"What were leaky roofs and cold hands and gray days and rock as compared with such riches of freedom and aloneness," Elliott Merrick writes of raising his family on a farm in Vermont in the 1930s. In a series of essays, Merrick recalls the labor and reward of forging an existence out in wilderness, the work and pleasure of living off the land, not just living on it. He characterizes the spectrum of personalities inhabiting his corner of Vermont, philosophizes on the nature of the writer's craft and the nature of nature itself, and lovingly reminisces about his children's younger years. All the while he maintains his affection for and devotion to the sometimes breathlessly severe, sometimes sweetly mild, always overwhelmingly beautiful landscape.
Merrick effortlessly describes moonlit nights spent cross-country skiing, lakes and streams and waterfalls, verdant summers flavored by blackberries and raspberries. He also acknowledges the harsh frosts and never-ending overcast days. Whatever he writes of takes little to imagine; he penetrates to the essential aspects of a blustery autumn day or the fleeting leap of a doe, his rendering easy and accurate, infused with a pervasive sense of actuality.
Perhaps one of Merrick's most penetrating insights involves his Thoreauvian sense of immediacy, his ability to recognize the present and embrace it. "Into my mind comes the realization that here I am, now, out of all time and all space, here in this place. And I say to myself, This is my house. My woman. A baby. Two babies. Simple things like that." Indeed simplicity, for Merrick as for Thoreau, is a chief virtue.
Merrick at one point recalls a canoe trip he and his wife took. He meditates on the balance between old and new, the sleekly engineered boat gliding on the untouched river of the ancients. He rejoices in accepting the best of both worlds. "And here it is again, the wild and the civilized side by side, and we in the middle, picking and choosing a little of each." In this he almost goes beyond Thoreau, reconciling a deep admiration for the natural world with a balanced appreciation for modern advancements.
Merrick refuses to idolize the past, asserting that the present has all of history's benefits along with improvements of its own, making it the best time yet in which to live. Merrick's refreshing enthusiasm for the here and now illuminates his work, transmitting to the reader an anticipation and a longing for the exhilarating balance he finds in life.
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
Thursday, August 09, 2007
The Art of War by Sun Tzu
Like Machiavelli with The Prince, Sun Tzu wrote a manual containing instructions for matters of state, only the latter lived one thousand years earlier and half the world away. Sun Tzu's writing pleased the king of his province in 500 B.C. China, and the treatise continues to be revered for its military wisdom today. I heard a guest on a radio program mention it, and so I decided I should read it myself.
"[T]he general is skillful in attack whose opponent does not know what to defend; and he is skillful in defense whose opponent does not know what to attack," declares Sun Tzu. He makes it clear that deception is the key to winning a war; keeping the enemy confused the primary goal. Furthermore, Sun Tzu encourages leaders to keep their subordinates guessing too, by concealing plans from all but a select few and thereby preserving their veil of secrecy from the spies that inevitably creep into the ranks of troops.
For Sun Tzu, flexibility is paramount. "According as circumstances are favorable, one should modify one's plans." A leader should base his movements on his enemy's actions, watching him sedulously and responding appropriately. When attacking, Sun Tzu advises targeting the opponent's weakest point. "Military tactics are like unto water, for water in its natural course runs away from high places and hastens downwards. So in war, the way to avoid what is strong is to strike what is weak. Water shapes its course according to the ground over which it flows; the soldier works out his victory in relation to the foe whom he is facing."
Though Sun Tzu's enthusiasm for war dominates the work, he counsels cautious circumspection in inciting conflict. "[A] kingdom that has once been destroyed can never come again into being; nor can the dead ever be brought back to life." He recognizes that war is irrevocable and urges leaders to refrain from waging wars merely out of personal spite. For where deception reigns virtuous can only be hardship and turmoil, ceaseless unrest.
"[T]he general is skillful in attack whose opponent does not know what to defend; and he is skillful in defense whose opponent does not know what to attack," declares Sun Tzu. He makes it clear that deception is the key to winning a war; keeping the enemy confused the primary goal. Furthermore, Sun Tzu encourages leaders to keep their subordinates guessing too, by concealing plans from all but a select few and thereby preserving their veil of secrecy from the spies that inevitably creep into the ranks of troops.
For Sun Tzu, flexibility is paramount. "According as circumstances are favorable, one should modify one's plans." A leader should base his movements on his enemy's actions, watching him sedulously and responding appropriately. When attacking, Sun Tzu advises targeting the opponent's weakest point. "Military tactics are like unto water, for water in its natural course runs away from high places and hastens downwards. So in war, the way to avoid what is strong is to strike what is weak. Water shapes its course according to the ground over which it flows; the soldier works out his victory in relation to the foe whom he is facing."
Though Sun Tzu's enthusiasm for war dominates the work, he counsels cautious circumspection in inciting conflict. "[A] kingdom that has once been destroyed can never come again into being; nor can the dead ever be brought back to life." He recognizes that war is irrevocable and urges leaders to refrain from waging wars merely out of personal spite. For where deception reigns virtuous can only be hardship and turmoil, ceaseless unrest.
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
Reading Like a Writer by Francine Prose
Read the classics to learn how to write well – doesn’t everyone already know this? Apparently not, for the aptly-named Prose makes sure her namesake is quite clear on the subject: "You will do yourself a disservice if you confine your reading to the rising star whose six-figure, two-book contract might seem to indicate where your own work should be heading." Really? Mass-market American tastes shouldn't necessarily be consulted for examples of brilliant writing?
I don't mean to be so sarcastic. Prose's treatise on developing an eye and an ear for writing is spot-on. She, after all, was once a "bookish sixteen-year-old" who idolized Austen and the Brontës, unaware not only that "no one wrote that way anymore," but also that "no one lived that way any longer." Prose liberally quotes her favorite authors, deconstructing their techniques to determine what good writing is and how it is formed. By focusing on the basic elements of a novel or story, she manages a comprehensive examination of what constitutes a literary masterpiece.
Prose constantly discounts venerated rules of composition: “There are many occasions in literature in which telling is more effective than showing.” On the assumption that fictional conversation should not attempt to mimic the real: “Then why is so much written dialogue less colorful and interesting that what we can overhear daily in the Internet café, the mall, and on the subway?” She encourages adhering to some general guidelines but gleefully appends them with masterly exceptions.
Her observations are accurate and insightful. “[D]ialogue usually contains as much or even more subtext than it does text…One mark of bad written dialogue is that it is only doing one thing, at most, at once.” Elsewhere she notes, “A well-chosen detail can tell us more about a character - his social and economic status, his hopes and dreams, his visions of himself – than a long explanatory passage.”
Prose dutifully follows her axioms with appropriate examples culled from classic works. These excerpts illuminate her points, making the book practical and understandable. She realizes the limitations of such instruction though, admitting, “Beauty, in a sentence, is ultimately as difficult to quantify or describe as beauty in a painting or in a human face.” She concludes that the only way to determine whether one has produced a rose or a weed is to spend time in rose gardens.
The book is engaging and profitable, like taking a good English class from a seasoned and passionate teacher. Prose rightly maintains that writing cannot be learned in the vacuum of a classroom; there is no substitute for the real thing. All writers, from the aspiring to the established, would do well to realize that they are only “the dot at the end of the long, glorious, complex sentence in which literature has been written.”
I don't mean to be so sarcastic. Prose's treatise on developing an eye and an ear for writing is spot-on. She, after all, was once a "bookish sixteen-year-old" who idolized Austen and the Brontës, unaware not only that "no one wrote that way anymore," but also that "no one lived that way any longer." Prose liberally quotes her favorite authors, deconstructing their techniques to determine what good writing is and how it is formed. By focusing on the basic elements of a novel or story, she manages a comprehensive examination of what constitutes a literary masterpiece.
Prose constantly discounts venerated rules of composition: “There are many occasions in literature in which telling is more effective than showing.” On the assumption that fictional conversation should not attempt to mimic the real: “Then why is so much written dialogue less colorful and interesting that what we can overhear daily in the Internet café, the mall, and on the subway?” She encourages adhering to some general guidelines but gleefully appends them with masterly exceptions.
Her observations are accurate and insightful. “[D]ialogue usually contains as much or even more subtext than it does text…One mark of bad written dialogue is that it is only doing one thing, at most, at once.” Elsewhere she notes, “A well-chosen detail can tell us more about a character - his social and economic status, his hopes and dreams, his visions of himself – than a long explanatory passage.”
Prose dutifully follows her axioms with appropriate examples culled from classic works. These excerpts illuminate her points, making the book practical and understandable. She realizes the limitations of such instruction though, admitting, “Beauty, in a sentence, is ultimately as difficult to quantify or describe as beauty in a painting or in a human face.” She concludes that the only way to determine whether one has produced a rose or a weed is to spend time in rose gardens.
The book is engaging and profitable, like taking a good English class from a seasoned and passionate teacher. Prose rightly maintains that writing cannot be learned in the vacuum of a classroom; there is no substitute for the real thing. All writers, from the aspiring to the established, would do well to realize that they are only “the dot at the end of the long, glorious, complex sentence in which literature has been written.”
Friday, June 15, 2007
The Best American Short Stories 2006 Edited by Ann Patchett
As I perused this collection, persistent questions tapped on my shoulder: Why do I read? Why do authors write? Why did they write these stories? Why were these stories included in this book? Unfortunately, "Why?" may be the only question in the world that can never be definitively, indisputably answered. We make partial attempts at settling the issue, but unresolved elements always remain. Nonetheless, Ann Patchett ventures her opinion of the matter of the short story and its purpose in her introduction. "I haven't been able to shake the notion that short story writers are famous people and that short stories are life-altering things. I believe it is human nature to try and persuade others that our most passionately held beliefs are true so that they too can know the joy of our deepest convictions."
Evaluating the book in that light, I think the purpose of this collection centers around inspiring compassion for others. While this is sometimes manifested in benign portraits of lonely senior citizens, bemused immigrants, and tragic marriages, at other times it seems merely a vehicle for gaining widespread acceptance of the practices of the most outlandish members of society. Homosexuality and all manner of promiscuity are boldly, kindly, even pedestrianly presented, as if such liasons were not only permissable but laudable, just another facet of a diverse civilization.
