The State of First Things, October 2010

Next in a continuing series. Since I have now been doing this particular series for a year, I have been wondering whether to expand it to the other magazines I read.  But, I haven't figured out how to do that. Almost every article in The New Criterion and Wired is well worth reading, and there is never very much in National Review worthy of comment.  I have been toying with an alternative format for those journals.

But, on to First Things

A. Must Read Articles
1. "Human Embryos in the Age of Obama"
A statement signed by 21 people.  It is an extremely good summary of both the state of the science behind research involving embryos and the problems arising from the Obama Administration's rather incoherent policy with respect to human embryos.  The short summary--murder in the name of Science is still, well, murder.

B. Flawed, but Worth Reading
1. Barr, "Fearful Symmetries"
Stephen Barr regularly writes articles about how the state of physics research in specific and science research in general lends itself nicely to a belief in a Divine Creator.   This article itself is not the best thing Barr ever wrote, but it, like his other articles, has some interesting tidbits.  My favorite discovery:  Grassmann numbers which have the property that AxB = -BxA.  I really want to know more about Grassman numbers now.  That is unbelievably intriguing.  The general point of this article is that the deeper physicists probe into nature, the more elegant the symmetries they discover underlying the laws of nature.

2. Rosenbaum, "Rescuing Evil"
A nice plea for the need to contemplate evil as a thing.  Too much modern psychology dispenses with evil by explaining everything in terms of external situations.  Why can't we just say that some acts are simply evil?

3. Briel, review of Weigel's The End and the Beginning
Weigel's book is the completion of his 2-part biography of John Paul II, who was easily one of the most important people in the last 500 years.  What he accomplished during his time as Pope is simply staggering. 

4. Franck, review of Arkes' Constitutional Illusions and Anchoring Truths
As Franck notes, Arkes makes you think long and hard about the Law even if you disagree with him.  I am a bit leery of Arkes' case that judges need to use underlying moral law in deciding cases--while properly applied, I have absolutely no qualms, but I think allowing the judges to make cases based on moral laws causes enormous problems in a fallen world.  In may ways, Arkes' argument suffers from a problem Martin Luther noted:  if the world was full of perfect Christians, there would be no need for Law, but in the world in which we actually live, there is a need for law.  In a world where everyone agreed about the Truth, basing decision on Moral Law makes sense, but in a fallen world, we need some restraint on judges.

5. Hibbs, review of Blatty's Dimiter.
Neither the novel being reviewed nor the review itself impressed me much, but I did learn something--I had no idea that Blatty, who wrote The Exorcist (both the novel and the screenplay) is a Catholic writer, in the mold of Graham Greene.  Having never read The Exorcist nor seen the movie, I assumed the author was simply a schlock horror writer, but as it turns out, there is something more to his work.  Knowing this does not induce me to want to see the movie or read the book, however.

6. Duke, "Fired, in a Crowded Theater"
The tale of a professor who was fired for explaining the Catholic view of Homosexuality and Natural Law.  The article wasn't very crisp, and the case is a bit muddled (the teacher in question is a adjunct professor), but the general story was still an interesting picture of the modern academy.  In the end, the professor is back teaching.

7. Rose, "Fighting for Life"
Actually, this article wasn't very good at all, and on the face of it, it wasn't worth reading.  But, the article is by a young woman who has been active in fighting against abortion.  What made me think the article was fun was imagining what would happen if the author was invited to Mount Holyoke to talk about how she had become a leader in the fight against abortion.  Young female leader--just the sort of thing Mount Holyoke would want to celebrate, right?

Music and McMusic

Within a 96 hour period,  I had two quite different experiences withe World of Music.  The contrast was stark.

1. On Saturday, I went to the Met Live in HD broadcast of Wagner's Das Rheingold, the first part of the Ring Cycle.  Stunning.  Simply Stunning.  I have wanted to see Wagner's Ring cycle for a very long time, and the Met is putting it on over the next two seasons.  (Part 2 in in May.)  A technically impressive set along with some amazing voices.  Quite the spectacle--which is, after all what Wagner is supposed to be.  The storyline of part 1 of the Ring Cycle is a bit weak--too many things going on at once which are all supposed to hang together into a coherent whole.  But, the weak plot is more than made up for by the moments of brilliance.  Eric Owen as Alberich was incredible.  Sadly, there Met doesn't seem to have a YouTube clip of this performance, but you can get a sense of the opera from another production of it here.

