courses—indeed, as wonderful as the courses I taught at the Academy! Nevertheless, the memories returned to me of the many “day-dreaming hours” I spent visualizing myself as the “elder scholar” at the Academy, respected by my colleagues and students, pursuing the literary life. This, in combination with the many e-mails from former Academy students helped me realize that I left my teaching legacy at the Academy. I am comfortable with my decision to quit the profession because these facts make me feel fulfilled and realized.

Reason #002 – The “Dehumanization” of Education

This is not a new argument. As a matter of fact, others (in more academically powerful positions than me) have already argued and continue to argue against the national obsession with “21st Century education,” and “global economy,” and “compete with China,” and “private and public partnerships,” and,… well you get my point. Scholars such as Anthony T. Kronman, former dean of Yale University’s Law School, examined this issue in his book “Education’s End: Why Our Universities and Colleges Have Given Up on the Meaning of Life.” One only has to read Mark Edmundson’s “Why Read” to realize what we are in the risk of losing. More recently, the article “Dehumanized: When Math and Science Rule the School,” by Mark Slouka in Harper’s Magazine exposed a new wave of attacks against the importance of the humanities in the curriculum. Reading and discussing this article by Mark Slouka was one of my last lessons at the Academy. I did, at one point, receive a disciplinary action plan with the warning, “Mr. Rondon will only teach appropriate materials in the classroom.” The past administration of the Academy (and I hear the present one as well) seemed obsessed with educational jargon, most of which I have already listed above. This direct connection with curricula development and “global economy” and “business partnerships” strikes me a mild form of indoctrination. Furthermore, all of these private companies cited by one school district after another as a partner in redesigning the curriculum might be doing more harm than good. I wonder, whether or not these “skills of the future,” to be able to “compete in the global economy” leave any space for the reading of Shakespeare, Faulkner, Dostoyevsky, Morrison, Camus and Twain. Is the future really as the comedian George Carlin envisions it?

“There’s a reason why education sucks and there’s a reason why it will never be fixed. It’s never going to get better, don’t look for it. Be happy with what you got…. [because] the big, wealthy business interests make all the decisions…. They want more for themselves and less for everybody else. But I’ll tell you what they don’t want. They don’t want a population of citizens capable of critical thinking. They don’t want well-informed, well-educated people… they are not interested in that. That doesn’t help them. It doesn’t help them at all. It is against their interest…. You know what they want? They want obedient workers! Obedient workers! People who are smart enough to run the machines, and do the paperwork, and just dumb enough to passively accept all of these increasingly [bad] jobs with the lower pay, the reduced benefits, the end of overtime, and the vanishing pension that disappears the minute you go to collect it…. It’s a big club… and you ain’t in it.”

Of course I want to believe that Carlin’s stand-up comedy is not a peephole into the future, but I am beginning to realize that many of the things he states above are here today. Is anyone paying attention? It reminds me of what the devil tells his nephew in C.S. Lewis’ “The Screwtape Letters,” something to the effect of: “Uncle, people don’t believe in you anymore. Oh nephew, that’s exactly what we want. That way it is easier for us to sneak up on them.”

I am not against math and science in the classroom, as I am not against the capitalist system. What I am against is the excess, both in education and in a consumerist society run completely amok. One only has to examine the Huxleyan warning in “Brave New World” to realize we are living it now—a population (myself included) more mesmerized, more entertained, more somnambulant and less willing to fight back. I am leaving the classroom because I cannot compete. I cannot compete with the slashing and cutting of the humanities electives in a curriculum as a disguised effort to “fit in” more math, science, engineering, etc. courses (the proverbial ‘throwing out the baby with the water’). I cannot compete with administrations obsessed with the economic threat China is beginning to reveal to the world, and how they judge this as a reason to “educate.” I cannot compete with systems of control, lack of instructional freedom and the increasingly disturbing jargon of the education system that means absolutely nothing. I cannot compete with technologies in the classroom that only paint a thin veil over what is already a monstrous fact: no computer in the world can teach a child how to read (or do math) as effectively as a real flesh and bones teacher. Those of you who know my work know of my inclusions of technology in all my courses; you serve as silent witnesses that I am not a Luddite, nor am I arguing for a non-technology classroom. I cannot compete with educational institutions so concerned with the financial bottom line, so obsessed with cutting cost that they “force-retire” people in the high salary brackets and hire young, inexperienced teachers right out of college for less than half what they paid the former. I realize that the economic temperature of this country is reaching critical levels, but who really suffers when schools are being run like businesses: the students.

This final reason IS the REAL reason why I am leaving the teaching profession, and find myself incompatible with the classroom. Of course, I will continue to live “the life of the mind;” I could never abandon that aspect of my life. As I have throughout my life as a teacher, I will continue to read, write, enjoy art and music, and follow the canon of humanist study.

Claire Messud's "The Hunters" - A Lyrical Journey

2010-10-14T10:55:00.009-04:00

There's something special about Claire Messud's writing and one has to take time and enjoy, as if for the first time, our lips were allowed to touch the rim of a wine glass containing--none other than--a couple of ounces of 1977 Chateauneuf-du-Pape wine. I am not saying it is an acquired taste, not at all, but tackling "The Last Life" in 2001 left me a little confused. I wonder how it was possible for me (a lyrical and romantic language lover) not to like the stylistic prowess of this excellent writer. Messud made me a convert because no matter how much I struggled with "The Last Life," I was more than rewarded in the end. It wasn't until I read "The Emperor's Children" that I realized here was a real literary genius; a contemporary author with the facility of lyrical and descriptive language few others can match today. I read "The Emperor's Children" during my trip to China in 2008. I began reading the book a few days before my trip, and, although I knew I was going to have a busy schedule during my visit, I took the book with me nonetheless. I am glad I did, as I am glad at the fact that the volume got a much deserved recognition in the award circles (although aside from NYT Best Book of the Year, I don't think it was awarded more). I decided that once I got home from my trip, I would hunt down all of her books and read them immediately.

I found a copy of "The Hunters" (a PEN/Faulkner Award finalist) at a used book store and didn't think twice before paying the hefty $16. for it. I didn't get to read it as soon as I wanted to, but now that I've picked it up, I find it a narrative as close to perfection as they come. This is more than lyricism; the descriptive language (a make or break element in what some critics regard as 'wordy' literature) is Messud's main strength in this collection of novellas. The first, "A Simple Tale" is the story of two women, or actually just one. As the narrative begins, we meet Maria Poniatowski, caretaker for one Mrs. Ellington. The plot revolves around Maria's inability to reconcile her past with her present life in Canada. She suffered greatly during the unrest of World War II in Europe, escaping from labor camps, moved from one Displaced Persons camp to another, until she reached Canada by special arrangement. By this time she is married and has a small child. Adapting by working as a cleaning lady for distinguished families, she beings to feel as Canadian as any Canadian around. But the price of this assimilation has an immense cost. Messud's descriptions are a literary tour d'force, allowing the reader to see it all painted inside their mental vision. Here's an example of how an expert writer describes with such small details so as to bring the reader inside the written picture: "She [Maria] went to the McDonalds on Mondays and Wednesdays all day (they had three children--Jack among them, then a boy of nine--who made quite a mess), and to the Ellingtons on Tuesdays until just after lunch. The Pollocks were on Thursdays, once again through till six o'clock (instead of children, Mrs. Pollock kept a pair of small, long-haired white dogs, with smashed noses and Oriental eyes, who shed indiscriminately and whose chronic, vindictive ill temper created a great need for cleaning: when crossed, they vomited and peed and pooped in tantrum (and occasionally in tandem), and when left alone scratched irritably at door frames, piano legs and upholstery, almost as if they were cats). Fridays, Maria saved for Mrs. Mallow, a genuine half-day--home by 2 PM--spent largely, it seemed, in keeping the old woman company, as she kept her house pristine of her own accord." There it seems to be two ways of writing this passage. For example, if this was a simple schedule that Maria kept week after week, why not detail it and move on? A master describer (such as Messud) is not so easily satisfied. Here we see the addition of information in parenthesis appear like a private detective log. I can't get over the little dogs and the parenthesis within the parenthesis. Visually, descriptive information in parenthesis reinforces the detail of the information being offered. This is the type of small detail that tells a story all of its own; imagine, a story within a story but without having to include a separate story. Let the details do the storytelling. As diminutive as this passage appears, I wanted to quote this one in particular because it really shows talent beyond comprehension.

In the second novella, "The Hunters," Messud tells the story of a sort of academic character whose main attraction was spying on his neighbors. It isn't so much that the story displays a sense of macabre or weirdness; on the contrary, the flow of this little masterpiece depends on much of what I wrote about "A Simple Tale," but in addition to masterful description, Messud also displays she is a force to reckon with when writing dialogue.

This little volume is not a new one (first published in 2001), but I highly recommend it to anyone interested in learning how to write description, or simply to a reader who wants to get lost in thought provoking environments of the descriptive mind.

The End of Time (Why I Need to Run Away)

2010-10-06T09:24:00.008-04:00

The reading part of my intellectual endeavor has suffered greatly this year. I have not read as much, even at times consciously choosing not to read or set time out to read. I am not quite sure why this is; perhaps the teaching and the reflective type writing I've been doing occupies most of my waking hours. Regardless of this, I do need to escape. I don't want to go off on a rant about current events and the ridiculousness of media, politics and travesties of justice which seem to flood our sources of information. Nevertheless, I watch the news every day, and, as it has become a habit, come away feeling desolate and depressed. Why watch the news, then? My network of preference (not because I like it but because it strikes me the most biased and light-headed) is NBC Nightly News with Brian Williams. It's amazing how the news directors at NBC structure the news order and even the rhetoric used--much opinion swaying and pitching takes place every evening. Many have told me that "Fox News is much worse." To them I say, yes, absolutely, Fox, CBS, NBC, CNN, etc. are all so biased it's hard to make heads or tails from the news items they broadcast. Nothing infuriates me more than NBC giving a platform to Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, president of Iran, a man notorious for his "Holocaust denial" and for stating (several times) that Israel needs to be wiped out from the world map. It's amazing to me how Brian Williams can sit across this person and ask question after question even though we all know the answers. Why do we need to hear from Ahmadinejad that there's boiling point political and social issues that threaten to destabilize the Middle East more than it's already? Any person with a conventional knowledge of the middle east and its challenges can say as much. One comes out of these reports with a sense of dread... is the world really down a slippery slope toward ultimate destruction? Perhaps.

Five minutes before Nightly News ends, the segment titled "Making a Difference" airs on NBC. This is a "feel good" segment, always at the end of the news, as if to tell us, "please join us tomorrow for 25 minutes of dreadfulness, and 5 minutes of "feel good therapy." Everything is confusing. Everything is terribly, terribly negative. Everything is full of despair and sadness. Everything, that is, but literature.

We need to escape; it's a fact that most people seek succor by means of something significant to them. The preferences, of course, are unique depending on the personality of the individual. Some run to negative resources: alcohol, drugs, pornography, etc. Yet, despite the statistics, I believe that most people want to run away to something they love, more than just running away to mere escapism. This is not a new argument (or a new rant); perhaps the oldest ritual in the history of humanity (depending on levels and systems of belief) is religion. People who do not believe in God taunt the believers, subscribing to the idea that believers run to God because they don't want to take responsibility for their own actions or problems. Religion as the great opium of the masses, right? Recently, there were reports of young people using a digital drug called "iDozer." This is comprised of mp3 files that emit a certain frequency and white-noise with the frequency level adjusted to achieve the correct effect. There are as many flavors as there are vices: marijuana, cocaine, Valium, orgasm and lucid dream, to list some of them. We need to escape--plain and simple.

I am not reading enough these days and it's got me thinking. am I no better than other "escape artists?" Who decides which escape is right and which one is wrong or damaging to the individual. Years ago, I had a student who suffered from all different issues of depression, panic attacks, paranoia, etc. This student was "allowed" to "draw" in class and listen to music on his iPod because it was part of his therapy. Many of my colleagues thought it was a sham, a ruse. They could not understand what the drawing did, or what it was that the music soothe. Personally, while I didn't entire understand, part of me learned to be curious about the student's drawings, or what he was listening to in his iPod. Two years later, when that same student committed suicide, we no longer wondered what type of escape he needed. It was a shame, really, that one so young could be so misunderstood to the point of feeling life has no meaning. We cannot judge what is a good or bad escape, especially when it comes to this degree, but we must learn to acknowledge the fact that escaping (and here I mean with methods of escaping that foster our humanity, soothes our soul and helps us cope and grow) is essential. We must understand that the complexities of this modern (often cruel) world will not relent; we are in it for the long haul. As a result, I am embracing Bach on my iPod and grabbing my Moleskine notebook for a journey into escapism.

My First Great Teacher - Pablo Casals

2010-09-29T08:15:00.004-04:00

I am a man first, an artist second. As a man, my first

obligation is to the welfare of my fellow men. I will endeavor to

meet this obligation through music--the means which God

has given me--since it transcends language, politics

and national boundaries. My contribution to world peace

may be small, but at least I will have given all I can to an ideal

I hold sacred. -- Pablo Casals.

There is, of course, no substitute for work. I myself

practice constantly, as I have all of my life. I have been

told I play the cello with the ease of a bird flying.

I do not know with how much effort a bird learns to fly,

but I do know what effort has gone into my cello.

What seems ease of performance comes from the greatest labor.

-- Pablo Casals.

Writing: An After-Life Activity

2010-09-23T14:18:00.012-04:00

"Writing is a bad whore," my good friend and former professor at the university said in the middle of our dinner discussion regarding, what else, writing. "She's a bad whore that one day gives you all you want, and the next day makes you beg for the most simple pleasures." It wasn't the wine, as he was only one glass down, nor was it intellectual bravado. It sounded to us (and with 'us' I mean the throes of former students who showed up to pay tribute to him with this dinner) as if he had been possessed by the ghost of Ernest Hemingway--the terse, muscular, allegorical statement... the purposeful indictment and even the ad hominem "whore" seemed carefully chosen.

