December 26, 2012

I am not a historian (at least any more, I was a history major in college) nor a current affairs expert- I tend towards the medieval- so take this with a grain of salt, but these are perhaps the three best books I have read for situating America in today’s world. I sang Judt’s praises earlier this year, and Kissinger and Stewart write with the authority that comes from  living the stories they tell. All three take the US to task at various points, yet all three also seem to still believe that the US is a fundamentally positive agent in the world, or at least has the ability to be so. There are no easy answers in any of these books, Stewart’s especially reads as tragedy, but all three authors shine in that they speak as Westerners, people we (middle class Anglo-Americans can/want to ID with) but they are able to understand cultures foreign to us. Most importantly they are open with their closures and completely at ease not understanding everything. Judt speaks of a Europe he loves and helped build, Kissinger of a relationship he cultivated and safeguarded, and Stewart of a land he tried to govern. Each is also, at heart, a profoundly good story teller. And the stories they tell matter to the future of this country. They are lessons learned from life that we would be wise to listen to. 

6:59pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZmxX6yaDduQ7
(Notes: 2)
  
Filed under: On China Prince of the Marshes Post War Postwar Post-War China Iraq Europe America Books Book History Kissinger Henry Kissinger Book Review bookreview Rory Stewart Tony Judt 
August 8, 2012
So I finished The Pale King last night. It is pretty much a novel about boredom, tedium, and everyday life. It is rather obviously unfinished, and rather not obviously fiction in the strictest sense (re: ‘This is Water;’ [listen here] it seems DFW was exploring permeable membrane between truth and fiction at the time he died, perhaps the regions George Steiner once labeled ‘real’ and ‘more real’). Nothing much happens. We keep expecting something to happen but it never does. Furthermore, there isn’t even a protagonist. The book is not a novel in any normal sense. Yet it is perhaps the most perfect novel of the decade. DFW’s marries Nabokov’s pitch perfect lyricism with a blistering sincerity all his own. He plums the depths of the era’s deepest fear: boredom. Ennui. Sameness. Lack of uniqueness. It seems the overall conceit of the novel is to bring together the most exceptional batch of IRS employees so as to demonstrate palpably the superiority of computers. Discussions of tax occupy pages and pages. Tax theory links the narrative. One practically expects to be able to outline the chapters vis a vis a 1040. The choice of the tax world as his hyper-reality is incisive. To most people, taxes represent the most boring task in the world and the IRS terrifies because it is comprised of group of people who have conquered their capacity to be bored. They are all freaks to most ‘normal’ people. In this world of hyper normalcy DFW explores the abnormality of all human life and the vital importance of paying attention. Of concentration. The Pale King, at times, feels like a vivification of ‘This is Water’ (listen here), but that connection is too hard to hold. The Pale King killed the author. Or at least he killed himself while writing it. Much as we try to disassociate author and work- pace Barthes- DFW, esp. the DFW explicitly presented in The Pale King as very much the type of person the real DFW directed ‘This is Water’ at, is rather explicitly pushing back at a darkness of near Beckett-ian absurdity. And the real, the living, breathing, writing DFW, apparently lost. It has been said novels, poems, and paintings, all art, is an apology for a life that couldn’t be lived. One hopes that via his last works DFW will point others towards a light we hope he found. His are, as Steiner said, ‘night words,’ Saturday speech in hope of Sunday. 

So I finished The Pale King last night. It is pretty much a novel about boredom, tedium, and everyday life. It is rather obviously unfinished, and rather not obviously fiction in the strictest sense (re: ‘This is Water;’ [listen here] it seems DFW was exploring permeable membrane between truth and fiction at the time he died, perhaps the regions George Steiner once labeled ‘real’ and ‘more real’).

Nothing much happens. We keep expecting something to happen but it never does. Furthermore, there isn’t even a protagonist. The book is not a novel in any normal sense. Yet it is perhaps the most perfect novel of the decade. DFW’s marries Nabokov’s pitch perfect lyricism with a blistering sincerity all his own. He plums the depths of the era’s deepest fear: boredom. Ennui. Sameness. Lack of uniqueness. It seems the overall conceit of the novel is to bring together the most exceptional batch of IRS employees so as to demonstrate palpably the superiority of computers. Discussions of tax occupy pages and pages.

Tax theory links the narrative. One practically expects to be able to outline the chapters vis a vis a 1040. The choice of the tax world as his hyper-reality is incisive. To most people, taxes represent the most boring task in the world and the IRS terrifies because it is comprised of group of people who have conquered their capacity to be bored. They are all freaks to most ‘normal’ people.

In this world of hyper normalcy DFW explores the abnormality of all human life and the vital importance of paying attention. Of concentration. The Pale King, at times, feels like a vivification of ‘This is Water’ (listen here), but that connection is too hard to hold. The Pale King killed the author. Or at least he killed himself while writing it.