The unifying theme that these stories evoke is a continuation of the American motif of isolation. The individual is triumphed at the expense of the community. The gay military man unable to reach out to the needy family of a deployed solider nor commit to his "partner;" the sex-surfeited girl stringing along her smitten boyfriend; the aloof lesbian whose only human connections are fleeting, physical, and base - the individuals are worlds unto themselves, deceiving even their closest companions as to the true nature of their relationships, unable to foster meaningful interactions, nor engage in fully honest discourse. Here we have only ourselves; father, mother, sister, brother, husband, wife, friend - all are peripheral appendages with whom complete sincerity and verity, with whom selfless love, is tragically impossible. The stories form a paean to self.
So what are Ann Patchett's "deepest convictions" - that the individual is to be prized above all else? That the individual should pursue whatever feels right inside him, regardless of extraneous considerations? How should we apply these "life-altering" stories - Become more self-absorbed and self-obsessed than we already are? Accept whatever society foists on us as social norms?
Literature, like life, is vacuous, redundant, without a clear and defined purpose. Saying these short stories are worth reading is like saying one's aim in life is to just "be." The pursuit of truth and beauty is admirable only if it ends fruitfully. To get meat, hunt a deer. To find truth and beauty, seek the One who holds them, whose very being is composed of them.
Evaluating the book in that light, I think the purpose of this collection centers around inspiring compassion for others. While this is sometimes manifested in benign portraits of lonely senior citizens, bemused immigrants, and tragic marriages, at other times it seems merely a vehicle for gaining widespread acceptance of the practices of the most outlandish members of society. Homosexuality and all manner of promiscuity are boldly, kindly, even pedestrianly presented, as if such liasons were not only permissable but laudable, just another facet of a diverse civilization.
The unifying theme that these stories evoke is a continuation of the American motif of isolation. The individual is triumphed at the expense of the community. The gay military man unable to reach out to the needy family of a deployed solider nor commit to his "partner;" the sex-surfeited girl stringing along her smitten boyfriend; the aloof lesbian whose only human connections are fleeting, physical, and base - the individuals are worlds unto themselves, deceiving even their closest companions as to the true nature of their relationships, unable to foster meaningful interactions, nor engage in fully honest discourse. Here we have only ourselves; father, mother, sister, brother, husband, wife, friend - all are peripheral appendages with whom complete sincerity and verity, with whom selfless love, is tragically impossible. The stories form a paean to self.
So what are Ann Patchett's "deepest convictions" - that the individual is to be prized above all else? That the individual should pursue whatever feels right inside him, regardless of extraneous considerations? How should we apply these "life-altering" stories - Become more self-absorbed and self-obsessed than we already are? Accept whatever society foists on us as social norms?
Literature, like life, is vacuous, redundant, without a clear and defined purpose. Saying these short stories are worth reading is like saying one's aim in life is to just "be." The pursuit of truth and beauty is admirable only if it ends fruitfully. To get meat, hunt a deer. To find truth and beauty, seek the One who holds them, whose very being is composed of them.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
Tristram Shandy by Laurence Sterne
Unbelievably lengthy, exceedingly verbose, purposefully tedious, Tristram Shandy was one of those books whose Introduction was infinitely more fruitful than the text itself. Peter Conrad, in his introductory remarks, extols Sterne's novel for its daring innovation, unconventional liberties, and subversive wit, meanwhile praising other prominent authors of the eighteenth century, making a thoughtful summary of their respective contributions to the novel form. He makes an excellent case for the merits of this book. While Sterne's originality holds, undoubtedly, historical literary importance, experienced at the present time it lacks immediacy, and ultimately, relevancy.
Ostensibly an autobiography, the book purports to be the "life and opinions" of the eponymous character, though little of either makes an appearance. Tristram famously does not appear himself until well into the narrative, a fact he readily admits is singular: "I am...almost into the middle of my third volume - and no farther than to my first day's life." What, then, constitutes the bulk of the novel? In a word, digressions. Tristram chronicles the inane conversations of his father, uncle, and neighbors, meandering along not only their rabbit paths, but taking liberal detours of his own. He freely addresses the reader at times, leaves blank pages, provides accompanying graphics, and wantonly flits from topic to topic, desperately trying to maintain an accurate chronology but coming nowhere near. Like an attention-challenged child who tries to behave but cannot for the life of him sit still, Sterne's spastic narrator never stays on one subject for long, himself least of all.
What sort of person Tristram truly is remains unanswered, though the haphazard sketches he produces of the personalities that peopled his childhood make it evident he was not raised without some degree of eccentricity. His uncle, an emasculate war veteran, and his father, a would-be ivory tower intellectual, volley with the pompous curate and bumbling parish doctor over antiquated obscurities and the more mundane happenings of the household. Though Tristram's father blathers nonsense most of the time, opining about his treasured pet theories involving medieval minutiae like how one's name affects one's life and the physical location of the soul, occasionally he makes an acute observation. Speaking of auxiliary verbs, he avers, "Now, by the right use and application of these...there is no one idea can enter [Tristram's] brain...but a magazine of conceptions and conclusions may be drawn forth from it. - Didst thou ever see a white bear...Would I had seen a white bear...If I should...If I should never..."
Little of what passes for the life of Tristram Shandy is of any consequence to anyone, and Sterne is well aware of this. Inquiring about an anecdote Tristram's father had just told, his mother asks, "[W]hat is all this story about?" The curate replies, "A cock and a bull - And one of the best of its kind, I ever heard." And there the book ends.
Ostensibly an autobiography, the book purports to be the "life and opinions" of the eponymous character, though little of either makes an appearance. Tristram famously does not appear himself until well into the narrative, a fact he readily admits is singular: "I am...almost into the middle of my third volume - and no farther than to my first day's life." What, then, constitutes the bulk of the novel? In a word, digressions. Tristram chronicles the inane conversations of his father, uncle, and neighbors, meandering along not only their rabbit paths, but taking liberal detours of his own. He freely addresses the reader at times, leaves blank pages, provides accompanying graphics, and wantonly flits from topic to topic, desperately trying to maintain an accurate chronology but coming nowhere near. Like an attention-challenged child who tries to behave but cannot for the life of him sit still, Sterne's spastic narrator never stays on one subject for long, himself least of all.
What sort of person Tristram truly is remains unanswered, though the haphazard sketches he produces of the personalities that peopled his childhood make it evident he was not raised without some degree of eccentricity. His uncle, an emasculate war veteran, and his father, a would-be ivory tower intellectual, volley with the pompous curate and bumbling parish doctor over antiquated obscurities and the more mundane happenings of the household. Though Tristram's father blathers nonsense most of the time, opining about his treasured pet theories involving medieval minutiae like how one's name affects one's life and the physical location of the soul, occasionally he makes an acute observation. Speaking of auxiliary verbs, he avers, "Now, by the right use and application of these...there is no one idea can enter [Tristram's] brain...but a magazine of conceptions and conclusions may be drawn forth from it. - Didst thou ever see a white bear...Would I had seen a white bear...If I should...If I should never..."
Little of what passes for the life of Tristram Shandy is of any consequence to anyone, and Sterne is well aware of this. Inquiring about an anecdote Tristram's father had just told, his mother asks, "[W]hat is all this story about?" The curate replies, "A cock and a bull - And one of the best of its kind, I ever heard." And there the book ends.
Monday, June 04, 2007
Pere Goriot by Honore de Balzac
Balzac designates Goriot "Pere," father, because the man devotes all he has to his two daughters. They define his amorphous existence, creating the sharp edge of poverty that he lives on in his old age. Though Goriot bestows upon the girls enormous dowries to ensure they are able to marry whomever they want and desires in return only love and a place in their homes, they deny him both. Nevertheless, he procures money for them whenever they plead for the sums their mercenary husbands refuse to grant them. Goriot is only too happy to suffer in miserable squalor if it adds to his daughters' comfort. One day, though, the debts become too much for him to bear. Goriot collapses into a fatal illness, and eventually dies, attended by neither of those whom he had loved so much.
Goriot's privation for the sake of his daughters forces him to live in a boardinghouse, along with varying examples of Parisian life in 1819. One fellow boarder, Eugene Rastignac, a poor law student from the country, befriends him when he discovers Goriot's daughters occupy the lofty sphere of society he desperately wants to inhabit. Eugene becomes increasingly enmeshed in their affairs, at the end burying Goriot when his daughters refuse to.
Eugene develops a profound respect for Goriot's unwavering affection toward his children, viewing him as the prototype of a father. Eugene is disgusted by the ignominious end the man comes to. "Great souls cannot stay long in this world. How, indeed, should noble feelings exist in harmony with a petty, paltry, and superficial society?" Eugene charges society with killing Goriot, finally declaring war on it to avenge the man's death.
Society, Parisian society certainly, with its values, may share some of the blame in the tragedy of Goriot. Materialism, hedonism, the unscrupulous clawing to the top of the heap - the world Goriot's girls inhabited did not triumph unselfish filial duty. But Goriot should have instilled in them the morals and beliefs that would have allowed them to stand tall amidst such pettiness. Giving them all they wanted was not loving them perfectly, not doing what was best for them. Permitting them to marry mercenaries directly contradicted the purpose of the large dowries. Scrambling to find money every time they asked for it only reinforced their remorseless greed.
Eugene refuses to accept the path society would have him take, declining to marry the young, naive heiress who adores him, but to whom he is indifferent. Instead, he aligns himself with Goriot's more compassionate, contrite daughter. As she is still married, it is not the most moral choice, but it is infinitely noble in his, and Balzac's, eyes. Why greed and disrespect for one's parents are sins in Balzac's world, but adultery is not, is unclear.
Goriot's privation for the sake of his daughters forces him to live in a boardinghouse, along with varying examples of Parisian life in 1819. One fellow boarder, Eugene Rastignac, a poor law student from the country, befriends him when he discovers Goriot's daughters occupy the lofty sphere of society he desperately wants to inhabit. Eugene becomes increasingly enmeshed in their affairs, at the end burying Goriot when his daughters refuse to.