The former students present were a motley crew of former English majors, some of us stayed in academia, others went to law school, other sought riches on Wall Street, and yet the most adventurous of us had gone to teach English overseas. To some extent, we had all remained writers, either professionally or in the form of personal journaling. It was the richness of our experience with Professor M. that plagued us (in a good way) to continue writing after school ended and lives taken us to wondrous places. "One has to bite down hard," he continued, "bite hard and not let go. If anyone would have told me I'd be where I am right now I would have slapped them with the powerful writing hand, to leave a mark of unwritten thoughts in his or her cheek." He paused and looked down, a gesture that allowed some of us to look at each other and inquire, with facial expressions right out of a silent film, whether or not we should allow him to continue. I began to feel a tinge of guilt--I had organized this gathering without even checking to see the professor's condition. I had also counted with having his faithful wife of 62 years Berta here, but was to find out during my first steps to planning this dinner "celebration" that she had passed away two years ago. I began to sweat and wondered where the speech would go next. "As for the people who criticized me then, as they probably still do now, I just want to say that writing..." Here he paused as if about to vomit; no doubt, he was thinking of people that made him sick. I wondered whether I should stand up and help him from the podium, but I decided against it. "Those who criticized my writing, those who lynched me year after year, can only guess what all of us," at this he waved his hand around to the expanse of the hotel ballroom, "what all of us know first hand: That nothing remains of us, and when we leave, we take that good for nothing whore with us to the other life; the after-life where we hope we can continue writing. They'll never know what we did here, what I did here. They were too busy shoving shit up each other's asses to know what real writing can achieve." I went to stand up but Richard (a former student of Professor M. from back in the 1970s) held me down. "Let the old man finish it out," he said, "it's going to get better, I assure you." With "better" I assumed Richard meant that eventually the professor would settle down on a narrative form and engage us with more focus than ad lib. It was not to be. It seems "better" for Richard meant more non sequitorial rant.

The professor continued with another salvo of distaste against his former colleagues, administrators, fellow writers, lovers and friends alike, near and not-so-near family, the government, and finally the Catholic church, which he credited with being the single most damaging institution in human civilization,"outside of the Nazi regime," he cared to qualified. He ended on a good note, however, in mentioning that the only thing that had given him meaning throughout life, to both him and Berta, were the many students whom he had loved and cared for. Professor M.'s sincerity was more than palpable. "In the middle of what appears to you as life today," he declared, "you will find that only through writing can you leave a trace behind. To those who tell you that leaving a trace is not important," (no doubt this was a stab at the late Dr. Lehann Munn, philosophy professor at the university and one of his main archrivals), "tell them that not even all of that Kierkegaardian bullshit can save them now." Someone began to clap and the thunderous applause that followed didn't let up even when I tried to say a few words as I handed Dr. M. a plaque from his grateful students. He had always reminded us in class never to write down what we did not mean. Here we were honoring him and he turned it all around and honored us with his last lesson. He died two days later from a massive stroke.

Desperately Seeking Ms. Sally Bowles

2010-09-22T12:20:00.009-04:00

If it seems like I am engaging on an Isherwood month-long, binge-reading, I would like to clarify that (in no uncertain terms) I plead guilty to said "crime." The difference, however, is the fact that I am digesting my binge completely (thank you very much), and that the clarity of the prose is the main culprit for my excesses. I simply cannot put the book down. It's the kind of book you want to have last forever--sort of the "why did James Baldwin had to go out and die and not write any more books" feeling. Good books like Isherwood's "The Berlin Stories" should last forever, not in the sense of returning to it a few years later but rather a lifelong, never ending string of prose and characters that live as long as we do. Okay, I realize I am asking for an impossibility, and, as the wise man once said, nothing good lasts forever, but the mere idea and the perfectibility of it is so amazing it might drive the sane and religious to make a deal with Satan. I know I exaggerate. What I don't exaggerate (nor do I apologize for) is Isherwood's perfect weaving of a yarn so true to life I am tempted to go on a hobo-like search for Sally Bowles and forget I have a real life with real responsibilities.

Of course, my attraction to Sally Bowles is deeply rooted in an admitted obsession with 1920s glamor, style and the characteristic "Vamp," of whom so much has been written. I know "The Berlin Stories" take place in 1930s Germany, just about the same time the Nazi machine is about to take power, yet my imagination still takes me back to the Jazz Age, and all the complexity that entails. Christopher and Sally become close after Sally's break up with a man who "betrays" her for a woman "more his type." The character of Sally Bowles, immortalized on the silver screen by Liza Minnelli in "Cabaret," is a new generation vamp, but lacking the social graces of her 1920s counterparts. She is crude, somewhat ignorant and rough in all the key edges. But what she lacks in graces she more than makes up in her ability to survive day after day, month after month, rolling along with relationships with men who see her as little more than a mid-level whore. Of course, the character of Sally in the book is miles away from the one Minnelli brought to life, but the realism, the palpable humanism of womanhood she presents is beyond characterization. When Sally pairs up with Christopher, they go out on adventures in this underworld setting. One of the first experiences together was that of coming across a gentleman whose habit with money fitted Sally's ambitions perfectly. Sally allows Christopher in on the action, actually asking him to not try too hard, lest they come across as gold-diggers. The carelessness of the aforementioned dandy, sugar-daddy (call him what you may) leads to promises of making Sally a big star, the greatest actress that ever lived. Yet, for all the talk, the plans do not materialize, and the day Sally and Christopher go to the hotel to meet with their beneficiary, they discovered him gone without notice. Instead of being entirely disappointed, Sally jokes with Christopher about how terrible they were as gold-diggers. Yet, this does not stop Sally from dreaming and weaving Christopher in her dreams of fame and glory: "We talked continually about wealth, fame, huge contracts for Sally, record-breaking sales for the novels I should one day write. 'I think,' said Sally, 'it must be marvelous to be a novelist. You're frightfully dreamy and unpractical and un-businesslike, and people imagine they can fairly swindle you as much as they want--and then you sit down and write a book about them which fairly shows them what swine they all are, and it's the most terrific success and you make pots of money." Personally, this passage exemplifies situations I have been with, and it is the reason why it's the only underlined passage I've scratch on the book. Yet, Christopher realizes that as long as he doesn't write the novels, all they do is talk. Action is needed, but the complications of exile life take its toll on both of them, and dreams are not fulfilled.

I am in the last straight away part of the book, nearly 100 pages from the end. As I said earlier, could we ever have a narrative that never ends? Could we allow the supreme authors of our day to live forever (John Updike, James Baldwin, Ralph Ellison, etc.)? All good things must come to an end... and so will this wonderful book.

I have little idea of what I am going to be reading next. Lately, I have been devoting more time to writing than reading (and teaching four upper level college classes is also taking a chunk of my time to do either). I am divided but I must get on with it... October and November will be busy reading times for me. In October, Isherwood's diaries (Vol.2) comes out and then the month after that Paul Auster's new novel, "Sunset Park."

In Praise of Jonathan Franzen (and the Valiant Vanguard of Literary Fiction)

2010-09-11T08:50:00.011-04:00

Yes, he is the one that landed a powerful right hook to Oprah's jaw and lived to tell about it. Time Magazine calls him "The Great American Novelist." Mr. Franzen's books are engaging and ambitious beyond anything else in pop culture. I have to admit purchasing "The Corrections" a few years back, second hand, and still have not read it. I have, however, read his non-fiction ("How to Be Alone" and "The Discomfort Zone") and find it to be among the top among contemporary writers. What really gets lost in all of this praise is the fact that Mr. Franzen, almost single-handedly, is keeping literary fiction in the forefront of American mainstream media. Yes, he's made up with Oprah, luckily for all of us in her last season as a literary taste indicator and book mogul. Literary fiction--for the lack of a better definition--is that fiction that doesn't sell, is not consistently at the top of the NYT bestselling list, and does not create a super star novelist like John Grisham, or Dan Brown. What literary fiction will do for you, however, is help you find universal themes that apply to a plurality of issues in your personal life. Yes, it doesn't sell (and I really commend Time Magazine for describing Mr. Franzen's work the way they did on their cover) but literary fiction speaks to all of us, not just readers of mysteries or techno thrillers, or religious detectivesque pseudo-epics. It's as a simple as this: if you want to read books that knock your socks off again and again but you don't want to go back to the Classics because they caused permanent damage to you in high school, here's a short list of contemporary writers that do not negotiate their genre.

1--The Great White Jewish One: PAUL AUSTER

2--Haruki Murakami

3--The Late David Foster Wallace

4--Joyce Carol Oates

5--The Late (I canonized him with the Nobel Prize for Literature because I couldn't find anyone more deserving in the last 20 years than him, yet he never even make the short list)....

John Updike

6--Nicholson Baker

7--Thomas Pynchon

And of course, Mr. Jonathan Franzen. God bless you, Mr. Franzen, wherever you may be or go, for sweating out your new masterpiece "Freedom" at a time when the meaning of the title is not lost to all of us who commune with literary fiction.

Christopher Isherwood, AGAIN... but this time his fiction

2010-08-28T12:54:00.005-04:00

Yes, I spent a great deal of last summer and into the fall reading the mammoth "The Diaries of Christopher Isherwood - 1939 to 1960," all 1,130 pages worth of. I am man enough to declare it one of the most fascinating books I have ever read. When I finished, I felt as if these people (primarily Isherwood and his partner the artist Don Bachardy) were long lost friends telling me of their experiences since the last time we had met. What was particularly odd was the fact that I had never read any of Isherwood's fiction, and even more odd the fact that I couldn't find any of it at he local mega bookstores or even the used "mom and pop shops." At first I thought as I usually do when I find that one of my favorite writers cannot be found in a used bookstore. That is to say, authors like Paul Auster's and Haruki Murakami's books are books people keep and not donate or sell to the aforementioned businesses. But Isherwood, why? I asked some of my closest friends and colleagues if they knew something about Isherwood. Roughly 70% of them remembered the name but couldn't place it. About 20% remembered his work as the inspiration for the musical "Cabaret" (later made even more famous by the film starring Liza Minelli). The rest never even heard the name or cared to know. I even had one of my colleagues say, "Gay literature? Thanks but no thanks," which was a surprise to me since colleges and universities are usually strong holds of anything and everything resembling a liberal stance in argument. At any rate, Christopher Isherwood is under-appreciated and needs to come back to a position of prominence in modern literature.

I wrote an e-mail to Katherine Bucknell, the scholar who edited Isherwood's diaries and the world's foremost Isherwood scholar regarding the Volume 2 of the diaries (I imagined that after reading Volume 1 there should be a second volume). The first of these (1939--1960) was published in 1996. This fact made me believe that probably the project for Volume 2 had been abandoned or something of the like. Little did I know that Ms. Bucknell had been hard at work and that her e-mail came with outstanding news: Volume 2 scheduled to see the light of the world in November 2010!!! This calls for a celebration... any excuse to drink hard liquor is a welcome distraction to the demands of academia, at least for me it is. Now, I know some of you are thinking, "wait... 1939-1960 was 1,130 pages and now there's a second volume... did this man do anything else but write a diary?" That's the fascinating thing about Isherwood; his description of the most ordinary event or personage is so amazingly illustrated it's as if we were reading one of those pop-up books for children. Things and people come alive like very few writings of this type. In short, it is not hyperbole to qualify Isherwood a master of modern literature. Perhaps that is the very reason why I couldn't find his books in used bookstores.

Well, I am presently engaged in reading Isherwood's "The Berlin Stories," which are comprised of "The Last of Mr. Norris," and "Good-bye to Berlin," the commonly known story of Sally Bowles turned musical in "Cabaret." This being the first time I've read Isherwood's fiction, and expecting (probably unconsciously) that the narrative would be like, well, what else? a diary, I was slow in warming up to the first few pages of "The Last of Mr. Norris." Yet, I stuck it through and found one of the most amazing pieces of fiction I've read in the last five years or so. I can't put this blessed book away, and last night sleep finally won over around 3 AM. This is the powerful descriptive and engaging dialogue Isherwood is famous for. The initial conversation and meeting of Mr. Norris and Bradshaw seems slow to take off, but by the time they arrive in Germany. What follows is a turmoil-filled and at time angst-fueled friendship in which not only does Bradshaw fail to know and understand Norris, but also ends up rubbing elbows with the Communist party at a time when the Nazis were gaining political ground but had yet come to power.

Isherwood writes with confidence and a great deal of resourcefulness from his own experience. He is a master at descriptive passages and makes the world of the 1930s Germany (particularly those dark corners of the gay underworld) come alive with unique artistry. Here's a man writing gay literature before "coming out of the closet" (a phrase with both charms and fill others with indignation) was a matter of vogue. I don't think that I can express how much I recommend Isherwood's work, whether fiction or biographical diaries, and how fulfilled the reader is at the end of these remarkable stories. Make another notch on column--Isherwood is a GREAT writer!

On Phenomenology and Abstraction, PART 002 (with added Surrealism and other Required Existential Nutrients)

2010-08-23T15:31:00.008-04:00

I've begun to feel an exaggerated sense of experience in the months since I left the Academy. I never completed a post I began before leaving, but somehow I had prophetically entitled it "Farewell to the Academy." As I celebrate today a simple victory I won August 23, 1989, I am reminded of how much our present experience is seasoned with our past. These days I walk into the classroom with a sense that only 10% of the lecture time belongs to me; as opposed to having an open check to experiment with how my students respond to literature. It's okay, though. I am lucky to be where I am and I think there's no better day than today to reflect on the long road behind. The last thing I believed that day in 1989 was that I would be in the position I am right now. Perhaps that is a common experience, a universal one that infects people in unique ways. Taking a look behind me I only see the dark shadow of time past--looking ahead I see young people looking at me (some of them). Some of them are so young that their "long ago past" is still very much lit, immediate and paved with "milk and honey." No, this is much more than the proverbial walking 10 miles to school barefoot. I wonder, is this generation learning anything from their so immediate past? How does this fit in the classroom today? How can I help them develop their own sense of "narrative," of "story?" Gone are the days of starting the semester with that morbid "in-class" assignment I learned from the legendary Terry Martin: "Write your obituary." These days, it seems to me, a more appropriate assignment would be "If you had all the money in the world, how would you spend it?" Yes, I bid farewell to my wonderful Academy, and with it, it seems I had to leave behind all of the so-called "impracticalities" of a Liberal Arts Education, as per Mark Edmundson. There's no space for the great questions of a positive existentialism, nor for the examination of Virtue and its role in our lives. I spend more time covering "objectives" (even at the college level where I presently am) than pursuing the Life of the Mind. 10% and with it I have to divide my time as professor and alchemist and turn gold out of copper.