Much as we try to disassociate author and work- pace Barthes- DFW, esp. the DFW explicitly presented in The Pale King as very much the type of person the real DFW directed ‘This is Water’ at, is rather explicitly pushing back at a darkness of near Beckett-ian absurdity. And the real, the living, breathing, writing DFW, apparently lost. It has been said novels, poems, and paintings, all art, is an apology for a life that couldn’t be lived. One hopes that via his last works DFW will point others towards a light we hope he found. His are, as Steiner said, ‘night words,’ Saturday speech in hope of Sunday. 

4:21pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZmxX6yQ-Z4w-
(Notes: 1)
  
Filed under: DFW The Pale King Fiction Book Book Review bookreview Literature Literacy David foster Wallace davidfosterwallace Tax IRS Novel 
June 29, 2012
The Shooting Party by Isabel Colegate provides an interesting counterpoint to Fitzgerald’s This Side of Paradise. Both novels dissect upper class society on the eve of World War I. Both are acutely aware of their characters own awareness of standing on the edge of something. Both are written by class insiders too. Whereas Fitzgerald writes, quite literally, from the trenches, Colegate writes in retrospection but from a culture- post WWII Britain- that explicitly rejected the values and habits of the gentry.  Fitzgerald caused a stir by writing about times as they were, Colegate’s audacity lay in writing about a deeply unpopular time, and in the daring to suggest that rich people might have inner lives too. Now, however, is not the time to debate the merits of ‘working class’ fiction. The power of Colegate’s work rests in its simplicity. It covers 24 hours in Nettleby Park. The action never leaves Oxfordshire, nor does the author resort to any particularly ‘literary’ or avant guard trappings. She simply tells a story of a society on the edge of collapse. Sir Randolf Nettleby hosts a variety of guests for a grand fall shoot. His goal is simply for things to go off right. He represents, in many ways, the best of the old guard. He treats everyone with civility and his humanity has a way of making friends of enemies. His aim is not to impress his guests with the greatest shoot in history nor to prove his skill as a marksmen, but to simply be a good host. Unfortunately society in the form of his guests will not allow that. Competition, grossly ungentlemanly in Sir Randolf’s eyes, breaks out among two of the leading lights. Small, inadvertent slights amplify each other and finally reach a tragic, accidental, and avoidable crescendo that grimly foreshadows the coming slaughter in Europe. I guess what strikes me in both Fitzgerald and Colegate is the sense of something coming. The sense that an old world is fading and a new approaching and that the new is entirely unknown. Sir Randolf’s impulse to ‘head for the hills’ is understandable, but ultimately his choice not to is as heroic as his life will allow him to be. Both books are good reading for our times, reassurance that things have changed before and Colegate’s look back past two wars is proof that humans can endure and need not head for the hills just yet.  PS, Downton fans will eat this up. It is an episode in book form. 

The Shooting Party by Isabel Colegate provides an interesting counterpoint to Fitzgerald’s This Side of Paradise. Both novels dissect upper class society on the eve of World War I. Both are acutely aware of their characters own awareness of standing on the edge of something. Both are written by class insiders too. Whereas Fitzgerald writes, quite literally, from the trenches, Colegate writes in retrospection but from a culture- post WWII Britain- that explicitly rejected the values and habits of the gentry.  Fitzgerald caused a stir by writing about times as they were, Colegate’s audacity lay in writing about a deeply unpopular time, and in the daring to suggest that rich people might have inner lives too. Now, however, is not the time to debate the merits of ‘working class’ fiction. The power of Colegate’s work rests in its simplicity. It covers 24 hours in Nettleby Park. The action never leaves Oxfordshire, nor does the author resort to any particularly ‘literary’ or avant guard trappings. She simply tells a story of a society on the edge of collapse. Sir Randolf Nettleby hosts a variety of guests for a grand fall shoot. His goal is simply for things to go off right. He represents, in many ways, the best of the old guard. He treats everyone with civility and his humanity has a way of making friends of enemies. His aim is not to impress his guests with the greatest shoot in history nor to prove his skill as a marksmen, but to simply be a good host. Unfortunately society in the form of his guests will not allow that. Competition, grossly ungentlemanly in Sir Randolf’s eyes, breaks out among two of the leading lights. Small, inadvertent slights amplify each other and finally reach a tragic, accidental, and avoidable crescendo that grimly foreshadows the coming slaughter in Europe. I guess what strikes me in both Fitzgerald and Colegate is the sense of something coming. The sense that an old world is fading and a new approaching and that the new is entirely unknown. Sir Randolf’s impulse to ‘head for the hills’ is understandable, but ultimately his choice not to is as heroic as his life will allow him to be. Both books are good reading for our times, reassurance that things have changed before and Colegate’s look back past two wars is proof that humans can endure and need not head for the hills just yet. 

PS, Downton fans will eat this up. It is an episode in book form. 