Eugene develops a profound respect for Goriot's unwavering affection toward his children, viewing him as the prototype of a father. Eugene is disgusted by the ignominious end the man comes to. "Great souls cannot stay long in this world. How, indeed, should noble feelings exist in harmony with a petty, paltry, and superficial society?" Eugene charges society with killing Goriot, finally declaring war on it to avenge the man's death.
Society, Parisian society certainly, with its values, may share some of the blame in the tragedy of Goriot. Materialism, hedonism, the unscrupulous clawing to the top of the heap - the world Goriot's girls inhabited did not triumph unselfish filial duty. But Goriot should have instilled in them the morals and beliefs that would have allowed them to stand tall amidst such pettiness. Giving them all they wanted was not loving them perfectly, not doing what was best for them. Permitting them to marry mercenaries directly contradicted the purpose of the large dowries. Scrambling to find money every time they asked for it only reinforced their remorseless greed.
Eugene refuses to accept the path society would have him take, declining to marry the young, naive heiress who adores him, but to whom he is indifferent. Instead, he aligns himself with Goriot's more compassionate, contrite daughter. As she is still married, it is not the most moral choice, but it is infinitely noble in his, and Balzac's, eyes. Why greed and disrespect for one's parents are sins in Balzac's world, but adultery is not, is unclear.
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
Doctor Zhivago by Boris Pasternak
The misguided romance between Dr. Zhivago and Lara is central to this book, and it parallels the Russians' fatal infatuation with socialism that forms the background of the story. Zhivago and Lara come of age and begin their own families separately during the early 20th century, while Marxism is gaining traction and the revolt against landed aristocracy and the Czarist regime rages. In a caprice of war, the two are thrown together more than once, kindling an ongoing affair. But just as war throws them together, it also tears them apart, and they both eventually come to ignobly solitary ends.
Doctor Zhivago is a comprehensive, loftily toned novel that tries hard to be a worthy heir to the legacy of Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, et al. However, try as it might, it never quite reaches such heights. Neither Zhivago's appending poetry, which is highly praised in the novel, nor the narrative of the book itself come across as anything but pretentious and self-centered imitations. The characters certainly discuss the masters of Russian literature often enough, but that only sharpens the contrast between their fictional predecessors and them.
Pasternak repeatedly falls into telling rather than showing. When describing a conversation between Zhivago and his uncle, Pasternak says he had never "heard views as penetrating, apt, or inspiring," but these remarkable comments never make an appearance. Pasternak has too much confidence in the profundity of his protagonist. Zhivago writes "Playing at People, a Gloomy Diary or Journal Consisting of Prose, Verse, and What-have-you, Inspired by the Realization that Half the People Have Stopped Being Themselves and Are Acting Unknown Parts," a title whose self-amused attempt at witticism would be at home in these modern incarnations of narcissism, blogs.
But perhaps it would not be wise to blame Pasternak for his shortcomings and mistake "the spirit of the times" for personal inadequacy, as Lara's husband does. As socialist thought slowly permeated every aspect of their lives, it alienated them from each other. "We began to be idiotically pompous with each other," Lara explains to Zhivago, "you felt you had to be clever in a certain way about certain world-important themes." Unable to communicate accurately and thus believing he no longer has his wife’s esteem, Lara's husband joins the army and throws himself headlong into the revolution, effectually abandoning her.
Lara attributes the break-up of her marriage largely to the advent of Communism. To some extent, she is justified. The book chronicles the brutality of socialism, the incongruity between its sweet promises and its bitter actuality. Without a free market, people starve physically, and also intellectually and spiritually. Communist thought enthralled Russians, from the radicals at the universities to the impoverished peasants. Just as Russians deserted their traditions, their native values, so Zhivago betrayed his constant, devoted wife for Lara. The affair gives him no peace or satisfaction, just wrenching guilt and an addled conscience.
Pasternak seems to say that Zhivago, like Lara's husband, would never have strayed had he not been subjected to the insensibility and turmoil of the revolution. Morals became as muddled as politics then. Zhivago feels helpless, powerless, facing unassailable history. "He realized he was a pygmy before the monstrous machine of the future."
Doctor Zhivago is a comprehensive, loftily toned novel that tries hard to be a worthy heir to the legacy of Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, et al. However, try as it might, it never quite reaches such heights. Neither Zhivago's appending poetry, which is highly praised in the novel, nor the narrative of the book itself come across as anything but pretentious and self-centered imitations. The characters certainly discuss the masters of Russian literature often enough, but that only sharpens the contrast between their fictional predecessors and them.
Pasternak repeatedly falls into telling rather than showing. When describing a conversation between Zhivago and his uncle, Pasternak says he had never "heard views as penetrating, apt, or inspiring," but these remarkable comments never make an appearance. Pasternak has too much confidence in the profundity of his protagonist. Zhivago writes "Playing at People, a Gloomy Diary or Journal Consisting of Prose, Verse, and What-have-you, Inspired by the Realization that Half the People Have Stopped Being Themselves and Are Acting Unknown Parts," a title whose self-amused attempt at witticism would be at home in these modern incarnations of narcissism, blogs.
But perhaps it would not be wise to blame Pasternak for his shortcomings and mistake "the spirit of the times" for personal inadequacy, as Lara's husband does. As socialist thought slowly permeated every aspect of their lives, it alienated them from each other. "We began to be idiotically pompous with each other," Lara explains to Zhivago, "you felt you had to be clever in a certain way about certain world-important themes." Unable to communicate accurately and thus believing he no longer has his wife’s esteem, Lara's husband joins the army and throws himself headlong into the revolution, effectually abandoning her.
Lara attributes the break-up of her marriage largely to the advent of Communism. To some extent, she is justified. The book chronicles the brutality of socialism, the incongruity between its sweet promises and its bitter actuality. Without a free market, people starve physically, and also intellectually and spiritually. Communist thought enthralled Russians, from the radicals at the universities to the impoverished peasants. Just as Russians deserted their traditions, their native values, so Zhivago betrayed his constant, devoted wife for Lara. The affair gives him no peace or satisfaction, just wrenching guilt and an addled conscience.
Pasternak seems to say that Zhivago, like Lara's husband, would never have strayed had he not been subjected to the insensibility and turmoil of the revolution. Morals became as muddled as politics then. Zhivago feels helpless, powerless, facing unassailable history. "He realized he was a pygmy before the monstrous machine of the future."
Friday, May 11, 2007
Song of Solomon by Toni Morrison
Toni Morrison's organic prose wends its intoxicating way around you until you're so mesmerized you hardly notice the insidious web it has trapped you in. Song of Solomon begins with a troubled man perched precariously atop a hospital roof, and from there descends into the murky depths of African-American life in the mid-20th century. Highlighting significant points in the lives of one family, the narrative finally rests on the son, Macon Dead Jr, and the journey he embarks on to comprehend the past and its bearing on his future.
At the beginning, the past looks terribly sordid. The sordid taste never really leaves the story, but it does abate somewhat. Morrison draws her characters in untempered manifestations of vulgarity, making no attempt to wipe off the gritty dirt and grime of their lives. Initially, they seem like aberrations of human nature unwittingly stumbled upon. But Morrison later justifies their untoward actions, building a logical scaffolding beneath a seemingly senseless, groundless mess.
Indeed, much of the book explores the underlying causes of the characters', and by extension the African-American culture's, distinctive burdens. "The cards are stacked against us," says Macon's friend Guitar, "and just trying to stay in the game...makes us do funny things. Things we can't help. Things that make us hurt one another." But while undoubtedly many vices can be attributed to cause and effect, this outlook does not admit an adequate address of free will. It is far too easy to shrug off people's shortcomings, blaming them on a troubled childhood or a legacy of sin. At some point each much assume responsibility for his actions.
Morrison's insight crescendoes with self-absorbed Macon's moment of clarity on a dark night in the Blue Ridge Mountains: "Apparently he thought he deserved only to be loved - from a distance, though - and given what he wanted." He later identifies the catalysts behind the individual catastrophes of his respective family members, expanding his understanding of them and gaining compassion where once was merely contempt. But from there Morrison devolves into nebulous philosophizing, attempts at mythologizing, and facile plot twists that lose the edge of realism that Macon's inner revelation and outer realizations have.
Morrison's earthy cadence embodies the souls of her subjects. Her confident assurance in her ability to create a cultural mythology is, strange though the comparison might be, almost Tolkienesque. But that she embraces not just the sinners but also the sin, dismissing their culpability with rational explanations, tarnishes her work.
At the beginning, the past looks terribly sordid. The sordid taste never really leaves the story, but it does abate somewhat. Morrison draws her characters in untempered manifestations of vulgarity, making no attempt to wipe off the gritty dirt and grime of their lives. Initially, they seem like aberrations of human nature unwittingly stumbled upon. But Morrison later justifies their untoward actions, building a logical scaffolding beneath a seemingly senseless, groundless mess.
Indeed, much of the book explores the underlying causes of the characters', and by extension the African-American culture's, distinctive burdens. "The cards are stacked against us," says Macon's friend Guitar, "and just trying to stay in the game...makes us do funny things. Things we can't help. Things that make us hurt one another." But while undoubtedly many vices can be attributed to cause and effect, this outlook does not admit an adequate address of free will. It is far too easy to shrug off people's shortcomings, blaming them on a troubled childhood or a legacy of sin. At some point each much assume responsibility for his actions.
Morrison's insight crescendoes with self-absorbed Macon's moment of clarity on a dark night in the Blue Ridge Mountains: "Apparently he thought he deserved only to be loved - from a distance, though - and given what he wanted." He later identifies the catalysts behind the individual catastrophes of his respective family members, expanding his understanding of them and gaining compassion where once was merely contempt. But from there Morrison devolves into nebulous philosophizing, attempts at mythologizing, and facile plot twists that lose the edge of realism that Macon's inner revelation and outer realizations have.
Morrison's earthy cadence embodies the souls of her subjects. Her confident assurance in her ability to create a cultural mythology is, strange though the comparison might be, almost Tolkienesque. But that she embraces not just the sinners but also the sin, dismissing their culpability with rational explanations, tarnishes her work.