August 23, 1989 was the starting line for me. I had some tools, very limited, and I had no idea what to do with them. Music had expanded my horizons, but I had to now walk on my own and find a new path. Most of that time I spent (if I remember correctly) trying to experience everything at full--no shortcuts, not one. Perhaps I embraced more than I could chew at one time, and my first semester as an undergrad was less than stellar. Yet, I was learning how life spent itself, how hours and hours and days, months and years went by with the speed of a bullet train. What I experienced was, in retrospect, so intense I wonder how I did not get burn before my time. Then came logical fallacies, arguments, Plato and the rest of the "gang," professors who really cared about my education.... literature saved me and illuminated the way that made my past doubly dark, my military experience, my loss of faith in humankind. I not only couldn't turn back--there was no past to speak of, and I began to feel that half of my experiences had evaporated into thin air. The few days between undergraduate and graduate school saw me turn from student to teacher (T.A.s were more like adjunct, miserable pay and no benefits: a great savings for that corporate institution known as higher education). I was thrown in the classroom with an anthology and was told to teach students how to think for themselves. Looking back after 15 years I now realize that only the time before 1989 is in darkness--the time after has remained illuminated by my role as teacher. There have been good and bad students, good and bad colleagues, good and bad administrators, good and bad classrooms, but never a bad day.

The abstraction in all of this rests on the fact that no one can predict (from one day to the next) where this so-called "New Economy" is taking us. Between consumerism and long stretches of forbearance of student loans the young do a precarious balancing act that takes up all of their time. Freshmen today pick and choose from a menu of courses that gives them the edge when they are ready to internship or graduate, whichever comes first. More and more "elective" liberal arts courses are being canceled for lack of enrollment, yet not even a single space is to be found in courses like "Business Ethics and Risk Management."

I feel (as I said in my earlier post regarding phenomenology and abstraction) I am still at that skating rink, far away yet close to the security blanket of institutional organization. What I see in the classroom and what is required to do seem to be pulling in different directions. I still go round and round trying to find a balance. The dark clouds and the strong, cool, humid air predicting rain are still here with me. A shared sense of isolation--a contradiction, a paradox, a no win situation. God help us all.

Patti Smith's "Just Kids" - One of the Best Retrospectives and Studies (not to mention Love Story) of the late 1960s

2010-08-10T09:34:00.010-04:00

This book addresses quite a few questions regarding the process of creation and artistry in general. The fact that these two--Patti Smith and Robert Mapplethorpe managed to accomplish all they did together (and separately) during the most challenging times in this country is a testimony of their collective commitment to art. This narrative of two lives destined to shine is blindingly beautiful prose, difficult to identify to anyone else but the author. It is obvious that Patti Smith put her soul and heart into this book; to do anything else would have been insulting to Robert and all the other great artists, poets, and musicians with whom she shares the stage of the narrative. I really didn't think personal accounts of this sort could ever reach a more poetic and musical form with words--Patti Smith is a poet, an artist, and a great musician. Her development as all of the aforementioned is neatly detailed with each passing page, and, more importantly, not losing the larger picture of her wonderful and loving relationship with Mapplethorpe. "Just Kids" is a wonder to read, and a lesson of love and art.

What impressed me the most was the wonderful pattern the book followed regarding Smith's lyrical style. Every single part of the narrative (not chapters, but simple breaks) ended with a wonderful poetic line(s) that invite the reader to continue reading and reading and reading. Some of the one's that really got to me were: "I wondered why he devoted so much time to me. I reasoned it was because we were both wearing long coats in July, the brotherhood of La Boheme..." and "There was something of us that he saw in a movie but I wasn't certain what. I thought to myself that he contained a whole universe that I had yet to know." and "... I would someday hold his ashes in my hand" and "There was something about that jar. The shards of heavy glass seemed to foreshadow the deepening of our days; we didn't speak of it but each of us seemed inflicted with a vague internal restlessness." and "David Flavin had conceived his installation in response to the mounting death toll of the war in Vietnam. No one in the back room was slated to die in Vietnam, though a few would survive the cruel plagues of a generation." There many more I cannot continue to write here--go get the book and read it.

The books is peppered with photographs taken by Mapplethorpe. One thing that this book is full of is hope. It's amazing to me how confident of his (their) success Robert Mapplethorpe was. I think it does hold water that common dictum of dream big... but to have so much hope in an era of so much confusion and destruction is really a testimony to all Patti Smith and Robert Mapplethorpe achieved together and in their own right.

There are mentions of the entire famous (infamous) crowd at the Chelsea Hotel in New York from 1968 to the latter stages of the decade and into the 1970s when the hotel lost its luster of artists and Bohemia. Nevertheless, those who are mentioned appear like a list of "Who's Who" in the late 1960s. Of particular interest to me was the person of Maxime de la Fallaise, a French model and later New York socialite whose photograph I first saw in an early issue of "At Random," a photograph I cut off and hung in my college dorm room because she looked exactly as my mother looked in her early 20s. Andy Warhol and Bob Dylan appear, but Patti Smith does a great job of not making it sound like a name-dropping episode in the narrative. One humorous story is that of how Allen Ginsburg bought Patti Smith lunch on account that she looked like "an attractive young boy," to the poet of the generation.

I got this book because, aside from being reviewed in the NYT, I felt I could learn quite a bit from it about the creative process. The book did not disappoint when it came to its didactic qualities. Again, how these two managed to be so assured of success, supporting each other through one of the most turbulent of ages of our nation is a testimony to the power of art, literature and music to overcome all.

The (Agonizing) Sorrows of an American, by Siri Hustvedt, part 002

2010-08-09T12:42:00.003-04:00

I mentioned earlier how much I wanted this novel to be good, to be excellent. I think I ended up putting the carriage before the horse. This novel was just about everything but good. If I may be humble, the reason behind my harsh review might just be my inability to understand the undercurrents of this novel. I love everything I have read from Siri Hustvedt, and I went into this book with high expectations. The problem for me was more of the same, the same of what I explained in the previous entry for this novel. I lost most of my time trying to figure out where and when had all the characters come in, or bailed out. The second half of the novel was a touch and go of subplots and retrospective visions that seemingly fell flat. The protagonist's relationship with Miranda, however, proves to be one of the best elements of the entire novel. While the protagonist, Erik Davidsen, is obviously erotically attracted to Miranda, his tenant/artist/friend, the suspense regarding their relationship is kept at growing expectations throughout. He "plays" family with Miranda and her daughter, Eggy. Miranda's ex-husband comes into the picture with stalker-like behavior. He collects several pictures of Erik which he later uses for a public exhibition of his work. I found it masterful the fact hat Hustvedt did not allow the relationship to reach the expected result that, at least for the reader, would have been convention. Miranda and Erik do not end up together.

Along with all of this, there is a trip to Minnesota (Erik's hometown) to try and find out details about his father's past. His companion on this trip is his sister, Inga, a character with her own set of particularly disturbing problems (widow to a "cult" like writer named Max). At any rate, in Minnesota they find a person who seemingly knows the past. The past for these Minnesotan women was being "told" in a series of homemade dolls--highly detail and lifelike albeit the size. Some of the dolls are for general consumption, but there are "pieces" called "The Legacy Pieces" that are not allowed to be viewed by anyone, not even the caretaker of the elderly woman who makes the dolls. Along with that sub-plot, there's another smaller sub-plot developing Erik's "no attachment" relationship to a longtime friend. While the relationship sub-plot is only touched lightly, these scenes appear cliche-ridden, and, most problematically, underdeveloped and drawing, not adding to the general plot. In addition, Inga and her daughter Sonia are fighting the release of letters written by Inga's late husband, a situation/problem that includes its own set of personae dramatis. This includes an old friend of both Inga and Erik, a poor man who suffers from hyperhidrosis, a restless reporter, a has-been movies star with whom Max had had an affair and fathered a son, and a hard, self-interest biographer of Max that ends up in bed with Inga.

In the last few segments of the novel, the flashback/fast-forward technique blurs the path to a satisfactory resolution, and the end, when it comes, feels anti-climatic.

Another reading of this novel would yield (perhaps in the future) a better understanding of what Hustvedt intended to do. Right now, I have to push forward with my reading list, and with the end of the summer session just a few days away, I cannot sit down to decipher the many issues herein.

Teitur - You Get Me

2010-08-06T13:39:00.003-04:00

On Phenomenology and Abstraction, PART 001

2010-08-04T13:22:00.005-04:00

This is a personal piece; don't let the title fool you into believing some extravagant academic lecture is about to take place.

“My memory of the past often takes me to places that seem odd; no matter how many times the memory comes back to me. I remember that during that desperate time, I wrote about a distant memory whose own absurd abstraction still makes me feel solitude and downright phobia of the surreal. Of course, I did not see that moment in that way at the time it took place. I was lost in my own world. It felt as if I had separated from the rest of the human race. The feeling was not unlike that of “The Little Prince.” I was in another world, at some exact time feeling fear and joy, elation and panic. Perhaps I am over-examining the memory of that place. As an adult, I can create all sorts of interpretations, recreating the event and giving it additional meanings. But the time and place—what really happened that day and the feeling of complete isolation were kept in some corner of my brain. Why do I still remember that day? Did I experience what Kitaro Nishida calls “Pure Experience?” Technically, the memory simply includes the setting, knowing that my parents nearby but not with me, the weather—I remember vividly that it was very cloudy and the air gave the distinctive feeling that it was about to rain. So where’s the absurdity? Where’s the surreal image? Perhaps the image is what stuck to my mind, waiting for me to reach adulthood and a have the intellectual capacity needed to defeat the symbols of that absurdity. That is not to say I needed to read Freud or Jung to make sense of this episode and scenery, but it does help to know the potential of this being a universal feeling or experience, one of those things that happen to people every day. It is not what happened, really, but the feeling that the moment was important and meaningful in a way I might never be able to explain. Of one thing I am certain: if I seek back far enough, I will find the appropriate, if not adequate theory to go with the interpretation I have formulated.

“I hope I am not giving the impression that this event has haunted me, rendering me incapable to defeat the fear/phobia and reach an understanding of it. What makes the memory come to life in picture? The weather, the fact that my parents were a few hundred yards away but I still felt incredibly lost, and, perhaps the most important or ridiculous part of the experience: I was on a skating rink with skates on. I forgot to mention that the beach was also a stone throw away; hence, my parents at a fishing pier not within eye sight but close enough. So, if I combine all of those things, and feel the experience was meaningful in some deep level of understanding, where do I begin to unravel its meaning, its significance, the real meaning behind all of those symbols? Of course, I hear myself loudly enough about how I am making more of this than I should. This is not as if I was trying to decipher a dream; that, I suppose, would be a little less complex. Could I look at it as it were a dream from long ago? Possibly, but I would not be able to do that without robbing it of something essential: the fact that I am looking at an actual event in my life and not some sort of activity in my brain while in the deep recesses of slumber. This happened on the outside; it was perceived and retained, and now meaning seems to be forcing itself on the memory. See, if it had been a dream, then it would go without saying that meaning would creep up on it by the fact that dreams, by default, seek meaning. Books have been written about it (Freud, again). Why tackle this now? Why not leave it at what I wrote about it back in 2005? Why? I’ve become a different person in the last five years. There are still many of the same emotions I had then in my “present-mindedness,” and I cannot overlook the fact that I am a more stable person today. And it is this stability that allows me to look at the past in this way. Would I be able to look at this very event in the same way? Suppose I return to it 20 years later, what would I say about the feeling of complete abstraction? I mean, we are not talking about an event that visually resembles a Guernica; it is simply what it is: a childhood memory.

“I suspect that there’s danger in going to opposite way and pretend that the memory means nothing. I do not subscribe to the idea of nothingness—even thoughts and memories embody substantiality. Millions of cells do “their thing” in order to bring the memory as a picture. That, even at the molecular level the picture/memories have substantial, matter-like meaning. I know that the memory means something, that the symbols embedded in it are there for a reason and that I need to interpret them in my own way. Nevertheless, I should try and avoid “trading” one interpretation for another as the years continue to pass. I know I said earlier that by default I create different interpretations with every year that passes, but the seductive power of the status quo can be strong—let’s just leave things the way they are. Jean Paul Sartre said as much, “Things are exactly what they are, and behind them there is nothing.” Of course, I have to steady the memory itself and the impact it continues to have on me by giving it its proper value, quality and characteristic. I mustn’t, however, seek for over-simplifications (Sartre was often accused of obfuscating the topic at hand if he did not know enough about it). The skating rink as a symbol of going around in circles and making the same mistakes again and again is a valid interpretation, but what if there’s much more than that and by accepting that I neglect other approaches, other theories? Could different interpretations of the same event survive side by side? What if they contradict each other? How do I select one over the other and know I am making the right choice? What I have neglected to say here is that all I have done with this memory/picture is to study it from a phenomenological stance, a manifestation within a manifestation. That is to say, above all different meanings behind the actual visual memory, the simple act of having experienced that moment in that place and at that time is textbook phenomenology. It also goes without saying that I could never experience that again, anymore than I could experience Marine Corps boot camp any other different way.

“Going back to the skating rink, were it to be different if I remembered the date of the occasion? For example, I remember the date and time of the first kiss I gave a girl in the seventh grade. The fact that I remember the date seems to solidify the memory; it seems to stabilize it but not in an ordinary way. The date and time give the experience a framework to depart from—so 29 years ago, when I took that girl in my arms and kissed her remains in my mind as “Pure Experience.” “Pure Experience,” as per Japanese rational philosopher Kitaro Nishida stipulates that experience can only be pure (its highest state) only when judgment of said experience is superseded the experience itself. For example, I see the color red. When did I see that color for the first time, and when was I told that the color red looked that way (in all its variations)? Well, the time I saw the color red before there was anyone there to explain it to me is, as per Nishida, “Pure Experience.” With the memory of the skating rink I would have to say no (because of the fact that I knew what the skating rink was, and what I was doing there was known to me). But a little more digging reveals the impossibility of “Pure Experience” interpretation. By remembering a date and time, we subscribe the memory/picture to a man-made concept: the Gregorian calendar, so that the experience becomes memory by means of a day of a month of a year at a specific time of that day, invalidating both “Pure Experience” and phenomenology. Another example of this is how people experience history. There is a large movement in the United States of people who gather to recreate Civil War battles. Is the experience of recreating an experience more real/valid than watching, say, Ken Burns’ “The Civil War” on PBS the first time it aired? We can’t go back in time, so we engage in simulacra (not exactly play “pretend”) and call it experience.