11:39am  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZmxX6yOLnMan
Filed under: Book England Novel Oxfordshire The Shooting Party UK book review bookreview shooting downtown Downton Abbey 
June 23, 2012
Followers of this blog my remember previous ‘review’ of Fitzgerald’s Tender is the Night in which I noted that it was not a book I would have appreciated prior to living abroad but while living abroad it was a positively terrifying book. This Side of Paradise is worse in that it is far too close to home. Paradise, it seems, comes at the apogee of Amory and Isabella’s relationship which coincides neatly with the apogee of Amory’s status at Princeton. While it would be hard to call Amory idealistic or naive, he has a sort of innocence for the the first half of the book, the innocence that comes with believing oneself worldly, urbane, and wise- the innocence of privilege, be it wealth, talent, or beauty, all of which Amory enjoys to a certain degree. The book, however, is written from this side of paradise, the far side: paradise lost. It is not, however, a peon to an idealized past. It is the realization that paradise only ever existed insofar as the subject is able to dwell solely on the self at the expense of all others. Amory’s affairs- as he realizes- are self-actualizing to the extreme. Rather they are self-fashioning. They are what Amory uses to define himself, an Amory he bounces off the Amory fashioned by Monsignor Darcy. While he treasures ‘the fundamental Amory,’ the hard truth gained by the book is quite simply that there is no fundamental Amory. There is only Amory the product of his experiences rather than the master- the commander- of them. Paradise is Princeton. It is the aristocratic life Amory aspires to at Princeton. The ideal of idealized life- a world fashioned by Amory for Amory. At the end, though, when ‘the egoist’ becomes ‘a personage’ it seems the primary knowledge gained by Amory, his self knowledge, is quite simply that he is not the arbiter of his own reality. This is Fitzgerald’s first- and most formally daring- novel. It darts between prose, poetry, and drama to capture a world now almost a century old. And yet it feels strikingly appropriate. And far to close to home for someone reading it on the far side of an Oxford much like Amory’s Princeton- an idea as much as an education- and who’s life, to a great extent, has charted by relationships with women. Amory’s diagnoses of others and himself- and Fitzgerald’s diagnoses of Amory and Amory’s world- ring too true for enjoyment. Amory’s ennui is unsettlingly familiar. As the Gatsby movie approaches, it may be worth dwelling on Fitzgerald, especially for young, privileged people (if you are reading this online, you are privileged, fyi). This Side of Paradise is, in fact, a deeply anti-nostalgic novel, in my opinion. It, like much of Fitzgerald’s work, is the excoriation of nostalgia, the realization that we all must have at some point that that was not paradise and to desire a return is to reject any chance of a future. The past is not castigated, it is simply the past, it is part of who Amory is, but it is not his future. His walk to Princeton is no walk to Emmaus but rather the last grasp at past more beautiful in memory than in truth. 

Followers of this blog my remember previous ‘review’ of Fitzgerald’s Tender is the Night in which I noted that it was not a book I would have appreciated prior to living abroad but while living abroad it was a positively terrifying book. This Side of Paradise is worse in that it is far too close to home. Paradise, it seems, comes at the apogee of Amory and Isabella’s relationship which coincides neatly with the apogee of Amory’s status at Princeton. While it would be hard to call Amory idealistic or naive, he has a sort of innocence for the the first half of the book, the innocence that comes with believing oneself worldly, urbane, and wise- the innocence of privilege, be it wealth, talent, or beauty, all of which Amory enjoys to a certain degree. The book, however, is written from this side of paradise, the far side: paradise lost. It is not, however, a peon to an idealized past. It is the realization that paradise only ever existed insofar as the subject is able to dwell solely on the self at the expense of all others. Amory’s affairs- as he realizes- are self-actualizing to the extreme. Rather they are self-fashioning. They are what Amory uses to define himself, an Amory he bounces off the Amory fashioned by Monsignor Darcy. While he treasures ‘the fundamental Amory,’ the hard truth gained by the book is quite simply that there is no fundamental Amory. There is only Amory the product of his experiences rather than the master- the commander- of them. Paradise is Princeton. It is the aristocratic life Amory aspires to at Princeton. The ideal of idealized life- a world fashioned by Amory for Amory. At the end, though, when ‘the egoist’ becomes ‘a personage’ it seems the primary knowledge gained by Amory, his self knowledge, is quite simply that he is not the arbiter of his own reality. This is Fitzgerald’s first- and most formally daring- novel. It darts between prose, poetry, and drama to capture a world now almost a century old. And yet it feels strikingly appropriate. And far to close to home for someone reading it on the far side of an Oxford much like Amory’s Princeton- an idea as much as an education- and who’s life, to a great extent, has charted by relationships with women. Amory’s diagnoses of others and himself- and Fitzgerald’s diagnoses of Amory and Amory’s world- ring too true for enjoyment. Amory’s ennui is unsettlingly familiar. As the Gatsby movie approaches, it may be worth dwelling on Fitzgerald, especially for young, privileged people (if you are reading this online, you are privileged, fyi). This Side of Paradise is, in fact, a deeply anti-nostalgic novel, in my opinion. It, like much of Fitzgerald’s work, is the excoriation of nostalgia, the realization that we all must have at some point that that was not paradise and to desire a return is to reject any chance of a future. The past is not castigated, it is simply the past, it is part of who Amory is, but it is not his future. His walk to Princeton is no walk to Emmaus but rather the last grasp at past more beautiful in memory than in truth. 