Wednesday, May 02, 2007
The Red Badge of Courage by Stephen Crane
We tend to view the past as unrelated to the present- people did those sorts of things then, but they'd never do that now. It is odd to think that the neat, established facts of the past were once someone's messy, uncertain future. Henry Fleming reflects on this before he first sees combat: "There was a portion of the world's history which he had regarded as the time of wars, but it, he thought, had been long gone over the horizon and had disappeared forever." The Civil War, however, is looming over his, and soon the immediacy of battle comes crashing down upon him.
A young Yankee farm boy, Henry alternates between honest introspection and self-approbating denial. Crane presents him with unflinching authenticity, exhibiting his naïve bravado, his cowardly self-justification, his struggles with life, death, and why. Marching towards battle, Henry encounters his first casualty. “He vaguely desired to walk around and around the body and stare, the impulse of the living to try and read in dead eyes the answer to the Question.”
Henry flees like a threatened animal when he faces the enemy. He recognizes his cowardice but reasons it away, attributing it to a natural sense of self-preservation and excusing it by his later semi-heroics. Crane allows Henry some latitude, giving him moments of unimpeachable profundity, but he nevertheless maintains an ironic distance from him, subtly mocking his pride, which even Confederate bullets glance off harmlessly.
Henry comes face to face with the senselessness of war, but his initial thoughts when the battle is over banish any recollection of it. “He had been an animal blistered and sweating in the heat and pain of war. He turned now with a lover’s thirst to images of tranquil skies, fresh meadows, cool brooks- an existence of soft and eternal peace.”
Henry’s primary impulse is to escape the struggle and strife of the battlefield conflict. Ironically, though, the seeds of such vying lie planted within him. Pride, Henry’s distinctive vice, is at the root of all schisms, and the pride Henry felt in finally presenting himself to the world as a worthy soldier is not so far removed from the pride in the South Robert E. Lee relied on to lead his troops in defying the North.
Crane’s pervasive irony makes uncertain to what extent Henry’s illusions of himself are false. He is a vain boy, to be sure, but he deserves credit for shoring up against his fear and carrying his country’s flag bravely. He wades mainly in the intellectual shallows, but he merits praise for venturing forth as far as he dares. Henry is as complex and blameless, or to blame, as any human. Where our own illusions begin and end are just as vague.
A young Yankee farm boy, Henry alternates between honest introspection and self-approbating denial. Crane presents him with unflinching authenticity, exhibiting his naïve bravado, his cowardly self-justification, his struggles with life, death, and why. Marching towards battle, Henry encounters his first casualty. “He vaguely desired to walk around and around the body and stare, the impulse of the living to try and read in dead eyes the answer to the Question.”
Henry flees like a threatened animal when he faces the enemy. He recognizes his cowardice but reasons it away, attributing it to a natural sense of self-preservation and excusing it by his later semi-heroics. Crane allows Henry some latitude, giving him moments of unimpeachable profundity, but he nevertheless maintains an ironic distance from him, subtly mocking his pride, which even Confederate bullets glance off harmlessly.
Henry comes face to face with the senselessness of war, but his initial thoughts when the battle is over banish any recollection of it. “He had been an animal blistered and sweating in the heat and pain of war. He turned now with a lover’s thirst to images of tranquil skies, fresh meadows, cool brooks- an existence of soft and eternal peace.”
Henry’s primary impulse is to escape the struggle and strife of the battlefield conflict. Ironically, though, the seeds of such vying lie planted within him. Pride, Henry’s distinctive vice, is at the root of all schisms, and the pride Henry felt in finally presenting himself to the world as a worthy soldier is not so far removed from the pride in the South Robert E. Lee relied on to lead his troops in defying the North.
Crane’s pervasive irony makes uncertain to what extent Henry’s illusions of himself are false. He is a vain boy, to be sure, but he deserves credit for shoring up against his fear and carrying his country’s flag bravely. He wades mainly in the intellectual shallows, but he merits praise for venturing forth as far as he dares. Henry is as complex and blameless, or to blame, as any human. Where our own illusions begin and end are just as vague.
Friday, April 27, 2007
The Short Stories of Henry James, Collected by Clifton Fadiman
If Jane Austen's contributions to literature are, as she deprecatingly rendered them, "the little bit of ivory on which I work with so fine a brush," then Henry James' are scribbles made on napkins from a comfortable seat in his club. An unspecified ailment contracted in his youth hindered James from doing much more than that. A rich, untethered American who spent much of his life as a member of European society, James wrote prolifically on the dichotomy between old Europe's traditions and the new American ideals. His language is rich and often portentious, hinting at subterranean meanings. The words and ideas themselves are so substantial that they often form the bulk of his stories; in many, little overt action occurs at all.
Inaction in and of itself plays a major part in the stories collected here, especially within "The Great Good Place." A novelist, paralyzed by the minutiae of daily life, seeks out a refuge where he can live simply, and in doing so, simply live. James' picture of the "place" is bewitching, an earthbound utopia of cool gardens, tinkling bells, and gracious libraries. The novelist comes back to the real world in the end, though, for James fashions the place not as a final destination, but as a temporary vacation from pressing responsibilities.
James carries his theme of inaction further in "The Beast in the Jungle." A man is convinced something momentous is destined to spring upon him, like a beast, at some point in his life. He and a female friend spend years watching and waiting for it, until she, like a sort of feminine Cyrano de Bergerac, dies, and the man realizes she was what he had anticipated all his life. James insists it was the man's fate to live his entire life without doing anything of importance. Though an atheist, James relies unquestioningly, unironically, on fate to explain the motives and actions of many characters, à la Thomas Hardy. Why God is untenable but Fate ineffable is unclear.
James typically approaches things logically, though. He routinely draws characters not just as they are, but also as they see themselves and how they are perceived by others. Often the crux of a story involves a painful disillusionment, like when the son of a sculptor learns while abroad what true art is, and so discovers that his father's treasured oeuvre is far from it. James' stories often suggest a reflection of what strange delusions we all must live under.
James, like Austen, used his limited sphere of society to illuminate his understanding of universal truths. His meanings occasionally become obscured by his ornate prose, which, owing to merely perfunctory plots, sometimes usurps any meaning entirely, becoming an end in itself. The value in his work lies mainly in the more memorable of his observations and impressions, and in reflecting on what a life barely lived looks like from the all too lucid vantage point of its end.
Inaction in and of itself plays a major part in the stories collected here, especially within "The Great Good Place." A novelist, paralyzed by the minutiae of daily life, seeks out a refuge where he can live simply, and in doing so, simply live. James' picture of the "place" is bewitching, an earthbound utopia of cool gardens, tinkling bells, and gracious libraries. The novelist comes back to the real world in the end, though, for James fashions the place not as a final destination, but as a temporary vacation from pressing responsibilities.
James carries his theme of inaction further in "The Beast in the Jungle." A man is convinced something momentous is destined to spring upon him, like a beast, at some point in his life. He and a female friend spend years watching and waiting for it, until she, like a sort of feminine Cyrano de Bergerac, dies, and the man realizes she was what he had anticipated all his life. James insists it was the man's fate to live his entire life without doing anything of importance. Though an atheist, James relies unquestioningly, unironically, on fate to explain the motives and actions of many characters, à la Thomas Hardy. Why God is untenable but Fate ineffable is unclear.
James typically approaches things logically, though. He routinely draws characters not just as they are, but also as they see themselves and how they are perceived by others. Often the crux of a story involves a painful disillusionment, like when the son of a sculptor learns while abroad what true art is, and so discovers that his father's treasured oeuvre is far from it. James' stories often suggest a reflection of what strange delusions we all must live under.
James, like Austen, used his limited sphere of society to illuminate his understanding of universal truths. His meanings occasionally become obscured by his ornate prose, which, owing to merely perfunctory plots, sometimes usurps any meaning entirely, becoming an end in itself. The value in his work lies mainly in the more memorable of his observations and impressions, and in reflecting on what a life barely lived looks like from the all too lucid vantage point of its end.
Monday, April 23, 2007
The House of Mirth by Edith Wharton
Really, this book should not have been about Lily Bart. Intriguing, misunderstood, sensitive to the higher planes of thought- maybe. But it's obvious she's the protagonist because she's flawlessly beautiful. Lily's beauty is her defining quality, her currency in the economy of society, the reason her mother loved her, and, as Wharton would have it, justification for her self-destructive tendencies. Lily's friend "poor" Gerty Farish is not so endowed. Forced to fend for herself because she lacks not just money but also that intangibly valuable resource, a pretty face, Gerty nevertheless supports herself, establishes myriad charities, and maintains a joyful, selfless mien throughout the novel. The passages that feature her perspective are welcome respites from the self-centered jeremiads of Lily.
But of course dowdy Gerty appears merely as a contrast to the unparalleled Lily, who is just as financially destitute. Rather than commit herself to the concerns of others, Lily is determined to rise to the forefront of New York's upper class. She fails miserably, but it is a long, slow fall from the pinnacle of society to a dingy room in a boardinghouse. Lily remains adamantly convinced that she can never be happy if she is not ever wallowing in luxury, and this conviction sustains the suspense of her desperate pursuit: it is only because the end is so final that her restoration into the good graces of the upper crust becomes painfully impossible.
Wharton insists that Lily is a product of her environment- that her mercenary matrimonial aims are seen as virtuous by society, that since she was born into comfort and raised in luxury it is only natural she should strive to maintain such. But Wharton would have Lily attuned at the same time to the "republic of the spirit." During a coquettish conversation with Laurence Selden, an aloofly intellectual lawyer, Lily suddenly finds herself face to face with the vapid, meaningless nature of her percuniary pursuit. Selden offhandedly relates his ideal of success- to live unrestrainedly, free from material concerns. Lily is simultaneously enthralled and despondent. "Why do you make the things I have chosen seem hateful to me if you have nothing to give me instead?" she cries. Lily is convinced that she can never be mindless of money if she does not possess a surfeit of it.
And truly, she never can. For, "what she craved and really felt herself entitled to was a situation in which the noblest attitude should also be the easiest," revealing her utter lack of integrity. Lily's love of luxury and her willingness to go to great lengths to secure it show only the shallowness of her character; her inability to forsake the futile chase and take a more meaningful tack, her selfishness. A lovely profile, smooth skin, and a taste for silken sheets do not "entitle" one to material wealth.