“I still wonder what it was about the skating rink that burned the memory in my brain. Was it the weather that set the mood, the dark clouds gathering with the promise of a summer storm? In some way I believe it did. Would I remember and see that moment the same way if it had been clear outside, the sky so bright and sunny it hurt my eyes to look at it? I think I am making progress. My personality—from a very early age—has had the propensity for the melancholy. The process of that memory (visual and philosophically) was branded in my mind by means of a deep feeling of self-awareness (perhaps the first I ever had in regards to emotions). Self-awareness of one’s own physical existence happens much earlier. The memory of the skating rink is something I believe to be metaphysical. It gave me the first glimpse into the world of thought. It was impossible to realize what was happening at the time; these were issues beyond my maturity. It is only later that we can begin to ask, what are we suppose to remember? What do we do with a memory that is more than a glimpse to the past? Should we mold and shape our lives by the discoveries we make looking back and philosophizing the memory? What are these symbols? The skating rink, me going in circles, the weather threatening, my parents (far away as if in another world), and that split second of self-realization?

Shostakovich and Solzhenitsyn: Laughing at Authority

2010-07-20T09:40:00.008-04:00

The U.S.S.R. no longer exists. The world (or at least the democratic capitalist governments) thought that the influence of Mother Russia as a Superpower had ended permanently with Mikhail Gorbachev exiting in shame, and Boris Yeltsin dancing on top of a Russian tank to the delight of the Muscovite masses. The idealist/propagandists world looked at this as a miracle--the more realistic groups knew enough to know that Perestroika and Glasnost had done their work, little by little, in breaking the mold of Soviet rule. But before the so-called "Cold War" was over, there were men and women risking their lives, daring (without an open dare) against a system they thought unfair. Most of these valiant individuals were artists.

Alexander Solzhenitsyn was both a visionary and a traitor after the publication of "One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich," and "The Gulag Archipelago." That was, of course, after Solzhenitsyn was sentenced to hard labor for anti-Stalinist comments around the same time he was being decorated for his service in World War II. From where, hence, comes the contradiction? His prose seemed to praise the system within a veil of criticism. Not even the Union of Writers (a puppet of the party) was able to keep up with the hidden meanings of his work. The Union knew, of course, that Solzhenitsyn was playing with fire, but could do little to control the output of this driven artist. Not even the KGB could stop the writing power of this man, and, some time after that, Solzhenitsyn won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1970. Solzhenitsyn came under attack, all the while writing, hiding, writing some more. The KGB managed to confiscate some of his works (he had to recreate "The First Circle" entirely from memory). All the way up to 1974, Solzhenitsyn continued to write, hiding and existing in a world of shadows, but writing nonetheless. Shortly thereafter he was forced into exile and spent the better part of his advanced age in Vermont. (Incidentally, Mstilav Rostropovich was shortly after sent into exile for having sheltered and supported Solzhenitsyn). In 2005, Solzhenitsyn returned to a post-Soviet Russia for the first time, but he found out (the hard way) that the young nation was not going to be delivered by an author--the people needed jobs and the hope for a better future. Solzhenitsyn (might have) died of a broken heart.

Dmitri Shostakovitch was considered a sell-out by his contemporaries when, in 1960, he joined the Communist party. What his contemporaries failed to realize (as in Solzhenitsyn) was the hidden messages in his musical compositions. For example, the second movement of the Symphony No. 5 presents a theme that can only be compared to the music of a puppet show. The first movement sets the tone to a glorification of the U.S.S.R., the vast, sweeping and militant themes can be seen as a set up of sorts. Here, Breshnev and all the rest in the Politburo nodded and approved of his seemingly Soviet-exalting pieces, and all the while Shostakovitch laughing under his breath. There are many other examples of Shostakovitch's work that fall under the category of subversive; so much so that it is nearly impossible to present in any categorized manner. As a result, I selected the piece I thought best represented his rebellion.

Notebooks That Matter...

2010-07-09T17:28:00.007-04:00

Well, in my never-ending search for the perfect notebook for my Visconti pen, I've come to realize that my solution was right under my nose. While I have been using the practical Moleskine Sketchbook (the paper is so thick there's only 100 pages worth), I have considered the Quo Vadis Havana as the ultimate solution. The problem is that I can't fork over the twenty-something dollars without feeling the guilt. It's very tempting, with that and the fact that the Havanas have the coveted Clairefontaine, 90g extra white, acid-free paper, but I simply cannot do it and keep a clean conscious. So, as I reexamined the (dis)organization of my book shelves and office, I came across a stack of about 20 notebooks I purchased in Japan over a decade ago. The maker is Apica Notebooks, as if by magic there it was: 90g acid-free paper! Super effective with fountain pens, no matter the color. In fact, I wrote in several of these when I lived in Japan back in 1994. The pen at the time was my loyal and ever-trusty Parker Vector, medium nib (20 years ago a $6.95 value at your convenient college bookstore). Even with a medium nib the paper held nicely without any bleeding. Even today, when I review the completed notebooks from 1994, I am amazed I had completely forgotten I had these valuable notebooks just sitting around waiting to be REdiscovered. The Havanas will have to wait for a good while now. Here's a photo of the Apica Classic. The cover reads: "Note Book Most Advanced Quality Gives Best Writing Features" (those of you familiar with the Japanese usage of the Queen's English will no doubt understand the "Engrish" phenomenon).

The (Agonizing) Sorrows of an American, by Siri Hustvedt, part 001

2010-07-07T11:01:00.007-04:00

I keep telling myself, "there's nothing wrong with this novel, there's nothing wrong with this novel." The reason, if I have any at all, is the fact that I loved "What I Loved," and "A Plea for Eros" so much it's becoming increasingly difficult for me to realize I am reading the same author. "The Sorrows of an American" is a confusing labyrinth of characters and voices, temporal abstractions (not the ones italicized), and shifts within the plot (more than just a plot within the plot). All of this combined makes this novel a valiant effort, but an effort nonetheless.

If Ms. Hustvedt tried to exercise her knowledge of the surreal in writing, she has succeeded without parallel. The problem stems from the fact that the average reader (myself) does not read exclusively for surrealism, with or without specific order. Now, Ms. Hustvedt is married to Mr. Paul Auster, and despite risking making an unfair connection or allusion, I have to say that I somehow can digest his surrealism but not Ms. Hustvedt. Having said that, I tried and tried and tried to get into the story, to think through the events and study carefully the abstractions. One thing that also made it difficult for me was my inability to recognize a "flashback" versus what Ms. Hustvedt seems to be attempting. Firstly, there's the question of the narrator/protagonist. It takes a great effort to discern that the person "talking to us" is a man. I suspect that the first sentence has something to do with the general sense of the novel: "My sister called it 'the year of secrets'" and from there the first fifteen pages are filled with family details, secrets, the recent loss of a patriarch, letters from his/her father to a lover no one knew about, and an excellent display of Norwegian phrases and how the do not translate well literally into English. I understand that a novel whose premise is a "year of secrets" would eventually resemble this narrative form, but it's nearly impossible to 1) hold the emotional tension a secret helps develop (sort of the holding of the breath), and 2) follow all the shifts in direction, voice, etc.

I will nevertheless recommend Ms. Husdvedt's work, "The Sorrows of an American" included. Reading this novel made me realize my deficiencies in understanding the variants and complexities of fiction writing. Heck, I can't even write intelligently about it.

"Perfect Reader" by Maggie Pouncey

2010-06-23T12:08:00.018-04:00

There's a confusing force behind the (mis)label of "first novel" that mythologizes the new author, flooding him/her with the misnomer of "rising star," among other deceiving titles. My purpose is not to criticize the process of examining an author's experience or maturity and how the media introduces said author; this, I believe, is inconsequential. What I am most concern with is how this label straddles the thin line between a promising future and the proverbial "kiss of death" effect. Maggie Pouncey needs not be afraid. Her "first novel," "Perfect Reader" shines with the quality of an established author. The novel evokes not only the writer's experience in terms of plot building and expository techniques, but also a curious knowledge of intimate emotions--the very emotions that make fiction a mirror of life. Ms. Pouncey's talent is "up there" with the likes of Claire Messud, Arundhati Roy, and Zadie Smith. "Perfect Reader" is a bright start to a future in contemporary fiction that totally banishes the artificial barrier of "first" or "debut" novel. I recommend "Perfect Reader" without reserve.

The novel builds on the relationship between Flora Dempsey and her recently deceased father, Lewis Dempsey, poet and college president, among many other known and unknown roles. I've already read some reviews out and about the Internet encircling interpretations around the theme of Electra complex. I will borrow a statement previously recorded to describe this limited interpretation: To say "Perfect Reader" is about Electra complex is to say the Grand Canyon is just a big hole in Arizona. Catch my drift? The fact that Flora shares the spotlight with so many other characters in the plot is not a deficiency in this novel. On the contrary, there's Cynthia, Flora's father's last lover, and the strain it puts on Flora to account as one of those examples of shared spotlight. Cynthia is characterized in a way that makes the reader change directions... to like her, or not to like her, that might just be the question. Flora's mother is another case of unpredictable twists and turns. It is the same with Flora, I am afraid, but it is that ambiguity that made me want to read this to whatever conclusion it came to. The ties between the characters is masterfully done. Who would think to make Lewis Dempsey's attorney (Paul) Flora's lover? That I did not expect. It is not that it makes the plot complicated in frivolous ways, but the nature of the relationship between Flora and Paul is a novel in and of itself. Those who claim Flora as an ambiguous character impossible to relate to must consider the opposite of that argument: Flora is NOT a predictable character. Would that had made her more likable? I doubt it. The character does its job quite well, and keeps the reader interested in not just the protagonist and her decisions.

Reviewing a book is not the same thing as summarizing a plot. My reading of "The Perfect Reader" was also enjoyable because of the craft and artistry of the language. Here's a passage that I just had to reproduce here: "He imagines the two of them meeting years earlier, when they were young, when she was still a girl, her body 'serpentine, unbitten; the bulb below my ribs not yet ripened.' Had he not realized what was undone under such revisions? For example, Flora? Better to have Cynthia from the beginning than to have had Flora at all? And her mother, beyond being erased, became the emblem of all that had gone wrong, fifteen years of marriage reduced to a regrettable error corrected only with the second coming of love, the Edenic Cynthia, the post-apocalyptic redemption of sins past, the clean slate, or brave new world, the wonder and rightness of it all, at long bloody last. If her father had lived, these paroxysms might have come to seem overdone even to him, but he had not lived, and so their passion was poised and immortalized in the state of perfection, in the state of poetry." This passage refers to Flora's painful interpretation of her father's poems. She feels he wanted to erase his Ante-Cynthia life, erase Flora from the face of the planet, and the rest of an entire world with it. And all of this for Cynthia? Impossible. Thus Flora does all she can (as her father's literary executor) to delay and/or stop the publishing of the poems. The conclusion of the struggle regarding with the poems displays a character that, having gone through a gamut of emotions, grows in perspective, maturity and compassion. Her relationship with Cynthia settled, Flora embarks on seeking her future away from Darwin College.

There's another passage I had to keep reading again and again. This takes place when Flora meditates on what the place (Darwin College) and her father's role in it meant to her. The reason I love this passage so much is because, for the first time in my academic life, I have been told what academia really is and what it stands for without any need for apologies. "She was done with Darwin College. What was it to her? Her father's employer; her family's former landlord; the setting of her childhood. A collective of disappointed people burying themselves under ideas. Who privileged (their word) thought about all else. Ambitious thinkers, grasping, striving, while trying to look contemplative, nonchalant, and depressed. And reading, reading, reading. Infinite reading. Always ready with the right reference, the counterargument, the dazzling associative leap. They had what looked to the rest of the world like the most outrageous gig--you barely had to be there; you were an expert; you walked to work. And yet there was something wrong with all of them." I take this as someone having the insight and the brass to tell it like it is. I read this quote to a colleague and she asked me if I didn't feel in the slightest insulted. Like a politician, my answer could have been based on false emotion, but it felt great to see her react to such an aggressive definition of what we do.

I enjoyed "Perfect Reader" tremendously. I pray and hope Ms. Pouncey is not buried under the monikers and titles defining "Perfect Reader" as her "first novel." She has much to offer and knows quite well how to do it.

By any Stretch of the Imagination: Missing the Mark

2010-05-25T08:33:00.018-04:00

I believe there is a certain stretch that acts as a limit to projects of the imagination. That's not to be pessimistic about creativity--after all, it was Albert Einstein who said, "Imagination is more important than fact." Nevertheless, when people begin to test the limit of what is overly intellectualized I have to put ear plugs on. Case in point: Yo-Yo Ma's series "Inspired by Bach." I am a cellist. I have actually met Mr. Yo-Yo Ma twice, and the second time it freaked me out that he remembered my name. The first time was backstage when he came to play with us in Washington; the second time was about a year later when I attended a master class he conducted at the Kennedy Center. It didn't feel special, really. I have met several people that can retain people's names and greet everyone like their best friend even after not seeing them for years. At any rate, when the "Inspired by Bach" series was first broadcast on PBS, a great schism took over the cellists' world. Those who took Yo-Yo Ma as trying to be overly intellectual, and the others who argued the man was not only a legend in the music world, but was also a Liberal Arts scholar and genius. I have been on both sides of the argument.

Watching the film "The Sound of Carceri" again after 10 years made me reassert my initial reaction to it. The series "Inspired by Bach" offer a wide spectrum of professional artists cooperating with Yo-Yo Ma. My belief is that some of the projects worked and some others were an atrocious stretch of an overly intellectualized group of experts. For example, both of the films that interpret Bach's 6 Suites for Cello Solo by creating dance choreographies (the Mark Morris Dance Company film, and the one with the world class kabuki dancer Tamasaburo Bando), work perfectly. The others not so much.