5:11pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZmxX6yNz4Ssk
(Notes: 2)
  
Filed under: Fitzgerald F. Scott Fitzgerald This Side of Paradise Novel Book Literature Literacy Book Review Bookreview Review Jazz Age 
June 4, 2012
It is hard to ‘review’ George Eliot’s Middlemarch. At nearly 800 pages it cannot really be compressed or distilled into easy parts. In fact, it’s great strength is that it is a profoundly inconvenient novel to modern readers. It took me a full 450 pages to see how the two basic halves of her story- town and country- would come together in any fashion other than proximity. That is not to say the book wanders or dithers (as I am prone to think most Dicken’s novels do), rather it takes time to consider- vis-a-vis a plethora of memorable characters- the full sweep of parochial England poised on the edge of The Reform Bill. Moreover, Eliot’s prose is adroitly self-conscious: she is ironic with out being bitter or compromising a basic sympathy towards humanity. She affords her self the time and space to both consider the ramifications of human choice on other humans but also gently check, glosses, and reproofs her characters. I could go on, and perhaps later will, but really it is hard to say anything other than it is the quintessential Victorian Novel. 

It is hard to ‘review’ George Eliot’s Middlemarch. At nearly 800 pages it cannot really be compressed or distilled into easy parts. In fact, it’s great strength is that it is a profoundly inconvenient novel to modern readers. It took me a full 450 pages to see how the two basic halves of her story- town and country- would come together in any fashion other than proximity. That is not to say the book wanders or dithers (as I am prone to think most Dicken’s novels do), rather it takes time to consider- vis-a-vis a plethora of memorable characters- the full sweep of parochial England poised on the edge of The Reform Bill. Moreover, Eliot’s prose is adroitly self-conscious: she is ironic with out being bitter or compromising a basic sympathy towards humanity. She affords her self the time and space to both consider the ramifications of human choice on other humans but also gently check, glosses, and reproofs her characters. I could go on, and perhaps later will, but really it is hard to say anything other than it is the quintessential Victorian Novel. 

8:21pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZmxX6yMlJcBi
(Notes: 4)
  
Filed under: George Eliot Middlemarch books book review bookreview literature literacy 
March 5, 2012
Harry Mount, A Lust for Window Sills, (London: Little, Brown, 2008). England is endowed with a magnificent collection of buildings, as eclectic and diverse as the country and its people. Living in Oxford I am spoiled for choice, I mean, I am writing this from Duke Humfries medieval library and looking out one window at a young Christopher Wren’s Sheldonian Theater and another at James Webb’s Palladian masterpiece, the Radcliffe Camera. Frequently, though, I found myself wishing I knew a bit more about the buildings I encounter, and not just the significant ones, but the run of the mill terraces and pubs. Mount’s book is not a deep book nor does it explore the subtleties and nuance of every epoch, but it does give one a sense of history. After reading it one can stroll through London, or Oxford, or elsewhere and place most buildings in rough relation to one another. And, essential for Oxford, it gives you a few anectdotes and terms to toss out over a formal hall or drinks party. 

Harry Mount, A Lust for Window Sills, (London: Little, Brown, 2008).

England is endowed with a magnificent collection of buildings, as eclectic and diverse as the country and its people. Living in Oxford I am spoiled for choice, I mean, I am writing this from Duke Humfries medieval library and looking out one window at a young Christopher Wren’s Sheldonian Theater and another at James Webb’s Palladian masterpiece, the Radcliffe Camera. Frequently, though, I found myself wishing I knew a bit more about the buildings I encounter, and not just the significant ones, but the run of the mill terraces and pubs. Mount’s book is not a deep book nor does it explore the subtleties and nuance of every epoch, but it does give one a sense of history. After reading it one can stroll through London, or Oxford, or elsewhere and place most buildings in rough relation to one another. And, essential for Oxford, it gives you a few anectdotes and terms to toss out over a formal hall or drinks party. 