Gerty Farish, however, remains steadfast in her universal goodwill and her devotion to her friend, mastering even her unrequited affinity for Laurence Selden in doing all she can for Lily. Gerty is the first one on the scene when Lily is inevitably found dead of a sedative overdose. Compassionate, selfless, determined to do what she could with her lot in life, Gerty was the true heroine. Lily was just another pretty face.
But of course dowdy Gerty appears merely as a contrast to the unparalleled Lily, who is just as financially destitute. Rather than commit herself to the concerns of others, Lily is determined to rise to the forefront of New York's upper class. She fails miserably, but it is a long, slow fall from the pinnacle of society to a dingy room in a boardinghouse. Lily remains adamantly convinced that she can never be happy if she is not ever wallowing in luxury, and this conviction sustains the suspense of her desperate pursuit: it is only because the end is so final that her restoration into the good graces of the upper crust becomes painfully impossible.
Wharton insists that Lily is a product of her environment- that her mercenary matrimonial aims are seen as virtuous by society, that since she was born into comfort and raised in luxury it is only natural she should strive to maintain such. But Wharton would have Lily attuned at the same time to the "republic of the spirit." During a coquettish conversation with Laurence Selden, an aloofly intellectual lawyer, Lily suddenly finds herself face to face with the vapid, meaningless nature of her percuniary pursuit. Selden offhandedly relates his ideal of success- to live unrestrainedly, free from material concerns. Lily is simultaneously enthralled and despondent. "Why do you make the things I have chosen seem hateful to me if you have nothing to give me instead?" she cries. Lily is convinced that she can never be mindless of money if she does not possess a surfeit of it.
And truly, she never can. For, "what she craved and really felt herself entitled to was a situation in which the noblest attitude should also be the easiest," revealing her utter lack of integrity. Lily's love of luxury and her willingness to go to great lengths to secure it show only the shallowness of her character; her inability to forsake the futile chase and take a more meaningful tack, her selfishness. A lovely profile, smooth skin, and a taste for silken sheets do not "entitle" one to material wealth.
Gerty Farish, however, remains steadfast in her universal goodwill and her devotion to her friend, mastering even her unrequited affinity for Laurence Selden in doing all she can for Lily. Gerty is the first one on the scene when Lily is inevitably found dead of a sedative overdose. Compassionate, selfless, determined to do what she could with her lot in life, Gerty was the true heroine. Lily was just another pretty face.
Sunday, April 15, 2007
The Brothers Karamazov by Feodor Dostoevsky
It may be 19th-century Russia, and it may be a world in which a boy can confound his teachers with the question of who founded Troy because he owns the only book in town with the answer, but the intellectuals of Dostoevsky's day struggled with the same fundamental issues that divide society now. Atheistic socialism and progressive empiricism undermine the tradition and authority of religion on a broad social scale, while individuals wrestle personally with these competing worldviews.
In The Brothers Karamazov, this individual drama is personified by the eponymous brothers. Abandoned by their licentious father in their childhood, the boys reach a tentative reconciliation with him as young adults. But he is murdered, and suspicion falls upon Dmitri, the eldest. Dmitri, passionate and impulsive, lives almost entirely to please himself, and this does not help his case during the ensuing trial.
Ivan, the middle brother, has embraced skeptical materialism, intending to get all he can out of life before "dash[ing] the cup to the ground" at thirty. Alexey, the youngest, is thoughtful and congenial, open-hearted, emanating universal goodwill. It is through him that Dostoevsky projects his ideal philosophy of life and living, though for much of the book Alexey merely listens and observes attentively as others attempt to foist their views on him.
Indeed, the zenith of the book's philosophical discourse occurs as Ivan presents his poem in prose form, "The Grand Inquisitor," to Alexey. In a powerful, railing diatribe, Ivan's inquisitor, a Catholic priest, interrogates Jesus. "Didst Thou forget that man prefers peace, and even death, to freedom of choice in the knowledge of good and evil?" The priest insists that pacifying the people and appeasing them is more loving and merciful than burdening them with free will. "Thou didst not come down [from the cross], for again Thou wouldst not enslave man by a miracle, and didst crave faith given freely...But Thou didst think too highly of men therein, for they are slaves." All the time he speaks Jesus is silent, and when the priest finishes, He rises and gives him a kiss upon his forehead.
In the same way, Alexey remains quiet for much of the novel, interjecting intermittently but mainly watching his family's sordid drama unfold. The concluding chapter, however, represents his longest speech, a benediction to the group of boys he befriends through their classmate Ilusha's fatal sickness. After Ilusha dies. Alexey beseeches the boys to retain the love and sense of comity that they felt for their friend, and he joyfully assures them that they will meet again, if not in this life, then in the next. His buoyant, steadfast sentiments are made more poignant in the wake of the demeaning injustice of his father's murder trial, and of the myriad disavowals of the faith so dear to him that Alexey endures.
In The Brothers Karamazov, this individual drama is personified by the eponymous brothers. Abandoned by their licentious father in their childhood, the boys reach a tentative reconciliation with him as young adults. But he is murdered, and suspicion falls upon Dmitri, the eldest. Dmitri, passionate and impulsive, lives almost entirely to please himself, and this does not help his case during the ensuing trial.
Ivan, the middle brother, has embraced skeptical materialism, intending to get all he can out of life before "dash[ing] the cup to the ground" at thirty. Alexey, the youngest, is thoughtful and congenial, open-hearted, emanating universal goodwill. It is through him that Dostoevsky projects his ideal philosophy of life and living, though for much of the book Alexey merely listens and observes attentively as others attempt to foist their views on him.
Indeed, the zenith of the book's philosophical discourse occurs as Ivan presents his poem in prose form, "The Grand Inquisitor," to Alexey. In a powerful, railing diatribe, Ivan's inquisitor, a Catholic priest, interrogates Jesus. "Didst Thou forget that man prefers peace, and even death, to freedom of choice in the knowledge of good and evil?" The priest insists that pacifying the people and appeasing them is more loving and merciful than burdening them with free will. "Thou didst not come down [from the cross], for again Thou wouldst not enslave man by a miracle, and didst crave faith given freely...But Thou didst think too highly of men therein, for they are slaves." All the time he speaks Jesus is silent, and when the priest finishes, He rises and gives him a kiss upon his forehead.
In the same way, Alexey remains quiet for much of the novel, interjecting intermittently but mainly watching his family's sordid drama unfold. The concluding chapter, however, represents his longest speech, a benediction to the group of boys he befriends through their classmate Ilusha's fatal sickness. After Ilusha dies. Alexey beseeches the boys to retain the love and sense of comity that they felt for their friend, and he joyfully assures them that they will meet again, if not in this life, then in the next. His buoyant, steadfast sentiments are made more poignant in the wake of the demeaning injustice of his father's murder trial, and of the myriad disavowals of the faith so dear to him that Alexey endures.
Monday, April 09, 2007
A Doll's House by Henrik Ibsen
Norwegian playwright Henrik Ibsen examines the plight of a ninteenth-century housewife. The text reads fluidly and compellingly, with little action but with much poignant conversation. Despite the brevity of the play and Ibsen's economical style, the characters are intimately drawn, and drastically altered by the end.
Nora, the housewife, feigns a carefree devotion to her husband and children, but she harbors secret obligations. When, years before, her husband Torvald had fallen so ill the doctor insisted he must go abroad, Nora forged her father's signature and obtained a loan so they could travel. By cajoling money from her husband under the pretense of frivolity, she has almost managed to pay her debt. But the man who holds the bond, Krogstad, is fired by his manager, Nora's husband, and so he threatens to expose her forgery, impugning both the couple. Nora confesses to Torvald, privately hoping he would recognize her love for him and take the blame upon himself, but he rages against her instead. They discover Krogstad has sent them the bond, releasing them, and so Torvald apologizes, expecting they can continue on as before. But Nora has discovered that her relationship with him is fundamentally grounded in deception, and so, to discover how to live in uninhibited truth, she leaves.
While it is morally reprehensible for a mother to abandon her family under such a tenuous pretense, the essential theme is very revealing. Ibsen identifies the dilemma that women have spent the better part of the 20th century trying to solve: What is the female's position in society? Nora, sheltered, petted, and coddled all her life, knows only what has been dictated to her. She feels, and rightly so, as any educator would tell you, that she needs to discover knowledge on her own. Unfortunately, once she married, and more importantly, once she bore children, she really relinquished her rights to explore the world on her own. She has a duty to herself as a human being, certainly, but she has a greater duty to her children, who have all the same rights as individuals added to the dependency of juvenility. To marry and to procreate may not have been entirely of her own volition, but that does not negate the responsibility that she bears as a wife and mother.
Discovering oneself and establishing a satisfactory position in society is honorable, but not worth dissolving one's family for. The relationship between parent and child is the most fundamental, organic one in all the world, and to violate it constitutes one of the most damaging, far-reaching sins. Nora needed a measure of self-actualization, but she should have remained with her children to discover it, because that is where she would have found it evetually, if she sought honestly and deeply.
Nora, the housewife, feigns a carefree devotion to her husband and children, but she harbors secret obligations. When, years before, her husband Torvald had fallen so ill the doctor insisted he must go abroad, Nora forged her father's signature and obtained a loan so they could travel. By cajoling money from her husband under the pretense of frivolity, she has almost managed to pay her debt. But the man who holds the bond, Krogstad, is fired by his manager, Nora's husband, and so he threatens to expose her forgery, impugning both the couple. Nora confesses to Torvald, privately hoping he would recognize her love for him and take the blame upon himself, but he rages against her instead. They discover Krogstad has sent them the bond, releasing them, and so Torvald apologizes, expecting they can continue on as before. But Nora has discovered that her relationship with him is fundamentally grounded in deception, and so, to discover how to live in uninhibited truth, she leaves.