The premise of "The Sound of Carceri" is basically to create a computer model of Piranesi's engravings in 3 a dimensional surrounding and then place Yo-Yo Ma playing Suite No. 2 right in the middle of the graphic rendition. The concept is far too complex to actually bring about with purity to the original idea; that is to say, it really isn't the space Piranesi created because the Carceri were never built, and thus the whole concept of a 3 dimensional graphic generated setting is not "pure Piranesi," but rather the Carceri interpretation of those computer geniuses constructing the engravings inside the computer. Again, I am trying not to be pessimistic, but that was the first red flag for me the first and second time I watched the film. The film is directed by Francois Girard, but little mention or none at all is brought in to the "making of" section of the film about the computer experts the created the "space." Credits are credits, and I am sure all the names of the computer experts that rendered the engraving in 3D are mentioned at the end. However, too much emphasis on the actual sound engineering (the attempt to create the resonance, amplitude and the acoustic environment of the Carceri) took nearly one third of the film, and after a while it lost its sense of interest. What is more, the actual sound engineering took place in one of the only buildings Piranesi was able to build--the Church of the Pierazzo in Rome. This was curious to me due to the fact that it seemed such a stretch, an overkill--I think spaces to recreate the acoustic environment of the Carceri could have been engineered in any abandoned warehouse in Manhattan, perhaps with better and easier results. I am not being cynical, but what was the significance of using the Church of the Pierazzo? What was it about that particular space that made the project more accurate, better? This is never explained, but I am imagining that perhaps they thought the ghost of Giovanni Battista Piranesi would "guide" their project from beyond.

There are some good commentary from two experts whose insight actually made the project "passable." The first of these is Moshe Saidie, an architect who seemed skeptical at first. He states "architecture is something we experience... a blue print or engraving is not architecture... models are not architecture [especially inside a computer]... " The second scholar is John Wilton-Elly. His commentary dealt with the "reality" of the engraving. Looking at these engravings is enough to "feel claustrophobic, feel a sense of frustration... it turns into a Kafka's sense of containment... the engraving are only manifested in our imagination... "

I don't think I've ever been more critical of what is to a degree a good project, a good piece of art. I think Yo-Yo Ma's heart was in the right place, but the stretch made the film into an unanswerable inquiry into the limits of imagination and left both Bach and Piranesi in the rear-view mirror.

The Sad Side of Being Billy Crystal

2010-05-22T17:38:00.015-04:00

I normally do not write about celebrities, but something occurred to me recently and I felt I wanted to write about this topic but from a very singular angle. Many of the people that have worked with Mr. Billy Crystal in over 10 films have died, many of them quite young. I don't know Mr. Crystal's age, but I believe he's still a young looking man. It must be very difficult to lose so many friends so early. I think first, of course, of Bruno Kirby who died of cancer a few years ago. I have no idea what it must be like to work on a movie set, but by the same token I can't think individuals can simply forget or feel indifferent if a large number of their "co-workers" at a "place of employment" died in rapid succession. Gregory Hines and Billy Crystal were absolutely perfect in "Running Scared." Mr. Hines was not only a great actor, but an excellent tap dancer as well. About a decade ago, there was a tribute to Sammy Davis, Jr. (thankfully before he died), and Gregory Hines and Mr. Davis did a tap dance number together. As with most tap dance routines, they squared off imitating each others steps. Towards the end of the routine, Sammy Davis, Jr.'s tapping was so complex that Mr. Hines got on his knees and kissed Sammy Davis, Jr.'s shoes. Now, anyone with a cynical side would say it was all for show; however, there was something about Gregory Hines' sincerity in the act of bowing to a superior that was far too genuine to fake. His tears spoke for themselves. A few months later, Sammy Davis, Jr. was dead--cancer.

Billy Crystal has had to endure the loss of friends such as (the aforementioned three), Andre the Giant, Anne Ramsey, Jack Palance, John Spencer, Carl Ballantine, Joe Viterelli, Carroll O'Connor, Nancy Walker, Pat Morita, John Fiedler, Tom Pedi, Ted Bessell, Walker Edmiston, Jean Le Bouvier, Fred Sadoff, Henry Wilcoxon, Stephen Roberts, Steve Allen, Foster Brooks, Ray Goulding, William De Acutis, George Carlin, John Candy, Estelle Getty, Buddy Hackett, Madeline Kahn, Henny Youngman, Brother Theodore, and perhaps some more I did not list here. (Also Mickey Mantle with whom Mr. Crystal did not work, but was very good friends with). For a relatively young man, by any measure, I happen to find this "statistic" quite outrageous.

Let's not say here that working with Billy Crystal is an occupational hazard--far from it, Billy Crystal is the comic's comic. He has given the world so much laughing material and I bet the odds of him winning the Presidential Medal is nearly a certainty. Beyond the sad side of his incredible career I bet it's awesome to be Billy Crystal.

The Impromptu Writing Lesson

2010-05-16T10:05:00.008-04:00

In the spring semester of 2009, I had a student from my AP English class come up to the board. I told the student to simply "let it rip," and go with the flow and to write whatever she wanted or came to mind--no grammar, punctuation or even sentence structure needed. This is what came out:

"I was seated at a crowded cafe when he came in. My first thought was that he stood out from the rest of the people waiting in line. My second impression was that of the passage from Hemingway's book I had read so many times, but I knew Hemingway to be a terrible liar and the impression he wrote about in the book about watching a girl walk into the cafe where he was writing was probably made up. I had had a vision and mine was entirely different from his. Other thoughts took me back a year earlier to an encounter with a similar complete stranger while running to catch a bus. It was raining hard and he was a real gentleman, and without hesitation gave me his umbrella. We sat together inside the crowded bus and exchanged vague information about each other. I didn't find him defensive, but rather much reserved and I began to think he was probably married. Then he told me a sad story about an ill-fated balloonist whose hot air balloon deflated at an incredible height. While on the way down to his death, the man called his wife on a two-way radio and told her how much he loved her, and the children, etc. I found the story strange and random for having just met him, but it was a story that almost made me cry. Then he rang for the stop, stood up, and said good-bye. The bus began to move by the time I realized he had forgotten his umbrella. The more I thought about the story he told me, the more I thought he had probably lied... just like Hemingway."

We spent the rest of the hour discussing her impromptu story, and the rest of the students loved the exercise and we kept doing it twice a week for the rest of the spring semester. Everyone was impressed at the fact that she DID follow grammar rules--it took her a little under five minutes to complete the story! Boy that was fun!

Octavio Paz: "Convergences: Essays on Art and Literature" Part 003

2010-05-02T23:15:00.010-04:00

There is not critical power stronger than that of an academic who crosses borders of artistic criticism at his or her own will. I don't have a problem with Octavio Paz' examination of Pablo Picasso, and I admit readily that most of what he says is dead-on. The only polemic I can bring up is Octavio Paz' constant use of that which contradicts itself in his criticism; sentences say one thing and before they end, they express the complete opposite. At the center of this constant contradiction is Picasso--is there anything more to say about this artist beyond saying his name? Paz' writing narrows down the rebellion of Picasso's art, the non-conformity of every inch of the artist's life, personal and public. Paz' is at once comfortable and ill at ease with Picasso (wow, now I am starting to sound like Paz). Octavio Paz' essay runs along the same lines of Norman Mailer's biography of Pablo Picasso--there's much metaphoric and analogical language to sink a ship and enough contradiction to raise it again from the depths. Paz states that, "The paradox of Picasso, as a historical phenomenon, lies in the fact that is the representative figure of a society that detests representation." Any examination of the chronology of Picasso's work exhibits enough evidence to debunk Paz' statement. Picasso did not represent, Picasso shaped, he led, he transfigured what society held as representative. He led and dictated the idiom of that representation; society be damned if it did not accord to Picasso's view of the world. Critics have labeled each and every one of Picasso's "periods," and even that signification did not make amends between the Catalonian and the rest of the art world. For example, Picasso embraced the brutality of the bullring in his art, producing even what some experts call "menial" advertising copy posters for bull fighting events. I think this harsh criticism (a criticism which also ignores the fact that those "menial" ad posters sell for thousands if not millions of dollars), and this view of Picasso's so-called "menial" work is based on today's incapability to understand the bull fighting tradition. Bull fighting, as explained by Hemingway, the self-declared first aficionado of the sport, is a representation of the ultimate combat between beast and human, perhaps Picasso's struggle against the art world. Having its roots on the great Roman games at the Colosseum, bull fighting represents not only brutality but also a sort of reverent art, a dignified moment for a man to face his ultimate fears and by the ice cold nerve of his own courage, either win or lose the battle. How does this apply to Picasso? In this case I do agree with Octavio Paz. He describes the connection as follows: Picasso, being the essential lone/rebellious artist, comes to embody the bullfighter calling out to his cuadrilla to leave him alone with the beast; the moment has come for him to individually kill or be killed. In this case, art is the beast, and Picasso its tamer. Paz states that "Like all art of this century [the 20th], though with greater ferocity, Picasso's is shot through with an immense negation. He himself once said: 'In order to make, one must make against." We live with the understanding that producing art that rebels against representation is a rebellion against plurality and an attempt at a hermetic singularity; that is to say, to go against the current by leaving behind any sort of influence, to embark in the most pure of all originality that defies the criticism of the day, is not only sacrilegious, but in most cases artistic suicide. Picasso was the first to break the dependence of art on criticism. I am not sure this is Picasso--I mean the interpretation, but Paz' takes it a step further and I begin to understand: "Our art has been and is critical; by this I mean that in the greater works of our day--novels, paintings, poems or musical compositions--criticism is inseparable from creation. I correct myself: criticism is creative. Criticism of criticism, criticism of form, criticism of the human figure and of the visible reality in painting and sculpture. In Marcel Duchamp, Picasso's opposite pole, the negation of our century is expressed as a criticism of passion and its phantoms." We know the visible world by labels, and by labels alone we interpret and criticize. This was the academic tumult of the post World War II era--perhaps what this particular American manifestation brought about. Academics became specialized, concentrated on one of a million forms in order narrow down their critical eye and create by "destroying" the singularity of meaning. Art became feminist, or anti-feminist, Marxist or even Imperialist. These specialized critics narrowed down on what they thought was Picasso's Achilles' heel; the period that propelled Picasso into the "modern" idea of art appreciation. The critics seized Cubism not because it was simple to "break down" into criticism, but because the Blue and the Pink periods of Picasso's artistic representation were difficult to narrow down, to entrap and "abuse." But with Cubism Picasso also had his coup d'etat--as if saying to the so-called interpreters to kiss his royal ass. In the late 1950s, when asked by critics what Picasso and his contemporaries spoke about in their days-long tertulias, he responded that the topic of most interest was where to get cheap turpentine. The critics were outraged. How dare the artist trick us like this! Picasso went to his grave undefeated, a master of his time and his art still speaks of that unanimity.

This is my last entry on "Convergences: Essay on Art and Literature." There's much more to discuss about Octavio Paz' vision of the literal, the lines of meaning and translation, among other themes, but the volume is thick in substance and I don't want to turn this blog into a tribute (however well deserved) to Octavio Paz. I think these entries are enough.

Octavio Paz: "Convergences: Essays on Art and Literature" Part 002

2010-04-30T09:11:00.012-04:00

In all written word, there appears to be some sort of level that I can only equate to prophesy. This is the case with Octavio Paz' essay on "The Verbal Contract" and how it affects societies. Mind you here is an Octavio Paz writing in the late 1970s, rabid with theories about how technology influences language. I am a true believer in the after-life, and, if it is as Borges once stated (I have always imagined that Paradise is a kind of library), there has got to be a very confused Octavio Paz trying to reconcile his theories to the "conflict" that our new technology has affected on language. The technology Paz writes about in the essay is essentially television. Television came around in the late 40s and early 50s, but it really took nearly 25 or 30 years for scholars to take a good and critical look at it. Even in the early 1980s, Neil Postman was perhaps the only one looking at it from an academic perspective. In his book Amusing Ourselves to Death: Public Discourse in the Age of Show Business, Postman problematizes the epidemic of "educational" television shows and the effect on children who are brought up to believe learning has to be fun, and, even worse than that, educators that embraced (and continue to embrace) the idea that it is imperative to present lessons that are "entertaining and engaging." In this sense, Paz and Postman could have agreed. There's a basic level of rudimentary learning that is not fun, or entertaining, and it is a fundamental part of learning during our earliest years. Many researchers now see the parallel of the argument for "fun" in the classroom with the decline of subjects such as science and mathematics. At any rate, the technology that I wish Octavio Paz had had access to in his time, of course, is the Internet. He states that: "Media, as their name indicates, are not languages. With great brilliance but faulty logic, Marshall McLuhan once tried to demonstrate that the relationship between messages and media was similar in type to that between sound and meaning within language: each medium has a corresponding type of discourse, just as each morpheme and each word emit a meaning or set of meanings.... To a certain degree, the communications media are neutral; no convention predetermines that certain signs will be transmitted and other not. So to speak of the languages of television or films is to use a metaphor: television transmit language, but in and of itself it is not language. It is possible, of course, to say--once again, as figure of speech or metaphor--that there is a grammar, a morphology, and a syntax of television, but not a semantics. Television does not broadcast meanings; it broadcasts signs that convey meaning." I have not reason to disagree, and I strongly believe that his theory becomes even stronger when applied to the Internet, or wireless communications in general. The idea that there are "no semantics" to technology transmitting meaning takes on a life of its own when applied exclusively to text messaging. There, I believe Octavio Paz might have come straight to a dead end; that is to say, text messaging, over the course of just a few short years, has, in fact, developed its own semantics. In this case, symbols do convey the meaning behind the message without having to separate the meaning from the symbol. Various reports about the usage of text messaging by young people conclude that most prefer text messaging to e-mail, and even consider e-mail a thing of the past. I remember the first time--I think it was late 1980s--when I encountered the lexicon of the new technology. I was minding my own business in a chat room (having connected to a local free access Net at the blazing speed of 1200 bauds) when someone made a comment after something I typed. I meant my statement to be humorous, and one of the other people in the chat room typed in "LOL." Well, my interpretation of that was "Loser Online," and you can imagine how I responded. Of course, I was put in my place and realized, even back then, that the technology in this case was molding meaning and that the semiotic convention was evolving too fast to date. Text messaging has its own set of abbreviation meanings that (in my opinion) do convey specific content of semiotic information. Perhaps this is extending the argument, but I am incline to believe that some of the text messaging abbreviated language even crosses cultural boundaries, and, if it is as Octavio Paz states that "Culture is... in the totality of things, institutions, ideas and images that a given society uses, because it has either invented them or inherited them or borrowed them from other cultures. A culture is above all a totality of things..." then there's much to say about the transmission of language and meaning today. Octavio Paz is correct in arguing this premise, and, to his credit, arguing it even beyond his times: if language dictates the development of a culture, and it cannot be transmitted by media in a world dependent almost entirely of media, how then, do we continue to expand knowledge, language, meanings? Perhaps William Gibson's assertion in "Neuromancer," where he coined the term cyberspace, explaining in a rather illogical way that "there's no there there," could have put Octavio Paz in his place. If there's no there, then there's no language or meaning, and whatever is flying around in that space that is not space is not transmittable or meaningful.