11:38am  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZmxX6yHVpCbz
Filed under: books bookreview England building UK Britain 
February 28, 2012
Hilary Mantel’s Wolf Hall is the rarest of novels. It’s just damn good. Unlike many historical novels it eschews thee’s, thou’s, and all that nonsense and opts instead for a lean, cutting dialogue that translates the immediacy of the emotion narrated. I’ll not lie; I like historical fiction. If you want to look down your nose at me, I don’t care.[1] Wolf Hall, though, is a bit more than your typical historical fair. I read Ken Follett for his story, not his language. He is not a bad writer, but he is certainly not one to turn a phrase. Mantel is, in fact, a supremely gifted writer as well as a compelling storyteller. Not once in the 600+ pages does Wolf Hall lag. Her prose is robust, readable, and interesting. Her characters are compelling and believable. And, perhaps more impressively, she never winks at you. I loathe self-indulgent fiction.[2] In a literary season where childish games masquerading as grown-up fiction are in and out-and-out children’s books dominate the market, Wolf Hall is a relief. It is an adult novel that entertains with out insulting. I mean, good grief, it reduced a friend and I to giddy texting about how good it was.[3]  Wolf Hall is historical fiction at its highest. Cataclysimic events are distilled to dinner tables, bedrooms, and personal relationships. The English Reformation is reduced from a metanarrative to a series of human choices. The promise of historical fiction is not that it relates the true past, but that it reminds us of the truth that history is just the record of real human beings, more like us than not. Human beings subject to many of the same emotions as we are, and- as human beings are wont to do- make decisions based off those emotions. So what if her portrayal of Cranmer and Cromwell is fictive, and her picture of More intentionally deconstructive, she reminds us that before these three men were reduced to surnames they were all simply ‘Thomas.’ She gives Henricus Rex VIII the space to simply be ‘Henry.’  History with a capital ‘H’ becomes the personal narrative of men and women caught in difficult situations, frequently of their own making. The primary problem with most historical fiction is that character becomes an accessory to event, Wolf Hall explores how people cause events that shape History and become legends who become characters.  In the end, Mantel’s humanism is what connects her to her subject. Like her protagonist Cromwell, she struggles to push human beings to the fore. PS, I realize I am late on the bandwagon, but all that means is I have less time to wait for the sequel…coming in May. [1] I read David Foster Wallace, I read George Steiner, I read Joyce, I read Chaucer, I read Fitzgerald, I read what a damn well please, I did a masters in medieval literature at Oxford and if I found Pillars of the Earth enjoyable and you were too stuck up to like it, well, I don’t apologize for that. [2] And good God, what a year we had for it- Freedom, A Visit from the Goon Squad, The Marriage Plot, ick. [3] Note, this friend is a Rhodes Scholar working on her second masters in literature, one was in Early Modern Literature, i.e. the period Mantel covers, i.e. a sharp cookie and not one to fall for silly books. 

Hilary Mantel’s Wolf Hall is the rarest of novels. It’s just damn good. Unlike many historical novels it eschews thee’s, thou’s, and all that nonsense and opts instead for a lean, cutting dialogue that translates the immediacy of the emotion narrated. I’ll not lie; I like historical fiction. If you want to look down your nose at me, I don’t care.[1] Wolf Hall, though, is a bit more than your typical historical fair. I read Ken Follett for his story, not his language. He is not a bad writer, but he is certainly not one to turn a phrase. Mantel is, in fact, a supremely gifted writer as well as a compelling storyteller. Not once in the 600+ pages does Wolf Hall lag. Her prose is robust, readable, and interesting. Her characters are compelling and believable. And, perhaps more impressively, she never winks at you. I loathe self-indulgent fiction.[2] In a literary season where childish games masquerading as grown-up fiction are in and out-and-out children’s books dominate the market, Wolf Hall is a relief. It is an adult novel that entertains with out insulting. I mean, good grief, it reduced a friend and I to giddy texting about how good it was.[3]  Wolf Hall is historical fiction at its highest. Cataclysimic events are distilled to dinner tables, bedrooms, and personal relationships. The English Reformation is reduced from a metanarrative to a series of human choices. The promise of historical fiction is not that it relates the true past, but that it reminds us of the truth that history is just the record of real human beings, more like us than not. Human beings subject to many of the same emotions as we are, and- as human beings are wont to do- make decisions based off those emotions. So what if her portrayal of Cranmer and Cromwell is fictive, and her picture of More intentionally deconstructive, she reminds us that before these three men were reduced to surnames they were all simply ‘Thomas.’ She gives Henricus Rex VIII the space to simply be ‘Henry.’  History with a capital ‘H’ becomes the personal narrative of men and women caught in difficult situations, frequently of their own making. The primary problem with most historical fiction is that character becomes an accessory to event, Wolf Hall explores how people cause events that shape History and become legends who become characters.  In the end, Mantel’s humanism is what connects her to her subject. Like her protagonist Cromwell, she struggles to push human beings to the fore.

PS, I realize I am late on the bandwagon, but all that means is I have less time to wait for the sequel…coming in May.


[1] I read David Foster Wallace, I read George Steiner, I read Joyce, I read Chaucer, I read Fitzgerald, I read what a damn well please, I did a masters in medieval literature at Oxford and if I found Pillars of the Earth enjoyable and you were too stuck up to like it, well, I don’t apologize for that.

[2] And good God, what a year we had for it- Freedom, A Visit from the Goon Squad, The Marriage Plot, ick.

[3] Note, this friend is a Rhodes Scholar working on her second masters in literature, one was in Early Modern Literature, i.e. the period Mantel covers, i.e. a sharp cookie and not one to fall for silly books. 