While it is morally reprehensible for a mother to abandon her family under such a tenuous pretense, the essential theme is very revealing. Ibsen identifies the dilemma that women have spent the better part of the 20th century trying to solve: What is the female's position in society? Nora, sheltered, petted, and coddled all her life, knows only what has been dictated to her. She feels, and rightly so, as any educator would tell you, that she needs to discover knowledge on her own. Unfortunately, once she married, and more importantly, once she bore children, she really relinquished her rights to explore the world on her own. She has a duty to herself as a human being, certainly, but she has a greater duty to her children, who have all the same rights as individuals added to the dependency of juvenility. To marry and to procreate may not have been entirely of her own volition, but that does not negate the responsibility that she bears as a wife and mother.
Discovering oneself and establishing a satisfactory position in society is honorable, but not worth dissolving one's family for. The relationship between parent and child is the most fundamental, organic one in all the world, and to violate it constitutes one of the most damaging, far-reaching sins. Nora needed a measure of self-actualization, but she should have remained with her children to discover it, because that is where she would have found it evetually, if she sought honestly and deeply.
Monday, April 02, 2007
The Inferno by Dante Alighieri
Audacity may be Dante's chief virtue. In his ambitious allegory of a trip to the innermost rings of Hell, he dares to rank himself with the great poets of ancient Rome, and with his supreme self-confidence, he succeeds. Guided by Virgil, Dante is privileged to witness the fury of the Inferno without partaking of it. He meets all manner of sinners, from infamous figures of the past to his own recently deceased contemporaries, each one consigned to an eternity of torture specifically tailored to fit his most significant sin. Those who tried to divine the future in life can only look backward in death; murders and wanton warriors eternally drown in a river of blood; sodomites, reflecting the sterility of their acts, continually rove a barren desert.
"[I]t is no easy undertaking," says Dante, "to describe the bottom of the Universe," but he manages it excellently. His illustrations of the underworld are luridly, fantastically detailed. He tells of the endless whirlwind to which the carnal are condemned: "I came to a place stripped bare of every light / and roaring on the naked dark like seas / wracked by a war of winds." As he plumbs deeper into the bowels of the earth, Dante becomes superbly gruesome and fabulous in his rendering of suffering. Enemies gnaw one another's heads; men morph involuntarily into reptiles; Judas Iscariot, Dante's ultimate sinner, is suspended in Satan's mouth at the center of Hell, immobilized in an immense floe of ice.
As an allegory, the symbolism is as multilayered and fathomless as the Inferno itself. One of the more obvious and intriguing figures is Virgil, as the light of human reason. Though he is a pagan predating Christ, Dante implies he can still bring spiritual illumination. Virgil, with his wisdom and discretion, leads Dante safely through the perilous abyss and shows him the way to salvation by ascending with him to the gates of Heaven. He cannot, however, journey with Dante farther, demonstrating that human reason can only get one so far.
"I did not dare descend to his own level / but kept my head inclined, as one who walks / in reverence meditating good and evil." Dante converses with the condemned, but he is careful to maintain a safe distance between himself and them. He derives instruction from their mistakes, learning how better to stay on the path of the "True Way." Through sedulous circumspection, he manages to be in their wretched world, but not of it.
Dante's audaciously lofty poetic aspirations were crucial to the effective execution of such a comprehensive delineation. He itemizes nearly every major sin and assigns appropriate punishments to suit them. It is such a terribly attractive idea, to think that every significant action can be put into a neat theological category, that it is no wonder the Comedy became so widely revered. However, this concept of a linear condemnation, like Purgatory, has little biblical basis. Dante does provide some excellent spiritual insights, though, and his literary merit is undeniable.
"[I]t is no easy undertaking," says Dante, "to describe the bottom of the Universe," but he manages it excellently. His illustrations of the underworld are luridly, fantastically detailed. He tells of the endless whirlwind to which the carnal are condemned: "I came to a place stripped bare of every light / and roaring on the naked dark like seas / wracked by a war of winds." As he plumbs deeper into the bowels of the earth, Dante becomes superbly gruesome and fabulous in his rendering of suffering. Enemies gnaw one another's heads; men morph involuntarily into reptiles; Judas Iscariot, Dante's ultimate sinner, is suspended in Satan's mouth at the center of Hell, immobilized in an immense floe of ice.
As an allegory, the symbolism is as multilayered and fathomless as the Inferno itself. One of the more obvious and intriguing figures is Virgil, as the light of human reason. Though he is a pagan predating Christ, Dante implies he can still bring spiritual illumination. Virgil, with his wisdom and discretion, leads Dante safely through the perilous abyss and shows him the way to salvation by ascending with him to the gates of Heaven. He cannot, however, journey with Dante farther, demonstrating that human reason can only get one so far.
"I did not dare descend to his own level / but kept my head inclined, as one who walks / in reverence meditating good and evil." Dante converses with the condemned, but he is careful to maintain a safe distance between himself and them. He derives instruction from their mistakes, learning how better to stay on the path of the "True Way." Through sedulous circumspection, he manages to be in their wretched world, but not of it.
Dante's audaciously lofty poetic aspirations were crucial to the effective execution of such a comprehensive delineation. He itemizes nearly every major sin and assigns appropriate punishments to suit them. It is such a terribly attractive idea, to think that every significant action can be put into a neat theological category, that it is no wonder the Comedy became so widely revered. However, this concept of a linear condemnation, like Purgatory, has little biblical basis. Dante does provide some excellent spiritual insights, though, and his literary merit is undeniable.
Sunday, March 25, 2007
Anthem by Ayn Rand
Ayn Rand's oeuvre consists mainly of allegorical fiction that illustrates her philosophy of Objectivism, and Anthem serves as a brief introduction to her canon. The book describes some point in the indeterminate future in which society has progressed to the ultimate extrapolation of universal brotherhood: the word "I" has been abolished from the language. One man escapes, and he discovers that the life he had been forced to live - solely for the common good, not belonging to himself - was a subversion of his true nature, a disgracefully unnatural state.
"[I]t must not matter to us whether we live or die, which is to be as our brothers will it. But we, Equality 7-2521, are glad to be living. If this is a vice, then we wish no virtue." After being punished for trying to introduce a rudimentary form of electricity to his brethren, Equality steals off into the Undiscovered Forest, liberating himself from the despotic dominion of collectivism. He stumbles upon an abandoned house filled with strange books that contain the Forbidden Word that has haunted and eluded him all his life.
The book is simple and concise, containing just enough to adequately address Rand’s thesis: the purpose of existence is the exaltation of the individual. That is the underlying theme of Objectivism, which Rand bases on reason and places in direct opposition to Communism and any less extreme variants thereof. She posits that “[m]an – every man – is an end in himself, not a means to the ends of others; he must live for his own sake, neither sacrificing himself to others nor sacrificing others to himself; he must work for his rational self-interest, with the achievement of his own happiness as the highest moral purpose of his life.”
Leonard Peikoff, in his introduction to Anthem, recognizes that the ego as supreme is antithetical to most religions, to which, as an atheist, he found no objection. Unfortunately, without an authority unhampered by the limitations of nature, Objectivism is philosophically incomplete. Whence comes the right of the individual to his pursuit of happiness? Rand was a devoted admirer of the capitalist American political system, considering it the political embodiment of her philosophy. When justifying the existence of the United States, Jefferson attributed this right of the individual to a Creator, as indeed he must have done, for from no other source can such a right originate, least of all from the moral vacuum of atheism.
Moreover, Objectivism champions reason; but how can reason exist outside ourselves without an overarching authority to legitimize and standardize it? We may be able to form a consensus of what is reasonable, but we may all be wrong. Even in Anthem’s dystopia, the World Council, who subdued the masses with their dogmatic decrees, surely believed they were acting reasonably. One man rebelled according to what he thought was right, but who has the authority among us to say whether he was or not? Reason cannot be self-determined.
If one allows for God, however, the worldview becomes much easier to substantiate. Indeed, traces of thought sympathetic to Christianity continually emerge in the book. “It is not good to be different from our brothers,” recites Equality, “but it is evil to be superior to them.” C.S. Lewis echoes these sentiments in “Screwtape Proposes a Toast”: “Their consciousness hardly exists apart from the social atmosphere that surrounds them,” making humans that much easier to subvert and destroy.
But Christianity triumphs the individual only insofar as his worth as a child of God, his distinctions only insofar as they reflect the gifts God has bestowed on him, and his rights only insofar as those God has granted him. Without God, Objectivism is impotent. If a secularist, however, could bring himself to accept the premises of the philosophy, it is there that perhaps its greatest merit could be found – as an atheistic defense of laissez-faire capitalism.
While Objectivism’s “man-worship” in the context of Christianity is fairly nauseating, atheism can have no objection here. Anthem graphically illustrates the nakedness of working for the common good with no moral impetus to do so. Wishful thinking though it may be, secularists would do well to adopt such an outlook and throw their lot in with the capitalist Christian Right.
"[I]t must not matter to us whether we live or die, which is to be as our brothers will it. But we, Equality 7-2521, are glad to be living. If this is a vice, then we wish no virtue." After being punished for trying to introduce a rudimentary form of electricity to his brethren, Equality steals off into the Undiscovered Forest, liberating himself from the despotic dominion of collectivism. He stumbles upon an abandoned house filled with strange books that contain the Forbidden Word that has haunted and eluded him all his life.
The book is simple and concise, containing just enough to adequately address Rand’s thesis: the purpose of existence is the exaltation of the individual. That is the underlying theme of Objectivism, which Rand bases on reason and places in direct opposition to Communism and any less extreme variants thereof. She posits that “[m]an – every man – is an end in himself, not a means to the ends of others; he must live for his own sake, neither sacrificing himself to others nor sacrificing others to himself; he must work for his rational self-interest, with the achievement of his own happiness as the highest moral purpose of his life.”
Leonard Peikoff, in his introduction to Anthem, recognizes that the ego as supreme is antithetical to most religions, to which, as an atheist, he found no objection. Unfortunately, without an authority unhampered by the limitations of nature, Objectivism is philosophically incomplete. Whence comes the right of the individual to his pursuit of happiness? Rand was a devoted admirer of the capitalist American political system, considering it the political embodiment of her philosophy. When justifying the existence of the United States, Jefferson attributed this right of the individual to a Creator, as indeed he must have done, for from no other source can such a right originate, least of all from the moral vacuum of atheism.