2. Big Time Rush's new album, clever titled B.T.R., came out yesterday, and I took Clara and Lily to go get a copy of it.  We listened to it in the car on the way home.  Big Time Rush is a fake band in the TV show of the same name and the fake band just put out a real album.  You can, if you want (and I don't recommend it) see a music video by the fake band here or here.  My kids love, and I mean love, this show--they laugh hysterically the whole time.  Clara has been almost as excited about this album as she was about the Selena Gomez album that came out a few weeks back.  Lily was excited enough to split the cost of buying the album with Clara.  (Emma, who refuses to admit she likes the show, will sit through every episode and laugh the whole time, but she didn't help buy the CD.)  For those of you who wisely skipped the links above, Big Time Rush's music is pure Paint-By-Numbers Pop.  Treacle.  Insipid.  And downright awful.

So, here is the interesting thing.  I could not get any of my children to go see Wagner with me.  My children like Big Time Rush.  Where did I go wrong?

By the way, you can see the original version of Big Time Rush here.  My kids wouldn't like that either.

Nobel Hat Trick

It is rare that I have a kind word to say about the Nobel Prize Committees.  (Committees, plural, by the way--each Prize has it's own committee).  But this year--wow!

In descending order of impressiveness:

1. Literature:  Mario Vargas Llosa

Normally, this Prize is a Joke--they give it to all sorts of mediocrities.  But, this year, they got it right.  Llosa is excellent.  I have read a half-dozen of his novels and a collection of non-fiction essays.  I  enjoyed them all.  Interestingly, though, I have never recommended any of them to anyone else.  The best one I have read was The War of the End of the World, which is too long to be a good book to recommend to a first-time reader.  The others, I have read were all shorter, and while I enjoyed every one of them, I was never quite certain that anyone else would like them as much as I did.  But, now with the stamp of the Nobel Committee on them, I will happily start recommending them widely.  I would recommend starting with either The Storyteller or Death in the Andes--but if you get a recommendation from someone who has read more of his work, take it--since I have read only a third of his novels, it is quite possible that I still haven't read the best.

2. Peace: Liu Xiaobo

This prize is always a Joke.  But, this year, they actually stumbled into giving it to someone worthy of attention.  I have no idea what Liu has done to promote the cause of Peace since he is now in prison.  But, by giving attention to a political prisoner who has been unjustly imprisoned for daring to ask for greater freedom in China, the Prize has some merit.  And, just to show how open and honest they really are, China is now censoring all mention of Liu on the Internet in China.  Sadly, the Chinese authorities do not see the irony of censoring all mentions of Liu on the Internet in order to prove that he is a criminal for accusing them of depriving people of freedom.  [Incidentally, if their filter is working well, this web page is as of right now censored in China.]

3. Economics: Diamond, Mortensen, and Pissarides

This Prize has lately turned into the Prize in which the committee picks an idea and then figures out who will get the award.  This year the Prize goes to the idea of Search Frictions--markets do not always clear instantly and sometimes there are things which slow down the market clearing process.  This is particularly noticeable in the labor market.  All three of these guys did good, solid work on that idea.  None of them would really merit the Nobel on his own, but they are a good set of people to receive the ward on behalf of the Idea.

Slugs and Rats

Since last Friday, there were two Events which are not particularly Worthy of Note in and of themselves, but which will hereby be Noted, not for the Amusement and Edification of the Reader, but for a Reason which will probably still be Most Murky at the Conclusion of this Rambling, and possibly Incoherent, Tale.  Consider the Reader to Have Been Duly Warned.

1. Clara returned from 6th grade camp on Friday.  While at camp, she licked a slug which made her tongue numb, and she was the only girl in her group to be willing to lick said slug. She also dissected a rat, and took pictures of the proceedings.