10:18am  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZmxX6yHAgKrA
(Notes: 1)
  
Filed under: Book Review Books Cranmer Cromwell England Fiction Henry VIII Hillary Mantel Historical Fiction History Literature Reformation Wolf Hall bookreview 
February 25, 2012
Last week I finished Stendhal’s The Red and the Black. I liked it a lot, but I am not entirely sure what to make of it. It is, of course, ironic but not, perhaps, in the way we always expect. The target of much of Stendhal’s satire is, of course, upper class French society in the 1830’, yet at the same time me thinks he pokes gently at cross currents of Romanticism as well. Let’s be perfectly clear: Julian Sorel is a deeply compromised individual, morally dubious at best. He is hard to latch onto, so to speak. While anyone who has felt out of place will identify with some of his behavior, the end to which it is directed seems petty and hollow. Perhaps this is Stendhal’s point. Perhaps, in the end, the entire societies behavior collapses into Julian’s botched murder attempt and his sucidal defense at his own trial. Perhaps Stendhal uses Sorel to expose the sucidal impulse of the very society that both condems Julian’s birth and affirms his behavior. The challenge they face is not of a commoner evidencing more nobility but of the realization of the complete ludicy of nobility as a construct at all. Anyhow, was a good read, glad I read it, and would recommend to others. I wish I could read it in French. 

Last week I finished Stendhal’s The Red and the Black. I liked it a lot, but I am not entirely sure what to make of it. It is, of course, ironic but not, perhaps, in the way we always expect. The target of much of Stendhal’s satire is, of course, upper class French society in the 1830’, yet at the same time me thinks he pokes gently at cross currents of Romanticism as well. Let’s be perfectly clear: Julian Sorel is a deeply compromised individual, morally dubious at best. He is hard to latch onto, so to speak. While anyone who has felt out of place will identify with some of his behavior, the end to which it is directed seems petty and hollow. Perhaps this is Stendhal’s point. Perhaps, in the end, the entire societies behavior collapses into Julian’s botched murder attempt and his sucidal defense at his own trial. Perhaps Stendhal uses Sorel to expose the sucidal impulse of the very society that both condems Julian’s birth and affirms his behavior. The challenge they face is not of a commoner evidencing more nobility but of the realization of the complete ludicy of nobility as a construct at all. Anyhow, was a good read, glad I read it, and would recommend to others. I wish I could read it in French. 

11:25am  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZmxX6yG-RtPo
(Notes: 1)
  
Filed under: Books book review The Red and The Black Stendhal Novel Literature Literacy Reading France bookreview 
February 22, 2012
O my people, what have I done unto thee!

T.S. Eliot, ‘Ash Wednesday’

VI 
Although I do not hope to turn again
Although I do not hope
Although I do not hope to turn

Wavering between the profit and the loss
In this brief transit where the dreams cross
The dreamcrossed twilight between birth and dying
(Bless me father) though I do not wish to wish these things
From the wide window towards the granite shore
The white sails still fly seaward, seaward flying
Unbroken wings

And the lost heart stiffens and rejoices
In the lost lilac and the lost sea voices
And the weak spirit quickens to rebel
For the bent golden-rod and the lost sea smell
Quickens to recover
The cry of quail and the whirling plover
And the blind eye creates
The empty forms between the ivory gates
And smell renews the salt savour of the sandy earth

This is the time of tension between dying and birth
The place of solitude where three dreams cross
Between blue rocks
But when the voices shaken from the yew-tree drift away
Let the other yew be shaken and reply.

Blessèd sister, holy mother, spirit of the fountain, spirit of the garden,
Suffer us not to mock ourselves with falsehood
Teach us to care and not to care
Teach us to sit still
Even among these rocks,
Our peace in His will
And even among these rocks
Sister, mother
And spirit of the river, spirit of the sea,
Suffer me not to be separated

And let my cry come unto Thee.

Read the whole poem here

10:41am  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZmxX6yGqmrh1
(Notes: 3)
  
Filed under: T.S. Eliot Poetry Poem Literature literacy Ash Wednesday Lent bookreview 
February 18, 2012
So, for those wondering just how I have been making a living the past few weeks, here ‘tis: Piers Plowman. I have been checking the transcriptions of every manuscript of the A-Text of Langland’s much loved alliterative poem. So basically I have read the prologue and Passus 1 and 2 20ish times. I know this makes me a super nerd, but it’s quite neat to see the same lines in various dialects and iterations. It really makes you appreciate the textual variety and realize how far George Kane’s edition is from the poem’s original state. Not that Kane is wicked or anything, really just a by product of textual editing in general, but the manuscripts certainly embody a more robust and dynamic image of Piers.  This is, by the way, the opening of Trinity MS of Piers.

So, for those wondering just how I have been making a living the past few weeks, here ‘tis: Piers Plowman. I have been checking the transcriptions of every manuscript of the A-Text of Langland’s much loved alliterative poem. So basically I have read the prologue and Passus 1 and 2 20ish times. I know this makes me a super nerd, but it’s quite neat to see the same lines in various dialects and iterations. It really makes you appreciate the textual variety and realize how far George Kane’s edition is from the poem’s original state. Not that Kane is wicked or anything, really just a by product of textual editing in general, but the manuscripts certainly embody a more robust and dynamic image of Piers. 

This is, by the way, the opening of Trinity MS of Piers.