Moreover, Objectivism champions reason; but how can reason exist outside ourselves without an overarching authority to legitimize and standardize it? We may be able to form a consensus of what is reasonable, but we may all be wrong. Even in Anthem’s dystopia, the World Council, who subdued the masses with their dogmatic decrees, surely believed they were acting reasonably. One man rebelled according to what he thought was right, but who has the authority among us to say whether he was or not? Reason cannot be self-determined.
If one allows for God, however, the worldview becomes much easier to substantiate. Indeed, traces of thought sympathetic to Christianity continually emerge in the book. “It is not good to be different from our brothers,” recites Equality, “but it is evil to be superior to them.” C.S. Lewis echoes these sentiments in “Screwtape Proposes a Toast”: “Their consciousness hardly exists apart from the social atmosphere that surrounds them,” making humans that much easier to subvert and destroy.
But Christianity triumphs the individual only insofar as his worth as a child of God, his distinctions only insofar as they reflect the gifts God has bestowed on him, and his rights only insofar as those God has granted him. Without God, Objectivism is impotent. If a secularist, however, could bring himself to accept the premises of the philosophy, it is there that perhaps its greatest merit could be found – as an atheistic defense of laissez-faire capitalism.
While Objectivism’s “man-worship” in the context of Christianity is fairly nauseating, atheism can have no objection here. Anthem graphically illustrates the nakedness of working for the common good with no moral impetus to do so. Wishful thinking though it may be, secularists would do well to adopt such an outlook and throw their lot in with the capitalist Christian Right.
Friday, March 23, 2007
Agnes Grey by Anne Brontë
"I began this book with the intention of concealing nothing; that those who liked might have the benefit of perusing a fellow-creature's heart," says Agnes Grey. As the pages of her book unfold, the delightful nuances of Agnes,’ and by association Brontë’s, personality do too. Agnes, daughter of an impoverished clergyman, insists, upon turning eighteen, that she find herself a position as governess to aid the family. She endures nightmarish pupils, haughty employers, and the loneliness of making her way on her own, but she manages to maintain a cheerful demeanor, a cool head, and a firm resolve in God.
Agnes is an excellent, introspective first-person narrator; Brontë 's tone is gratifyingly confidential and, subsequently, strangely modern. Of her sisters, Anne must have been the witty one. When Agnes is summoned by the servant of her capricious charges with "'You're to go to the school-room directly, mum- the young ladies is WAITING!!,'" she comments, "Climax of horror! Actually waiting for their governess!!!"
Agnes is shy and bookish, but her retiring tendencies lend her the steadfastness and circumspection that she relies on. When she inevitably develops a preference for a certain sober-minded curate, she remains beautifully logical even in the midst of her infatuation, refusing to read into any ostensible signals and diligently tempering her ardor with common sense. Watching the flirtations of her pretty student, she wonders "why so much beauty should be given to those who made so bad a use of it, and denied to some who would make it a benefit both to themselves and others," identifying that incessant Brontëan conundrum that Charlotte first identified in Jane Eyre.
Edward Weston, however, cares not for such worldly considerations. The curate pursues Agnes, and the conclusion finds them satisfactorily situated and determined to face any future travails together. They both possess sound religious beliefs. Weston declares his sole purpose in life is to be useful to others. Agnes criticizes a clergyman for his heavy reliance on the writings of the church fathers and his dissuading laypeople from reading the Bible unaided. In an amusing piece of scriptural justification, she uses Philippians 4:8 ("Whatsoever things are good...") to excuse her thinking about Weston as he gives the Sunday morning message.
This book reminded me of why I read. There is nothing quite like opening a book and discovering a complete stranger who is more familiar than many real-life acquaintances. Agnes is reasonable, intelligent, forthright, funny, insightful - I could understand how she thought and why she acted as she did. I could sympathize with her and root for her, and I could be eminently satisfied when she ended happily. Agnes Grey is a straightforward, unadorned, sincere portrait of a sensible, thoughtful girl, and I loved it.
Agnes is an excellent, introspective first-person narrator; Brontë 's tone is gratifyingly confidential and, subsequently, strangely modern. Of her sisters, Anne must have been the witty one. When Agnes is summoned by the servant of her capricious charges with "'You're to go to the school-room directly, mum- the young ladies is WAITING!!,'" she comments, "Climax of horror! Actually waiting for their governess!!!"
Agnes is shy and bookish, but her retiring tendencies lend her the steadfastness and circumspection that she relies on. When she inevitably develops a preference for a certain sober-minded curate, she remains beautifully logical even in the midst of her infatuation, refusing to read into any ostensible signals and diligently tempering her ardor with common sense. Watching the flirtations of her pretty student, she wonders "why so much beauty should be given to those who made so bad a use of it, and denied to some who would make it a benefit both to themselves and others," identifying that incessant Brontëan conundrum that Charlotte first identified in Jane Eyre.
Edward Weston, however, cares not for such worldly considerations. The curate pursues Agnes, and the conclusion finds them satisfactorily situated and determined to face any future travails together. They both possess sound religious beliefs. Weston declares his sole purpose in life is to be useful to others. Agnes criticizes a clergyman for his heavy reliance on the writings of the church fathers and his dissuading laypeople from reading the Bible unaided. In an amusing piece of scriptural justification, she uses Philippians 4:8 ("Whatsoever things are good...") to excuse her thinking about Weston as he gives the Sunday morning message.
This book reminded me of why I read. There is nothing quite like opening a book and discovering a complete stranger who is more familiar than many real-life acquaintances. Agnes is reasonable, intelligent, forthright, funny, insightful - I could understand how she thought and why she acted as she did. I could sympathize with her and root for her, and I could be eminently satisfied when she ended happily. Agnes Grey is a straightforward, unadorned, sincere portrait of a sensible, thoughtful girl, and I loved it.
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
Mindless Eating by Brian Wansink
I loved this book so much that when I was going through it to compile my notes I found myself reading it all over again. Like Freakonomics, it's a case of an expert applying science to real life, conducting dry, straightforward experiments and interpreting them, uncovering fascinating truths about how we eat and why we do so. Wansink is an eminent scientist who sets out to answer questions such as, "Why do we overeat food that doesn't even taste good?" He compiles data from dozens of studies to support his conclusions, writing all the time with a delightful authority and a familiar confidence.
Many of Wansink's hypotheses are intuitive concepts verified by objective investigation. He renames the snacks at a Vacation Bible School and runs out of the "Rainforest Smoothie" - really just vegetable juice. He finds that thinking a food is special or will taste good predisposes one to like it, and makes one more satisified with the overall dining experience.
"[W]e're pretty much clueless about when we've had enough," Wansink says, demonstrating that our stomachs don't keep count. We were designed to crave sweet, salty, fat-filled foods, and to eat as much of them as possible. Even one hundred years ago this penchant would have been a boon to our survival, but our food supply has changed faster than our tastes have, and now rather than perishing from hunger, our lives are cut short by obesity. Clearly our habits need to change.
Wansink identifies many such habits, like the "eating scripts" we automatically follow - when we go to the movies we eat popcorn; when we come home from work we have a snack - that can be altered or circumvented with a little mindfulness. For instance, "people don't eat calories, they eat volume," so using smaller plates and filling them with healthier choices can radically improve one's perception of satiety and overall nutritional intake.
Wansink does not demonize the food industry as others - Morgan Spurlock, most notably - have done. He instead insists that major corporations are out to make money, not fat people, and that they'd be just as happy if we bought their products and then threw them away. Moreover, he says, "We cannot legislate or tax people into eating" healthily. If they want to, they will; if they don't, well, they should have that choice.
Wansink has either an excellent command of the English language or a superb editor. The book has few, if any, typos, a rare achievement for a first edition. His voice is strong and controlled, bolstered by the authority of scientific evidence and tempered by his affability and genuine desire to help people with the discoveries he has made.
Many of Wansink's hypotheses are intuitive concepts verified by objective investigation. He renames the snacks at a Vacation Bible School and runs out of the "Rainforest Smoothie" - really just vegetable juice. He finds that thinking a food is special or will taste good predisposes one to like it, and makes one more satisified with the overall dining experience.
"[W]e're pretty much clueless about when we've had enough," Wansink says, demonstrating that our stomachs don't keep count. We were designed to crave sweet, salty, fat-filled foods, and to eat as much of them as possible. Even one hundred years ago this penchant would have been a boon to our survival, but our food supply has changed faster than our tastes have, and now rather than perishing from hunger, our lives are cut short by obesity. Clearly our habits need to change.
Wansink identifies many such habits, like the "eating scripts" we automatically follow - when we go to the movies we eat popcorn; when we come home from work we have a snack - that can be altered or circumvented with a little mindfulness. For instance, "people don't eat calories, they eat volume," so using smaller plates and filling them with healthier choices can radically improve one's perception of satiety and overall nutritional intake.
Wansink does not demonize the food industry as others - Morgan Spurlock, most notably - have done. He instead insists that major corporations are out to make money, not fat people, and that they'd be just as happy if we bought their products and then threw them away. Moreover, he says, "We cannot legislate or tax people into eating" healthily. If they want to, they will; if they don't, well, they should have that choice.
Wansink has either an excellent command of the English language or a superb editor. The book has few, if any, typos, a rare achievement for a first edition. His voice is strong and controlled, bolstered by the authority of scientific evidence and tempered by his affability and genuine desire to help people with the discoveries he has made.
Monday, March 12, 2007
Things Fall Apart by Chinua Achebe
Okonkwo is a prominent African tribesman whose world falls apart when Europeans begin to colonize it. Despite his inauspicious childhood, Okonkwo rises to a place of respected authority in his clan through diligent, persistent hard work. He establishes a farm large enough to support three wives and their children. But his eldest son Nwoye does not share his father's devotion to the tribe nor his ambitions to reign in it, and so when Christian missionaries come, Nwoye converts. His father, disgusted, disowns him, and he begins a campaign to drive out the new religion. But Okonkwo is alone in his ardent persecution, and after his murder of an official fails to incite a revolt, he hangs himself.