I am reminded of the anti-trust case against Microsoft back in the late 1990s. One of the Senators bringing down the heat on Bill Gates asked the present audience to raise their hands if they primarily a Mac based system; only a few hands went up. When he asked to see how many used a Windows based computer, 90% or more of the audience raised their hands. "You see, Mr. Gates," the Senator blared confidently, "that is a monopoly." I sort of disagree with this method of conclusion/logic, but I do have to think of the importance of the Operating System language. If Windows, in all of its mutated versions, is used broadly throughout the world, say, in Kenya, Thailand, Vietnam, England, Belarus, Romania, and South Korea, the design and interface of the system has, by virtue of its plurality, become a language of sorts, meanings, and even semiotics. While the usage of Macs is on the increase, Windows as a media transmitting meaning through its interface language still dominates. Imagine that, Bill Gates turns over Octavio Paz' theories... techno geek against Nobel Prize winner... who to believe?

Octavio Paz' "Convergences: Essays on Art and Literature" part 001

2010-04-29T09:38:00.010-04:00

The shame of having hold on to a book for this long without reading it finally took a toll on my emotions this week. Just like Zbigniew Herbert's "Still Life with a Bridle," which took me about 10 years to get to it (and I devoured this little book, a delicious combination of essays and apocryphas), Octavio Paz' book "Convergences: Essays on Art and Literature" gathered dust on top of my book shelve for nearly 15 years. I've had a series of false starts with it, never going through the first essay as a whole, and putting it down in favor of something more "digestible." Well, sometimes that's all it takes because, as T.S. Eliot indicated early on, "time is an enzyme," and now I am fully enjoying this book.

Paz' ideas of translation strike me as ironic (all of these essays are originally in Spanish... the praised translation comes from Helen Lane). He problematizes translation in literature as paradoxical at best, and, through a series of historical and self-interpretations he devices a theory that begins in Babel and ends within the enclosure of a New Guinea pygmy community listening to a Edith Piaf song on a record player. First, Octavio Paz takes on the diversity of language and its origins. He doesn't just cite the Biblical principle of Babel as an example--he always had a way of commencing with metaphysics and somehow still be able to explain the concrete. But he uses Babel to expose the idea of unity and diversity. The unity of all humanity under one language led to an extravagant God-like and arrogant pursuit. As a result, Paz holds, the Spirit scattered the language into a million traditions. This diversity of language is "an attack on the unity of the mind," and in the same token a challenge to the idea of God as supreme--if humans fail to comprehend unity in language, how then, Paz asserts, would they be able to conceive of a supreme, unified idea of God? All of this, however, is based on an examination of language; this is where Octavio Paz perhaps develop the rank of ideas that led to a Nobel Prize in Literature. "Plurality is universally taken to be a curse and a condemnation: it is the consequence of a transgression against the Spirit," a statement that, for all intent and purposes, has a blend of the metaphysical and modern interpretation of a multiplicity of languages. Being bilingual or even trilingual begins the to reverse this process, for, as Paz states, "To speak a foreign tongue, understand it, and translate it into one's own is to restore the unity of the beginning." No, Paz is not playing with the circular reasoning of the Russian Deconstructionists, but rather taking on translation as a tool of understanding. He does play a back and forth game, but as confusing as it seemingly is, Paz eventually wraps it all up in a way we can understand: some translations work and some others do not. Pushing the argument to the very limit, he uses a word most of those do not know, or perhaps have never encountered before, but we all know what it is once he explains it.

Speaking in tongues, Paz is quick to introduce, "was not exclusive to early Christian communities. It antedates them and appears in a great many Oriental and Mediterranean cults going back to earliest antiquity." It is important to mention that Paz recognizes the paradox: this "speaking in tongues" has been recognized as holy and evil at the same time; the more conventional the Medieval Church became, the more ostracized speakers of this unknown ejaculations became. Their refuge, as an act of subversion and submission at the same time, became the Protestant Reformation. Even to this day, the Catholic Church discourages this kind of practice, while churches of other denominations embrace it as it takes place spontaneously without regard to rank or title (perhaps this is why the Catholics "dislike" this practice--they have been obsessed with rank and file since the very start). But, if the practice has been present since very early on, why the push and pull controversy of it? It is unifying, Paz states, rather than divisive: "The universality of the phenomenon, and its persistence among historical changes and the extreme diversity of cultures, languages, and societies, incline me to think that we are once more in the presence of a human constant." The official term for this manifestation/behavior is "glossolalia."

Glossolalia is not exclusive to religion. As a matter of fact, poets of the Modernist movement (especially in Latin America) played with similar "artistic" tools. Early in the 20th century, there was a movement of "creationist" poetry--Huidobro being the most extensive practitioner of this method--which used "real" language words and mixed them with spontaneous prefixes and suffixes that made them border on glossolalia. For example, (and even though these are in Spanish, I'll include the translation after each word), "unipacio" (one space), "monlutrella" (a combination of the Spanish words mountain, moon and star). Paz includes--to the delight of those who want to keep the argument on this side of the Modern--James Joyce's 101 letter word from Finnegans Wake, (a word I am not going to include here, not because it is not important, but rather because I am of a divided mind when it comes to Joyce). At any rate, the word can be considered glossolalia because it bespeaks of Adam's and Eve's fall from grace, a Spirit manifestation if there was ever one. Unfortunately, this 101 letter word has to be taken with a grain of sand when it comes to meaningfulness. Joyce came out clean and stated in a little known quotation, that, for the sake of disclosure, I have included here: "I've put in so many enigmas and puzzles that it [Ulysses] will keep the professors busy for centuries over what I meant, and that's the only way of insuring one's immortality." There's much in "Ulysses" that can be considered glossolalia, but a quote such as the one here makes on think about the purposes or legitimacy of literary tricks and games. Could glossolalia then be some sort of physical manifestation, a sort of "you-ate-too-much-chocolate-therefore-you-are-hyper" type of thing? But such an idea would be a social convention, wouldn't it? Octavio Paz, perhaps already predicting such an argument, clarifies this type of interpretation, "If the relationship between the signifier and the signified depends on a convention, how could such convention come home without the consent of the speakers? Who is the author of this convention--language itself? In that case, what was there before language and where did it come from? In a word, if the origin of the so-called linguistic pact does not lie in human will, how does one explain the dual relation between language and society?" This quote, of course, sounds like one of those graduate school discussion one tends to try and forget. However, there is something significant (no pun intended) about this argument. Let me put it in context. If I am to speak to a room full of people--about one third of the audience speaks a variety of languages that are not Romantic or even close to a Western-type language--and they are all standing, would I be able to convey the meaning of chair (signified) by using gesticulations, etc.? Here I am trying to educate them about the functions and benefits of a chair, yet every person in the room is standing. Must I have a chair with me in order to get my point across? In a nation-wide tour of my lectures on the benefits of chairs, must I carry one with me from lecture hall to lecture hall? The object is the signified (chair), the word chair is the signifier. In my lecture, I have replaced the word (signifier) with gesticulations and body movements in order to get the point across to that part of the audience that does not speak English, am I breaking the covenant of subject and object? am I, in some sense, by means of my movements to carry meaning across engaged in some different type of glossolalia? There may never be an answer to this, but it's worthwhile to analyze and see the argument for what it is: the space between object and subject--the hidden kingdom, as Paz puts it, that awaits on the other side of things.

Well, this is a bit too complicated, and I think I might have done a terrible job at explaining it. I am, however, enjoying the book very much. Whatever was there at the start 15 years ago that forced me to put this book down is now officially scratched from my list of excuses. The second part of this posting will deal with the relation of taste and sex/eroticism, craftsmanship vs. art, analogies between political preferences and cultural culinary conventions. Don't ask me, really, if you must ask, ask Octavio Paz himself (he's dead, so you may have to buy the book and read it).

The Instant I Forgot I was an American

2010-04-24T21:29:00.018-04:00

America the (Un)Beautiful

I grew up amongst the maelstrom of confusion that was the 1970s. Every generation says the same thing about their own time, but the 1970s, anyone would have to admit, were in a class of their own. It goes without saying the 1960s were a tough act to follow and perhaps, due to this, the 1970s are destined to rest on a confused legacy for eternity. During this time, my father was the world to me (not that he wasn't later, but we did have our clashes on and off for many years). He was a Korean War hero, decorated more times than I could possibly recount here, but probably just as many as the times he was stopped at airports metal detection stations because of the shrapnel he still carried on him. I don't say this to augment his image--this man was really something else. As his only male heir to the namesake, he instilled in me great American values: love of country, sacrifice for a cause larger than one's self, pride in the traditions of our history as a nation, etc. I had no reason to doubt him, after all, he was a god among mortals. But what my father failed to understand was that he, of all people to hold these ideas close to his heart, was probably, by virtue of heritage and race, the last person you would have expected to embrace this idealism with all of his heart. He failed to see, or even understand that his accent, his name and his skin color rendered him "foreign" to those same Americans he fought so hard to defend against the evils of communism. He never bragged about his military record; he never carried his Silver and Bronze Stars, three Purple Hearts, Commendations for Valor, etc. on his sleeve, so how were these people supposed to know they were not in front of an immigrant but rather a true American hero in the truest sense of the word? They never knew.

We grew up (and with "we" I mean my entire nucleus family) outside the diaspora, as far as possible from our people. Early on, I went to public schools where the idea of diversity was brunettes versus blondes. I was never told to feel any different, and I actually never did--my complexion was just about right, as if by some complicated miracle of science my environment was my destiny. Of course my name gave it away, but what did my friends care about last names back then? Besides I was good at baseball, that most American of all sports, and excelled in other school activities. It wasn't until friends came to our home for a visit that they realized they were carousing around with aliens. Needless to say, this was a confusing time for a boy in his pre-teen years to try and investigate his own identity and what it meant in the face of all others.

The day my Americanism arrived for "good," (just like a long awaited birthday gift your grandmother sent but got lost in the mail for two or three weeks), I was around 12 or 13 years old. I was in 7th grade, in Mr. Daniel Light's American history class (imagine that, his desk had one of those official looking name displays that said "D. Light"), and came across a particularly interesting ad on (of all places) a Scholastic Magazine. It was a United States Marine Corps recruitment ad. The photograph showed a variety of Black, Hispanic, White and even a Native American men (ironically enough my first encounter with "diversity") all clad in the distinctive Marine Corps dress blues--probably one of the most coveted military uniforms in the world. The caption to the photograph was like a shot of penicillin to my heart infected with doubts about my identity as an American "other." The caption read, "The wrong team to be on the wrong side of." I was hooked. This was around the same time the cult B-film "The Warriors" was making its original rounds in the movie houses, and just about every kid my age wanted to be in some sort of "gang." To me, the Marines offered everything I needed: a "good" gang to be on... they even had cool uniforms, like the gangs in the film. I was hooked, and I couldn't wait until I graduated from high school to enlist. The Marines offered something else as well: my father's "America First" philosophy and ideology but in a form I could make my own and understand in my own way.

Semper Fi and All that Jazz

I don't have to regurgitate the years I spent as a U.S. Marine, and, to be completely frank, I feel now like my father must have felt back then... "There's no need to talk about it. If people want to know, they'll ask you about it." Nothing was a truer dictum to me as my father's silence about his honored military service. I confess I got a bit more than I bargained for having served during the late 1980s and the top part of the 1990s, but I am not even close to start bitching about it. Friends and past girlfriends always said that I sounded like a broken record when asked about my military service; I nearly always gave people the same line, "Shit, when I signed up, Reagan and Gorbachev were kissing on television... and a kissing war was a war I could deal with." The real gift I take away from the experience is my father's ultimate pride and admiration for what I had done. There were not enough words for him to say how proud he was when I came home from boot camp--this served him just right, since he was never one to tell what he felt, even when it came to love and pride.

But the years following my military service were full of confusing ideas. The world I now inhabited (college) was a world divided along ideology lines... those were days of "roller coaster" ideologies: false ideas, liberals vs. conservatives, cultural inclusivism and diversity, culture wars, and to top it all off, I was in the great state of Ohio... about as far from the diaspora as I could get. Because of my name I was often asked if I had served in the (name of country here) marines, to which I always responded, "No, I served in the United States Marines." For most of my years in college, and later in graduate school, I was "pigeon holed," put inside the slot of ethnicity and not allowed to come out. Whether professors knew what they were doing, or they were still living the "Love Fest" of the 1960s, I never was able to draw a clear explanation. If up to that point I had had questions about identity and self, these very same questions were accented and augmented 110% because of this. Those years, I felt I was not simply living outside the diaspora, but I was in some sort of permanent exile with no ticket home or even a road map to trace my steps back. I have commented before how education is a double-edged sword; what it gave me to expand my mind, also drove me away to a precipice of cultural, political and ethnic identity. It was a dark hole, that, as Hamlet states of the mystery of death, "no traveler returns," and I don't have to quote the bard again to know that it "puzzles the mind" to no end. I was finally able to find my way "home," when I arrived once again in the classroom... this time as a teacher.

As I began my career after graduation, and I was permitted the GREAT PRIVILEGE of teaching and helping young minds grow. I swore in front of God and the picture of my father, that I would never teach a specific ideology, I would never allow students to know where I stood on the issues of our times. On the contrary, I wanted to present my students with clear, logical, reasonable ways of understanding both "sides of the coin." I wanted to help them become critical thinkers in the truest sense of the word. This leads always to a clearer picture of Americanism, one that those interested in teaching from the "Left" or the "Right" simply ignore, and, as a result, border on the brainwashing and indoctrination rather than teaching. America has not only lost its way because we are divided by ideologies, but also because as a nation we continue to saturate ourselves with the banal, the trivial, the fad-infested media whose, it seems, only message is that of "planned obsolesce" and complete hedonism. To put it in context (and also in a nutshell), is it me, or are they coming up with a new cellphone every week?