7:55pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZmxX6yGdCL9y
(Notes: 5)
  
Filed under: Medieval medieval literature Piers Plowman Piers Poem Alliterative Revival Poetry manuscript Medieval manuscript Book Literature Literacy Palaeography Book History bookreview 
February 9, 2012
Shifting gears, let’s put the Buckinghamshire rambles on hold and talk about guns.  In particular the AK-47. The ‘bad guy’ gun. Seriously, toting an AK unilaterally puts you on the side of evil, darkness, and/or oppression. The Soviet Union broke it in crushing uprisings in Eastern Europe, child soldiers employ it in Africa, it adorns the flag of Hezbollah, and on and on- every James Bond bad guy ever has tried to off him with the Kalashnikov. As Samuel L. Jackson said: “AK-47. The very best there is. When you absolutely, positively got to kill every motherfucker in the room, accept no substitutes.” The gun is an icon. I am not trying to glorify it, rather to get my mind around perhaps the most significant- or pernicious- machine of my lifetime. There is one AK-47 for every seven people on Earth. Seven million killing machines. In his book The Gun, C.J. Chivers uses the history of the AK-47 heuristically to explore laws of unintended consequences. Richard Gatling, the inventor of the machine gun, thought he was saving lives by reducing the need for large armies. The US invested untold amounts of time and money checking the Soviet Union’s nuclear ambitions, and yet it was the far end of the martial spectrum- the AK-47- that inflicted the lion’s share of the US’s Cold War casualties in Vietnam, many incurred while G.I.’s struggled to fix their M-16s. The AK-47 is an engineering marvel. It is nearly impossible to render unfirable. Kids can strip and re-assemble it in 30 seconds. Its stubborn refusal to fail at its primary task- killing people as rapidly as possible- makes it an ideal military arm. Last year the coalition troops in Afghanistan recovered a first run AK-47, made c. 1950. In its 60 year career, how many lives did it take? These are the types of questions Chivers tries to ask and answer. Frequently his book departs from the primary narrative. He tracks the development of the AK-47 and contrasts its success in the rice-paddies of SE Asia with the M-16’s failure. Chivers’ book is a marvel of cultural history. It avoids the most technical and controversial questions- many unanswerable given the official veil of secrecy surrounding the gun’s development- but it explores the way in which a simple machine can change the course of history. The book is a fascinating read for anyone, especially for those turned off by military history.  The gun has defined our times, at least we should understand it. 

Shifting gears, let’s put the Buckinghamshire rambles on hold and talk about guns.  In particular the AK-47. The ‘bad guy’ gun. Seriously, toting an AK unilaterally puts you on the side of evil, darkness, and/or oppression. The Soviet Union broke it in crushing uprisings in Eastern Europe, child soldiers employ it in Africa, it adorns the flag of Hezbollah, and on and on- every James Bond bad guy ever has tried to off him with the Kalashnikov. As Samuel L. Jackson said: “AK-47. The very best there is. When you absolutely, positively got to kill every motherfucker in the room, accept no substitutes.” The gun is an icon. I am not trying to glorify it, rather to get my mind around perhaps the most significant- or pernicious- machine of my lifetime. There is one AK-47 for every seven people on Earth. Seven million killing machines. In his book The Gun, C.J. Chivers uses the history of the AK-47 heuristically to explore laws of unintended consequences. Richard Gatling, the inventor of the machine gun, thought he was saving lives by reducing the need for large armies. The US invested untold amounts of time and money checking the Soviet Union’s nuclear ambitions, and yet it was the far end of the martial spectrum- the AK-47- that inflicted the lion’s share of the US’s Cold War casualties in Vietnam, many incurred while G.I.’s struggled to fix their M-16s. The AK-47 is an engineering marvel. It is nearly impossible to render unfirable. Kids can strip and re-assemble it in 30 seconds. Its stubborn refusal to fail at its primary task- killing people as rapidly as possible- makes it an ideal military arm. Last year the coalition troops in Afghanistan recovered a first run AK-47, made c. 1950. In its 60 year career, how many lives did it take? These are the types of questions Chivers tries to ask and answer. Frequently his book departs from the primary narrative. He tracks the development of the AK-47 and contrasts its success in the rice-paddies of SE Asia with the M-16’s failure. Chivers’ book is a marvel of cultural history. It avoids the most technical and controversial questions- many unanswerable given the official veil of secrecy surrounding the gun’s development- but it explores the way in which a simple machine can change the course of history. The book is a fascinating read for anyone, especially for those turned off by military history.  The gun has defined our times, at least we should understand it. 

8:31pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZmxX6yG8_chQ
(Notes: 6)
  