Okonkwo burns with a fervent loyalty to tradition and position. He accepts unquestioningly the dictates of the elders and disdains any who fall out of line with his ideal of strong, masculine adherence to society and unceasing industry. "He had no patience with unsuccessful men," Achebe says of him. This is his tragic flaw: his inability to cope with progress and unyielding demand for perfection. Achebe writes concisely and decisively. He uses a stripped-down English smattered with African phrases that emphasizes the earthy authenticity of the story. He includes folklore and fables and songs, creating a cultural context. The overall effect is beautiful and mesmerizing.
The arrival of the Christians is the vehicle for Okonkwo's downfall. Achebe details the mistreatment the Africans suffer at the hands of the white soldiers who eventually arrive and he illustrates the deterioration of the natives' culture when they assimilate. But Achebe himself converted to Christianity while living in Africa. His sympathies are evident through Nwoye, when he hears the newcomers preach: "The words of the hymn were like the drops of frozen rain melting on the dry palate of the panting earth." He shows how the Christians abolish the tribal superstitions, accepting the outcasts and rescuing the infant twins clanspeople are under compulsion to abandon in the bush. Achebe's aim seems to be a balanced objectivity.
The book is unavoidably profound. One cannot help but admire the steadfastness of this noble savage and mourn the tragedy of his demise. But his irrationality and unwavering trust in brute strength render him unable to entertain further revelations of truth. Okonkwo was sincere but sincerely wrong, as it were. Achebe maintains respect for the culture while gently denouncing the superstitions of his native Africa.
Okonkwo burns with a fervent loyalty to tradition and position. He accepts unquestioningly the dictates of the elders and disdains any who fall out of line with his ideal of strong, masculine adherence to society and unceasing industry. "He had no patience with unsuccessful men," Achebe says of him. This is his tragic flaw: his inability to cope with progress and unyielding demand for perfection. Achebe writes concisely and decisively. He uses a stripped-down English smattered with African phrases that emphasizes the earthy authenticity of the story. He includes folklore and fables and songs, creating a cultural context. The overall effect is beautiful and mesmerizing.
The arrival of the Christians is the vehicle for Okonkwo's downfall. Achebe details the mistreatment the Africans suffer at the hands of the white soldiers who eventually arrive and he illustrates the deterioration of the natives' culture when they assimilate. But Achebe himself converted to Christianity while living in Africa. His sympathies are evident through Nwoye, when he hears the newcomers preach: "The words of the hymn were like the drops of frozen rain melting on the dry palate of the panting earth." He shows how the Christians abolish the tribal superstitions, accepting the outcasts and rescuing the infant twins clanspeople are under compulsion to abandon in the bush. Achebe's aim seems to be a balanced objectivity.
The book is unavoidably profound. One cannot help but admire the steadfastness of this noble savage and mourn the tragedy of his demise. But his irrationality and unwavering trust in brute strength render him unable to entertain further revelations of truth. Okonkwo was sincere but sincerely wrong, as it were. Achebe maintains respect for the culture while gently denouncing the superstitions of his native Africa.
Friday, March 09, 2007
The American by Henry James
Christopher Newman, lately possessed of a sizeable fortune amassed through years of conscious endeavor in trade in America, decides to throw it all off and go abroad. He has only a vague idea of what he seeks, but what he finds is an enchanting woman who answers his feminine ideal. Madame de Cintré returns his affections, but their engagement is broken by her aristocratic family, who scorn the idea of a common businessman attaining her hand. Newman strives valiantly to win her, but is eventually forced to abandon the matter forever.
Newman is just that - arisen out of obscurity to a self-generated place of prosperity. Easy-going, forthright, warm, congenial, and open, he is a credit to his country. "You take things too coolly," says a European acquaintance. "It exasperates me. And then you are too happy. You have what must be the most agreeable thing in the world, the consciousness of having bought your pleasure beforehand and paid for it." Indeed, he feels, as Americans are wont to do, that most anything can be bought, and in America this is at least true of position. One's origins have little bearing on one's place in society; hard work is virtuous, something to be commended.
But Newman's would-be in-laws take quite the opposite view, living on little else but the glory of their ancient lineage. They shun Newman for his industry while inhabiting a moldering house emblematic of their waning finances. They find Newman's proposal audaciously incomprehensible; Newman is just as incapable of understanding their indignation. "[H]is sense of human equality was not an aggressive taste or an aesthetic theory, but something as natural and organic as a physical appetite which had never been put on a scanty allowance." That his antecedents have any importance to them baffles him.
As Newman later finds, high birth is certainly no indication of high morals. He behaves honorably throughout the degrading ordeal to which his fiancée’s relatives subject him, and he emerges blameless and unscathed. Unfortunately, he also comes out without a wife. Madame de Cintré commits herself to a nunnery to escape the contrivances of her family.
It is too bad that Newman is treated so terribly, for he is a decent protagonist, pleasantly sociable, confident and uninhibited. "He himself was almost never bored, and there was no man with whom it would have been a greater mistake to suppose that silence meant displeasure." He views the Continent with "a placid, fathomless sense of diversion." That world, however, does not look as kindly on him.
Newman is just that - arisen out of obscurity to a self-generated place of prosperity. Easy-going, forthright, warm, congenial, and open, he is a credit to his country. "You take things too coolly," says a European acquaintance. "It exasperates me. And then you are too happy. You have what must be the most agreeable thing in the world, the consciousness of having bought your pleasure beforehand and paid for it." Indeed, he feels, as Americans are wont to do, that most anything can be bought, and in America this is at least true of position. One's origins have little bearing on one's place in society; hard work is virtuous, something to be commended.
But Newman's would-be in-laws take quite the opposite view, living on little else but the glory of their ancient lineage. They shun Newman for his industry while inhabiting a moldering house emblematic of their waning finances. They find Newman's proposal audaciously incomprehensible; Newman is just as incapable of understanding their indignation. "[H]is sense of human equality was not an aggressive taste or an aesthetic theory, but something as natural and organic as a physical appetite which had never been put on a scanty allowance." That his antecedents have any importance to them baffles him.
As Newman later finds, high birth is certainly no indication of high morals. He behaves honorably throughout the degrading ordeal to which his fiancée’s relatives subject him, and he emerges blameless and unscathed. Unfortunately, he also comes out without a wife. Madame de Cintré commits herself to a nunnery to escape the contrivances of her family.
It is too bad that Newman is treated so terribly, for he is a decent protagonist, pleasantly sociable, confident and uninhibited. "He himself was almost never bored, and there was no man with whom it would have been a greater mistake to suppose that silence meant displeasure." He views the Continent with "a placid, fathomless sense of diversion." That world, however, does not look as kindly on him.
Monday, March 05, 2007
The American by Henry James
Christopher Newman, lately possessed of a sizeable fortune amassed through years of conscious endeavor in trade in America, decides to throw it all off and go abroad. He has only a vague idea of what he seeks, but what he finds is an enchanting woman who answers his feminine ideal. Madame de Cintre returns his affections, but their engagement is broken by her aristocratic family, who scorn the idea of a common businessman attaining her hand. Newman strives valiantly to win her, but is eventually forced to abandon the matter forever.
Newman is just that - arisen out of obscurity to a self-generated place of prosperity. Easy-going, forthright, warm, congenial, and open, he is a credit to his country. "You take things too coolly," says a European acquaintance. "It exasperates me. And then you are too happy. You have what must be the most agreeable thing in the world, the consciousness of having bought your pleasure beforehand and paid for it." Indeed, he feels, as Americans are wont to do, that most anything can be bought, and in America this is at least true of position. One's origins have little bearing on one's place in society; hard work is virtuous, something to be commended.
But Newman's would-be in-laws take quite the opposite view, living on little else but the glory of their ancient lineage. They shun Newman for his industry while inhabiting a moldering house emblematic of their waning finances. They find Newman's proposal audaciously incomprehensible; Newman is just as incapable of understanding their indignation. "[H]is sense of human equality was not an aggressive taste or an aesthetic theory, but something as natural and organic as a physical appetite which had never been put on a scanty allowance." That his antecedents have any importance to them baffles him.
As Newman later finds, high birth is certainly no indication of high morals. He behaves honorably throughout the degrading ordeal to which his fiancée’s relatives subject him, and he emerges blameless and unscathed. Unfortunately, he also comes out without a wife. Madame de Cintre commits herself to a nunnery to escape the contrivances of her family.
It is too bad that Newman is treated so terribly, for he is a decent protagonist, pleasantly sociable, confident and uninhibited. "He himself was almost never bored, and there was no man with whom it would have been a greater mistake to suppose that silence meant displeasure." He views the Continent with "a placid, fathomless sense of diversion." That world, however, does not look as kindly on him.
Newman is just that - arisen out of obscurity to a self-generated place of prosperity. Easy-going, forthright, warm, congenial, and open, he is a credit to his country. "You take things too coolly," says a European acquaintance. "It exasperates me. And then you are too happy. You have what must be the most agreeable thing in the world, the consciousness of having bought your pleasure beforehand and paid for it." Indeed, he feels, as Americans are wont to do, that most anything can be bought, and in America this is at least true of position. One's origins have little bearing on one's place in society; hard work is virtuous, something to be commended.
But Newman's would-be in-laws take quite the opposite view, living on little else but the glory of their ancient lineage. They shun Newman for his industry while inhabiting a moldering house emblematic of their waning finances. They find Newman's proposal audaciously incomprehensible; Newman is just as incapable of understanding their indignation. "[H]is sense of human equality was not an aggressive taste or an aesthetic theory, but something as natural and organic as a physical appetite which had never been put on a scanty allowance." That his antecedents have any importance to them baffles him.
As Newman later finds, high birth is certainly no indication of high morals. He behaves honorably throughout the degrading ordeal to which his fiancée’s relatives subject him, and he emerges blameless and unscathed. Unfortunately, he also comes out without a wife. Madame de Cintre commits herself to a nunnery to escape the contrivances of her family.
It is too bad that Newman is treated so terribly, for he is a decent protagonist, pleasantly sociable, confident and uninhibited. "He himself was almost never bored, and there was no man with whom it would have been a greater mistake to suppose that silence meant displeasure." He views the Continent with "a placid, fathomless sense of diversion." That world, however, does not look as kindly on him.
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