While the Volunteers Slept

As a people, I think it is an understatement to say that Americans have gone a transformation (more like a dark transfiguration). It isn't simply the changes that were ushered on that clear sky Tuesday in September, but looking back a decade before we had already begun the mutation. The 1990s were sort of the 1980s reversed, at least culturally. The United States ushered a historic era of economic surplus, and the lowest unemployment levels since the resuscitation of the American economy during and after World War II. Who cared whether or not Bill Clinton was guilty of personal transgressions? We were willing to suspend our ethics, as long as the economy was strong, the Internet was taking over society as a new form of expression and entertainment, and after "Desert Storm," and the fall of the Soviet Union we reigned supreme as the "only" super power. Whether the new Millennium was about to change all of that or not, we, for the most part, were not interested. The times were "cool," again, and we had our own little response to "The Greatest Generation," in the "Generation X" population. These were the computer wizards, the nerds and geeks that came back to kick sand on the sport jocks of their high school years during the 80s. "They," Tom Brokaw would later state, "came in with the newest ideas, the greatest innovations since Henry Ford and the Wright Brothers and really changed America for the better." A sweeping generalization? Perhaps. What Brokaw failed to notice was that no one was "paying attention." While we basked on the comforts of a new technological America, we were leaving many on the outside looking in, and their resentment was to eventually hit a historic boiling point. When referring to "those on the outside looking in" I am not simply gathering the "enemies," but also those within our society that were left to shoulder the traditions my father taught me at an early age. I am talking, of course, of those who serve our country in the military. They are the ones now shouldering the traditions I have begun to lose one droplet at a time, every day. This is an entirely volunteer force of young people that (perhaps as inspired as I was when I noted that Scholastic Magazine ad) has gone beyond the call to serve four or five tours of duty in Iraq or Afghanistan. Away from family and friends, they miss anniversaries, birthdays, deaths in their families, Little League baseball seasons and school graduations. They do this voluntarily. They are the ones now helping me keep the very thin layer of faith I still have in this country, they stop the leaking faucet of my ill-fated American identity. In the same token, they are the ones unknowingly supporting a system of government that's being abused by corporate magnates while elected officials look the other way. If September 11th brought America to its knees, September 12th acted almost as an open gate to the excesses of capitalism, and the mass of unethical executives just "dying" to make a "kill" was on the rise. The American economic meltdown was just around the corner.

The Final Draw of my "American" Patience

This past week I underwent another mutation of my traditional American identity. We've been suffering the economic meltdown since 2008, and, playing around a 10% or more unemployment rate while high executives in all sorts of American financial sectors continue to bask in their safe bubble having landed on their feet with the help of their Golden parachutes. Again, I am not saying I am against capitalism, but I am categorically opposed to its excesses. Why? Because this excess is an insult to American work ethic and the integrity of the traditional American worker. When people complain about their jobs being sent to Mexico or China, most of them miss half of the equation. Why do corporations seek to reduce the cost of their labor in manufacturing or even servicing their customers? Ever wonder where the aforementioned Golden parachutes come from? Now, now... does a CEO really need to make $24 million a year, plus other financial incentives to boot, even if the company fails and goes bankrupt? At the cost of what? American jobs? Is it in the name of "cheap labor" (which, as a matter of fact, includes its own list of ethical guidelines and problems)? Bernard Madoff's numbers game earned him figures in the excess of $90 billion... if that isn't an excess, I don't know what is.

Last week, Goldman Sach executives "testified" in front of Congress. I put the quotations there because the hearings were really a travesty, a slap in the face of any American making a sacrifice, either serving overseas in the military or flipping burgers in the joint down the street to support their families (because it is the only job they can find). Sure, it was entertaining to see Senator Carl Levin repeat "shitty deal" over and over again, and that caught most of the sound bites, but consider that the executives of Goldman Sachs did not answer a single question they were asked during the hearings. Their language was so couched in legal jargon and generalizations that the impression they made was that of having been coached by their attorneys for probably months in advance. No answers made to probably the main factor that fueled the economic melt down: "shitty" mortgages resold and shoved down investors' throat when they were knowingly labeled "shitty" by those same executives. It is perhaps the world's most suggestive and loaded statement to say that America has lost its way. There's no "way" anymore. The ethical void in American politics and economics hammered the final nail in the coffin of my American identity. It makes me want to vomit to admit that I am part of this circus and extravagant buffet of lies, but part of it I am... by identity, definition, and by my father's unending faith in this nation. I am an American lost in this wilderness, this sea of confusion and endless nightmares.

This is the first and last post I am writing on this blog regarding American politics or economy. I got it off my chest now... could this Lady hold the answer to my loss of traditions and identity crisis? Or could this man? So long to the idea of "Americans bow to no monarch." It seems much easier to believe in traditions this way.

Sense and Sensibility and Passing a Kidney Stone

2010-03-28T17:59:00.012-04:00

I suffer from a deficiency. It might be a genetic mutation, although I know the source of it. I cannot digest anything written by Jane Austen. About a decade and a half ago, I read an essay by Mexican novelist Carlos Fuentes on something called "The Literature of Discontent," or something the like. Somewhere towards the end of the essay, I recall Fuentes saying something regarding Jane Austen's novels and the fact that no one died, the struggles were superficial, etc. At that point, I hadn't ventured into Austen's books and the statement sort of mutated something inside of me that made me unable to enjoy these quite accomplished and artistic novels.

The subject matter seem to me too trivial--I am not proud of this, rather the contrary. It is, after all, the core of human experience and relations that amount for most (if not all) literature. "Sense and Sensibility" is filled with characters that appear vulnerable and acutely human. Marianne, for example, and her relationship with Willoughby is the model of the "hit and run" relationship; that is to say, it's almost like an exchange, a chess match, a "you-take-your-turn-and-I'll-take-mine" sort of game play that can get a bit tiresome after a while. But I shouldn't be touching upon this since I am not done with the novel yet. I seem to like Elinor better, more collected, cool and calm in front of the woman who hooked the man she is interested in. The Jennings and other characters just add to the soup.

What I do enjoy, quite frankly, is the exquisite use of the English language; the decorum follows the sentence structure for me. There isn't a moment when the sentence turn, the dialogue fails to convey exactly what is meant, but adding a magnificent lyrical flavor to it. Here's an example,

"Elinor found, when the evening was over, that disposition is not materially altered by a change of abode; for, although scarcely settled in town, Sir John had contrived to collect around him nearly twenty young people, and to amuse them with a ball. This was an affair, however, of which Lady Middleton did not approve. In the country, an unpremeditated dance was very allowable; but in London, where the reputation of elegance was more important, and less easily obtained, it was risking too much for the gratification of the girls, to have it known, that Lady Middleton had given a small dance, or eight or nine couple, with two violins, and a mere sideboard collation."

It's not clear to me why this passage reached me as a good example of what I mean by elegance of language, but truth be told, probably any passage at all would do in this case. So, I think I love the usage, the word choice and the excellence of the language. The plot, not so much.

The Disappointment Artist: Inside the Mind of Jonathan Lethem

2010-03-24T12:20:00.005-04:00

Jonathan Lethem is in awesome company. His name is paraded with the likes of Paul Auster, David Foster Wallace (rip), and other literary luminaries who make Brooklyn New York home. The Disappointment Artist is a great collection of essays. It is a wonderful, short read for those of us who grew up a bit too fast because most of the people we related to were adults. Lethem dictates his obsessions and his encompassing love for his neighborhood train station. Being the son of "bohemians" (Lethem didn't use the quotation marks, those are mine because I still don't know, nor have I experienced the term), Lethem is surrounded by creative people. It is naturally for a young person to be influenced by adults. But Lethem goes further here; what he proposes is that his relationship with adults moved his creativity at a faster pace than his contemporaries. Of course this brought a great deal of strife: Lethem watches--faithfully (not wanting to use obsessively) the film Star Wars, the original 1977 movie theater version, 21 times. 21 times! How could he do this? There was in Lethem, even at that age, a sort of philosophical searcher. He wanted to delve into the film and see what others weren't seeing--which pretty much amounted to seeing what others were seeing, really. But these temporary obsessions led to more and more explorations: the validity of the term "classics" in relation to comic books, and the pseudo-political taking sides on the topic of who was the purist artist at Marvel comics, Kirby, Lee, and others, and how Lethem struggled with his alliances to the artists/script writers because of his obsession with purity. He proposes Chuck Berry's "Johnny Be Good," as an original from which the gods of rock and roll descended upon the world an original art form: Rock and Roll. It was later when Chuck Berry had a 1970s hit with "My Ding-a-Ling" that Lethem realized everyone has a price, and alliance to purity in art is as elusive and the premise of art itself.

There are other things--his parents' separations, the illness that eventually took his mother's life, moving west and struggling like artists struggle. I think that overall, this little book of essays "The Disappointment Artist," is by far one of the best 'essays' books I have read since Nicholson Baker's "The Size of Thoughts."

Joel Osteen and Norman Mailer: Uncommon Common Ground

2010-02-19T18:27:00.008-05:00

The other day I picked up Norman Mailer's "God: An Unusual Conversation," where, for the lack of a better term, Mailer becomes a believer. That is not to say he never believed before--I didn't know the man personally, despite the fact that I devoured all of his books one fateful summer of personal crankiness and foul contempt for the world (yes, Mailer would have been proud). This book, which actually was "composed" out of recorded conversation with his literary executor, Michael Lennon, is a beautifully, yet eccentric way of seeing spirituality. Sort of the "do-it-yourself" belief in God that the organized religions deplore so much. Mailer makes some very insightful comments here. For example, why does modern Christianity related social/economic success on God's blessing? Mailer being Mailer, he goes on a tour d'force against organized religion, debating, with great aplomb, the necessity and dependence the Church has on the financial offerings people give every Sunday, etc. I am sure people will jump and claim that to be an over-simplistic argument, a claim without a warrant. Well, I see his point, however, quite clearly being exercised in living color right before my eyes. The Catholic diocese covering the region where I live is closing down numerous churches and parishes, to the great alarm of people and family generations who have attended those closing churches for years, often times over 100 of serving the community. And the bottom line reason: finances. Lower parishioners mean lower gifts, donations. But instead of the Church officials going out there and knocking on doors and offering that same type of community and place of gathering that used to provide the financial means for the church, the Church administration has decided not to appeal to those who do not come to church, or perhaps come only in Easter and/or Christmas. I am not a Catholic, but Mailer's argument rings true to me. There's a hierarchy, or at least there seems to be one, whose sole purpose is the running of the church as a financial corporation. While I may not ascribed to all Mailer says, what he describes in this book is enough to make anyone sit down and ponder (which was what Virgin Mary did when she found out she was with child from God).

Joel Osteen's series of books celebrates the fact that those who are successful must have done something to please God, and it behooves them to continue to do it. I haven't read any of his books, but I have watched him intensively on the television. And it is true, very true that the connection between personal finances and faith have been blurred to the extent that one doesn't know what to think, or, in other cases, one doesn't think before offering to the church. I am not saying finances and the church shouldn't be mixed--it's a reality that he church needs our offerings to continue to function, and that there are many social programs that reach needy people by means of the church. But other issues are at stake here. Overseas ministering strikes me (and to some degree Mailer) as religious colonialism of the ancient kind. There are still missionaries (funded by members the church) rounding the globe with the purpose of converting indigenous peoples into the full knowledge of Jesus Christ. What pains me about this is that we do not learn from our mistakes--indigenous cultures are what they are, they don't need us to come in there and Topsy-Turvy their world, traditions and cultures to our liking, Jesus Christ notwithstanding.

What Mailer (and I think myself to a degree) opposes is the shift on priorities: Churches are not a place to worship, but a place to make a contribution in order to worship. Recently, a friend of mine invited me to a Christian/Protestant church and some of what the pastor was engaged in discussion had to deal with the church's finances. Handouts were passed out, and, to my surprise one of the explain, in full detail and with concordances to the Bible, exhorting those who are unemployed to still give to the church. Needless to say, that didn't sit well with my Mailersonian perspective of these issues after reading "On God: An Unusual Conversation."

Ransom by David Malouf

2010-02-13T15:56:00.004-05:00

"Ransom" is a jewel of a novel bringing, once again, the vitality and ageless story of Homer's classic tale of courage, defeat, victory and human emotion to life. The action begins on Book 22 of "The Illiad" (for those of you who might be purists of the art form). Beginning so deep into a narrative might create all sorts of pitfalls for a writer trying to personify these characters while staying true to the form of the plot. In "Ransom," David Malouf's prose is so personal, so intricately and psychological that all the grief, pain and humiliation of Priam at the feet of Achilles is powerful without losing the essence of the scene, and the respect each man had for the other. The novel is based on the events after Achilles defeats Hector in battle and then proceeds to drag his body around the walls of Troy. This was a terrible spectacle, unwarranted for a warrior of Achilles' rank, but Malouf makes an Achilles so human, so complex in his grief and rancor, that his relationship to Patroklos (Hector had killed Patroklos thinking it was Achilles, Patroklos was wearing Achilles armor) makes for a psychologically infused Achilles, his love for his boy friend (and I don't mean it in today's meaning of those words) becomes our grief. I found myself asking, but how all of this circumstantial boola-boola create such a painful result for all involved. The gods must have been taking the day off.

Among the other characters from "The Iliad" brought down to the level of mortals is Priam, King of Troy. Malouf's novel "Ransom," begins with Priam's plan to recover the body of his son Hector and grant him proper burial. He devices a plan which main premise is to appeal to the best of Achilles, his soul, his good will, his compassion for a father seeking to retrieve the body of his son from further humiliation. So this is a compact novel about "The Iliad" not just because it only covers that part of the great battle for Troy. It shows every single character (even the mule driven carriage's driver, Somax, who is made the King's herald on the mission to recover Hector's body. He is as complex as the more 'advanced' characters, and much of Priam's insight about the 'real' human condition he learns from Somax on the way to Achilles camp. The gods make a small, very small appearance in the form of a playful Hermes. Yet, the core of the story really takes place in the exchange between Achilles and Priam. The mule driven carriage had been filled with gold and all sorts of valuables, but that is inconsequential to Achilles. The men share a meal together and talk--the level of palpable human-like characteristics in this scene, as well as in all the others, makes "Ransom" a novel everyone MUST read. Whatever questions you may have about the role of classical texts in today's society will slip quietly back to one's least worries.