Filed under: Book book review Gun AK-47 C.J. Chivers literature history guns bookreview 
February 7, 2012
Michel de Montaigne, On Solitude, Penguin Great Ideas, Series 4, no. 64 (London: Penguin, 2009) First, this is the first of likely many reviews of various volumes of the Penguin Great Ideas series. This series is brilliant. It actualizes a point a great mentor of mine- Dr. Paul Vincent- made in a memorable chapel address years ago: the best books, those most worth reading, should be able to fit in the hip pocket of a pair of jeans. Moreover, Penguin brings a sense of style to these books. The understated elegance of the paperback production makes them a pleasure to read and addictive to collect. Blackwell’s 3 for 2 deals help. But with out further fuss- de Montaigne. Michel de Montaingne is, in my opinion, not at his best in the titular essay: ‘On Solitude.’ I will return to my thoughts on it at the close of this essay. But to start, I must simply remark on the near perfect simplicity of ‘On the Length of Life.’ It is, to my mind, Montaigne at his best: speaking directly and with out undue recourse to classical allusion. He is witty and canny, notably pointing out the ludic undertones of the term ‘natural death.’ He bobs and weaves like a boxer having fun and it’s hard to keep count of the hits he registers because you are just enjoying the show too much. His effortless wit and ability to move quickly from trivial to sublime is on display in other essays as well, but at times, I think, his penchant for antiquity reduces some essays to chains of examples. Frequently he draws from Seneca, and often to great effect. And yet, I think this is where my creeping issues with de Montaigne begin. In his discussion of solitude he endorses a Senecan, stoic, withdraw or detachment. In a through away comment he mentions the stress of managing ones estates to point out that country retirement does not always equal rest, or properly: otium. There is, like in Seneca, a darker undertone. de Montaigne’s leisure was contingent upon the backbreaking labor of others. His patrician tone extends past his predilection for the ancients. It seems harsh, or unduly Marxist, to judge a man retroactively- he was no worse and likely much better than most of his class- and yet his exhortations on some issues are impossible to accept because the require an entire socio-economic system we have rejected wholesale. Perhaps my ‘Protestant Work Ethic’ occludes my judgement, but- I must say- I must reject the solitude he suggests precisely because it- to my mind- is a house built upon sand, and perhaps worse, watered in blood. Now, I don’t wish to put off de Montaigne entirely. When he speaks of life, of human emotions such as anger or constancy, he is scintillating. I guess I speak in the light of my days. Without being too political (and anyone who actually knows me knows how laughable the charge of liberalism is) it is hard to read anything today that does not recognize the problems of class, labor, and money. Montaigne’s virtue requires, to some extent, unvirtuous acquisition of the material means necessary to obtain the requisite otium he sees paramount to living the good life. 

Michel de Montaigne, On Solitude, Penguin Great Ideas, Series 4, no. 64 (London: Penguin, 2009)

First, this is the first of likely many reviews of various volumes of the Penguin Great Ideas series. This series is brilliant. It actualizes a point a great mentor of mine- Dr. Paul Vincent- made in a memorable chapel address years ago: the best books, those most worth reading, should be able to fit in the hip pocket of a pair of jeans. Moreover, Penguin brings a sense of style to these books. The understated elegance of the paperback production makes them a pleasure to read and addictive to collect. Blackwell’s 3 for 2 deals help. But with out further fuss- de Montaigne.

Michel de Montaingne is, in my opinion, not at his best in the titular essay: ‘On Solitude.’ I will return to my thoughts on it at the close of this essay. But to start, I must simply remark on the near perfect simplicity of ‘On the Length of Life.’ It is, to my mind, Montaigne at his best: speaking directly and with out undue recourse to classical allusion. He is witty and canny, notably pointing out the ludic undertones of the term ‘natural death.’ He bobs and weaves like a boxer having fun and it’s hard to keep count of the hits he registers because you are just enjoying the show too much. His effortless wit and ability to move quickly from trivial to sublime is on display in other essays as well, but at times, I think, his penchant for antiquity reduces some essays to chains of examples. Frequently he draws from Seneca, and often to great effect. And yet, I think this is where my creeping issues with de Montaigne begin. In his discussion of solitude he endorses a Senecan, stoic, withdraw or detachment. In a through away comment he mentions the stress of managing ones estates to point out that country retirement does not always equal rest, or properly: otium. There is, like in Seneca, a darker undertone. de Montaigne’s leisure was contingent upon the backbreaking labor of others. His patrician tone extends past his predilection for the ancients. It seems harsh, or unduly Marxist, to judge a man retroactively- he was no worse and likely much better than most of his class- and yet his exhortations on some issues are impossible to accept because the require an entire socio-economic system we have rejected wholesale. Perhaps my ‘Protestant Work Ethic’ occludes my judgement, but- I must say- I must reject the solitude he suggests precisely because it- to my mind- is a house built upon sand, and perhaps worse, watered in blood. Now, I don’t wish to put off de Montaigne entirely. When he speaks of life, of human emotions such as anger or constancy, he is scintillating. I guess I speak in the light of my days. Without being too political (and anyone who actually knows me knows how laughable the charge of liberalism is) it is hard to read anything today that does not recognize the problems of class, labor, and money. Montaigne’s virtue requires, to some extent, unvirtuous acquisition of the material means necessary to obtain the requisite otium he sees paramount to living the good life. 

9:49am  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZmxX6yG1TLSJ
Filed under: Book Book Review Penguin Great Ideas Great Ideas Montaigne Michel de Montainge On Solitude Reading Literacy Literature bookreview 
February 6, 2012
"To syngen for symonye for siluer is swete"

— Oh Langland. So pointed. 

10:44am  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZmxX6yF_Amo8
Filed under: Piers Plowman William Langland Poem medieval medieval literature bookreview 
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