Norman Mailer's "The Deer Park" What a Painful Experience.

2010-02-08T09:14:00.008-05:00

"The Deer Park" by Norman Mailer is not so much a disaster of a novel as it is (above all) dated. The several problems exhibited here are representative of the fact that this is NOT Mailer's best. One becomes accustomed to greatness and it is hard to believe the writer can do anything less than perfect time and again. The novel is highly dated. The back cover describes the novel as "The daring novel by the author of "The Naked and The Dead" which has something new to say about Hollywood, Love, Sin and Sex." Perhaps it was new to the audiences of 1955 (when the book was published), but what I found in this little novel was the work of an author deemed "great" a little too early. Of course, this is not the same Norman Mailer who wrote "The Executioner's Song," or "Harlot's Ghost," or even the highly praised "Oswald's Tale: An American Mystery." This novel represents a Mailer just spreading his wings as an author. It is not hard to believe that this was his third published novel. (Although I have to say that "Tough Guys Don't Dance" which was published much later in his career was just as dull). I am not being harsh when I say these things because I believe NO ONE could make Mailer feel bad about anything at all. He was a man's man, a highly literary World War II combat veteran who joined the other bohemians in the Village to try and define (like the Lost Generation of the 1920s) a new American literature, as fresh as it was abrasive.

"The Deer Park" ended up being re-written as a play later on in Mailer's career, and I think (not from the experience of seeing it, but rather from the famous commentary by the author "The Merits of 'The Deer Park'" which you will find by clicking HERE. Mailer felt insecure about the novel once the high praise came from people such as Malcolm Cowley, not because he considered his writing bad, but for the mere reason that he rather felt early on it was not one of his best efforts.

The story is fast, characters many, and the narrator seems to disappear for chapters, only to appear later on with more knowledge of the other characters' lives than his own. The protagonist, an orphan turned World War II ace pilot, carries the name Sergius O'Shaugnessy. He wins $14,000 playing poker and decides to spend a relaxing time in a place called Desert D'Or. Like most places where people go to relax, the atmosphere is intense and quite rapid. Our hero ends up in a party by one Dorothea O'Faye which is packed by hundreds of people from "the capital" (a sub-name for Hollywood). There he meets Dorothea's son who turns out to be a philosopher pimp. Sergius also meets Charlie Eitel, a film director of some fame now involved in McCarthism (although not called by that name) hearings in Congress. He is a cross between Kazan and Liberace, although not as gay. What happens after the first few chapters is a roller coaster of relationships, false sex, promises of marriage here today and then long forgotten. The plot appears like the relationships in the sit-com "Friends," where everyone seems to sleep with everyone and still remain relatively, well, for lack of a better word, friends. Several women in the novel get passed around like hats; most of them within the protective circle of pimps, actors, directors, producers, wanna-bes and other associated birds of questionable provenance. I read this novel knowing that much of it was the reason why in the late 1960s and 1970s, the feminist movement targeted Mailer the way they did.

The novel ends flat with Sergius wanting to become a writer. I don't really know what else to say about a novel that never really got my attention, and it was like drinking a spoonful of castor oil on an empty stomach. Sorry, Norman... not your best.

Faithful "Whity Family" Coffee Mug and Spoon

2010-02-01T12:29:00.006-05:00

It was August 1994, the hottest summer in the recorded history of Japan. I was sweating bullets in Hikone, Shiga-ken, studying the fine art of ancient warriors ways, language and culture. This was probably one of the best summers of my entire life. I found a coffee mug with a little spoon resting on a table marked as "FREE." These were the things that people couldn't take with them from the dorm when they concluded their studies. I liberated the coffee mug and the little spoon in the name of the Republic and since never used a different coffee mug.... until January 31, 2010 when I finally decided to retired this faithful friend and confidant of so many secrets.

We traveled a trajectory so rich on history and detail that a complete memoir could be written about the year after year journey. Now, the Faithful "Whity Family" mug and the little spoon rest on my desk as a pencil/pen holder. Of course, many people will think this is an undignified way to go, but I beg to differ. You see, the mug was always at risk of being dropped, or kidnapped by people who came in and out of my life. Once, a person dear and near to me decided that the mug was "offensive" and "politically incorrect." No such thing could ever be true. The illustration on the mug is that of a family of bears preparing breakfast. The father is shown carrying a frying pan, tripping on something and the fried egg flying through the air as "Junior Bear" tries to catch it with his plate. "Mama Bear" and "Sister Bear" are also there. The Japanese inscription reads: (in Roman-ji, meaning Romanized pronunciation of the Japanese) "Oniichan abunai. Otosan gambette. zyunbionotokikara tanosii wagaya no yugohan." In the Queen's English it means: Be careful brother. Good luck father. It is fun from the time we begin preparing our dinner." Now, you probably have not heard of a website called www.engrish.com so there's the link. The Japanese have tendencies of translating and using very weird Roman-ji print copies. Some of the signs and announcements are simply hilarious.

I never considered my keeping this specific mug a "fetish," or a "personal relationship with an inanimate object". The mug went from Japan back to college, then to graduate school in Washington DC, and back to Ohio with me and in the middle of all those times, the comfort of drinking coffee in the mornings became a ritual of sorts. This mug, with its accompanying spoon, now holds a place of "prestige" next to me on my writing desk. August 1994 -- January 31, 2010. To some people, that's a lifetime.

RIP, J.D. Salinger.

2010-01-28T13:36:00.003-05:00

At 91, the man who made the word "phony" legendary is "phony" no more. RIP

Ray Charles "Georgia On My Mind"

2010-01-25T14:12:00.001-05:00

Deep Regret...

2010-01-19T09:07:00.006-05:00

It is with deep regret that I inform my friends in blogsphere that I will be away for some time to deal with some health and personal issues.

"Going After Cacciato" Once and For All...

2010-01-15T18:13:00.007-05:00

Tim O'Brien was hot stuff in the peak of Vietnam War interest back in the early and mid 1980s. His novels--at least the ones that deal with the war--carry within them a realism hard to match, and a level of understanding of the human condition only Jung and Freud could top. That is not to say that his novels are mere psychological examinations; their quality really stem from their arresting power to convey a truth so palpable the only thing missing is the actual experience of going to war in real life. My first book by Tim O'Brien was "If I Die in a Combat Zone." This novel is an excellent tale of philosophical questioning, existential analysis and downright a firestone of personal ethics. The protagonist weighs his position after being drafted of whether or not to go to Vietnam or flee to Canada. But this is only a small part of the novel, really. After this book, I read "The Things They Carried" and taught some of those excellent short stories various times in the classroom; particularly, "The Sweetheart of the Song Tra Bong." Having been in to some curious and apparently useless bellicose "parties" while in the United States Marines, I can tell you what they DON'T carry into combat. But that's a story for another day. These are vivid stories, not so much interlocking but close enough to convey a beautiful (and terrible) sense of what it means to be in a hopeless situation (read, Vietnam).

Now, finally, I have picked up "Going After Cacciato." This book was recommended to me by a close friend in 1993 and I ignored the recommendation (at my own risk) until today. The story seems to take from Beckett the absurd, from Joyce the intricate form, and from Dali descriptive scenes that defy the mere suspension of disbelief. The plot is about a platoon squad, led by an old demoted officer, and their pursue of one named Cacciato who decides one fine day in Vietnam to walk all the way to Paris, France. Right now, I am roughly on page 95, so another entry on these little jewel of a book will be forthcoming.

What Thomas Pynchon and Andrzej Szczypiorski Have in Common

2010-01-02T18:11:00.007-05:00

First I should point out that Pynchon and Szczypiorski have nothing in common; at least in terms of work and genre. I simply ended the year with "The Crying of Lot 49," and began the new year with Andrzej Szczypiorsky. Why? I don't know. Andrzej Szczypiorski's novel, The Beautiful Mrs. Seidenman is a complex story in and of itself. I bought this book exactly 20 years ago (seems like yesterday). The book has traveled with me to every single one of my nooks, apartments, tents, efficiencies, and finally home I have held in the last 20 crazy years of my life. And here we are, 2010, and the perfect time to pick up this little volume and become engrossed in this Jewish tale of survival and death, identity and race, nationalism and despotism.

The novel is more than simply episodic in nature. The chapters work like interlocking parts that vary from characters and point of view, to temporal abstractions and changes. Mrs. Seidenman is trying to pass for a non-Jew in occupied Poland. She has the support of a few good friends, but an informant of sorts (collaborator) turns her in to the Gestapo. From there, the wheel are in motion to get Mrs. Seidenman out of prison before it is too late. There are some fine passages here, and I am quite impressed by the translation (I do not speak Polish, but some other reviews place Klara Glowczewoska as the Polish language translator par excellence). One of the passages that most impressed me (and reached me for obvious reasons) follows: "The world lied, and their duplicity and profusion, made one's head spin. The multitude of betrayals and humiliations. The diversity of the means, methods, and shapes of betrayal. I betrayed that Jewess, but she too betrayed me. Even Christ didn't forsee that. He was too artless for that. To Judas He said "friend!" To Peter He cried, "Begone, Satan!" Perhaps that was His sense of humor." Even without the emphasis or content of the plot, this passage recalls the story of common trickery and hypocrisy. Eventually, all is restored and temporal changes indicate as many changes within the characters. For example, we see Mrs. Seidenman in 1968 still struggling with her identity as a Jewess and her Polish nationality. Pawelek Krynski, the young man who is secretly in love with her (much younger than her) grows up and becomes a leader of the Solidarity movement in the 1980s. A scene between him and a long forgotten friend displays how the young man has become disenchanted with his involvement in the movement. At the end, we are no closer to understanding the agonies of the characters as they struggle with identity, national pride and religion. This is a four star novel, but be forewarned there are many jumps and intricate changes from chapter to chapter.

2009: The Losses and The Consolations

2009-12-31T17:38:00.005-05:00

Therefore, he begins again,

as if it were the last time

he would breathe.

For there is no more time. And it is the end of time

that begins.

Paul Auster, "Wall Writings, 1971-1975"

Happy Christmas...

2009-12-23T17:25:00.004-05:00

I know this is absolutely naughty, but I could not resist....

Last Minutes with ODEN

2009-12-18T23:26:00.002-05:00

God, help me become the person my dog thinks I am.

Last Minutes with ODEN from phos pictures on Vimeo.

A Philip Roth Festivus -- "The Human Stain," "Everyman" & "Portnoy's Complaint"

2009-12-11T19:46:00.016-05:00

Philip Roth has been called a lot of names, some of them not very flattering. Back in the 1970s and early 1980s, even the Jewish community considered him persona non-grata for his irreverence of all things Jewish. He not only pushed the envelope, he redesigned it and used it for things so outrageous, they are better left to the imagination. On the other hand, this man writes with such power that once a chapter heats up, or even a section of expository brilliance takes off into the air, it is impossible, totally impossible to put the book down. I really have to say, my incursion into Roth's work was limited to reading "Patrimony" about five years ago, but I had heard all about him and his "bad boy" attitude in the world of literature. But I guess when you have won as many Pulitzer and PEN/Faulkner awards (plus a National Medal of Arts and the Gold Medal in Fiction from the American Academy of Arts and Letters) you can pretty much do whatever the hell you want. I know I am prone to hyperbole, but this man is a national treasure. End of argument.

I began with "The Human Stain" while at the hospital last week. Before I knew it, I was almost half way through the novel and had forgotten completely I was in the hospital. It's the amazing story of one Coleman Silk, who passes for white/Jewish through his life, only to end ruined by the same racial dystopia of identification. He becomes a professor of Classics and even Dean of a small college. As Dean, he "cleans up" the house, forcing old professors to retire, challenging others to really work for their tenure, etc. But along the way, he makes a lot of enemies. In the classroom, while taking roll, he happened to call two absent students "spooks," as in ghosts, because the students hadn't shown up to the class at all. It turns out the students were black, and in the highly racial sensitivity of the mid and late 1990s, the incident spelled doom for Silk. There are quite a few beautifully incorporated sub-plots, so masterfully done it is like butter dripping from a hot English muffin (can you tell I love this man?). Since I was not that familiar with Roth's works, I failed, until about half way through the novel, to realized Roth has a series of novels with the narrator, a writer named Zuckerman--these are known as the Zuckerman books. The narrator is compassionate of Silk, and tells the tale with aplomb and even tearful lyricism. I am not in the business of spoiling the plot before you read it, so go get yourself a copy of "The Human Stain" and finish this great masterpiece of literature on your own.

I followed immediately with "Everyman," a slim but masterfully told tale of old age, regret, illness and an examination of death in all its finality. Again, I have been able to appreciate the near perfectness of Roth's lyrical and engaging style. Here's one example from this near perfect novel: "At the realization of all he'd wiped out, on his own and for seemingly no good reason, and what was still worse, against his every intention, against his will--of his harshness toward a brother who had never once been harsh to him, who'd never failed to soothe him and come to his aid, of the effects his leaving their household had had on his children--at the humiliating realization that not only physically had he now diminished into someone he did not want to be, he began striking his chest with his fist, striking in cadence with his self-admonitions, and missing by mere inches his defibrillator. At that moment, he knew far better than Randy and Lonny ever could where he was insufficient. This ordinarily even-tempered man stuck furiously at his heart like some fanatic at prayer, and, assailed by remorse not just for this mistake but for all his mistakes, all the ineradicable, stupid, inescapable mistakes--swept away by the misery of his limitations yet acting as if life's every incomprehensible contingency were of his making.... " This type of passage--the novel is filled with them--just begs to make one continue reading. This type of passage just tells the reader, "here... come this way... I've got an engaging story to tell. It's addictive, really, the style, the content, the syntax, all of it. "Everyman" ends just where the protagonist ends: in death. As an allegory of what is to come, Roth couldn't have done a better job at plugging in the ultimate message of his novel. It's beyond brilliance, really.

I am simply a few pages into "Portnoy's Complaint," but I was warned by a good friend--a Roth expert--that I was going in for a ride that (perhaps he knowing me well) will go from good, to bad, to outrageous, to irreverent, and to test my capacity for temperance and sobriety (not of the alcoholic type). At any rate, I can see clearly that this is not a book that I would teach to my current students. Hopefully, I will be finished with it before long, and start with Miklos Vamos' "The Book of Fathers."

Happy Hanukkah!