2.  The Lords of Ithaca triumphed in the Stony Brook Fantasy Baseball League--and since The Lords of Ithaca were managed by Your Humble Narrator, this occasion is Not Without Interest to the author of the preceding Sentence.

Both of the aforementioned Events brought some Not Inconsiderable Measure of Joy to Your Humble Narrator--they would have also brought Pride to Your Humble Narrator but for the fact that if Pride ever infused the Heart of Your Humble Narrator, there would be an Obligatory Change of Moniker and Your Not-So-Humble Narrator, while perhaps being a more accurate Moniker, lacks somewhat in poetry and has not the Stamp of Approval of High Literature (cf, A Clockwork Orange--which is not a bad book suggestion in and of itself (the movie was not nearly as good, on the other hand)).  The matter for consideration is why the aforementioned events bring Joy.  The latter is easy to explain--the fantasy baseball season starts in March, when the time begins to start perusing material necessary for The Draft and ends in October with the end of the season.  Doing well in the game requires both attention to statistics, which is inherently enjoyable, and steady attention over a period of months--managers who lose interest in May or June or July or August or September never fare well.  So, after months of attention, emerging victorious is not surprisingly something which makes one happy.  Moreover, this year the Lords of Ithaca crushed Craig's team in the championship game, and since Craig was on a three year winning streak, there was the added joy of ending his string of Victories.

The first listed event also brought joy, which is, when one pauses to consider the matter, odder.  After all, Your Humble Narrator neither licked the slug nor carved up the dead body of the rat.  Indeed, your Humble Narrator was not present when either event occurred.  And yet, there was undoubted Joy, and truth be told, Pride.  Why? 

Meanwhile, I recently read King Lear.  (I have no idea how many times I have read King Lear, by the way--that is the funny thing about Shakespeare's plays--I have read many of them several times, but I have no idea what number corresponds to "several.")  King Lear is, in part, about the relationship between fathers and daughters.  Was Lear proud when he thought about his daughters?  Probably--well, at least in the first part of Act I, Scene 1--it doesn't take long for him to lose the Joy of Having Daughters.  Lear had Three Daughters--am I just like Lear?  Will my daughters with Whom I am Most Pleased turn on me in my Dotage?  Will I go mad and howl at the wind?

I read King Lear along with As You Like It with my tutorial this semester.  We talked a lot about what children owe their parents.  (We also talked about Love, naturally enough--it also is a theme in both plays.)   Do my children owe me anything in later life?  And if so, what?  What can I reasonably expect of them?  Strangely, and it is surpassing strange in historical terms, I don't expect anything of my children when I am older.  I'll be glad to see them, I'll always enjoy talking with them and visiting with them, but I cannot imagine imposing on them in later life.  Why not?  Why should I not expect that they will provide me and 100 of my Cronies with lodging  (well, except for the fact that I don't have 100 Cronies, but pretend I did)?   This is, by the way, the strongest evidence I have seen that children are now consumption, and not investment, goods.

And, thus, to return to the point which started these reflections--why am I so pleased at Clara's actions in 6th grade camp?  There is no doubt that I am pleased--my daughter licked a slug and cut up a rat!  How utterly fantastic!

The Technological Divide

Driving While Texting is now illegal in the Commonwealth (not State, mind) of Massachusetts.  This new law interests me because it is further evidence of my theory about The Technological Divide.

Here is my theory:  There is a sharp Technological Divide in this country between people who were born more than a few years before me and people who were born more than a few years after me.  (People born around 1966 (a fine year) are in No Man's Land, some tilting to one side of the Divide, some to the other.)  The Technological Divide is a sharp difference in the reaction to new technology.

I was 10 when I got my first Atari.  I used a PC to play computer games in high school (though we didn't own one--I couldn't afford a PC until I was in grad school); I used the UNIX system at the UC Davis when I was an undergrad.  In other words, I came of age exactly when computers were starting to become consumer goods.  Everyone born a little bit after me grew up in a world in which computers were consumer goods;  everyone before me grew up before computers were consumer goods.  Growing up with computers, it turns out, increases one's ability and inclination to learn about new technology.  Take a person from each side of the Technological Divide and sit them in front of a new computer game or hand them a new gadget.  Those on one side of the technological divide will start fiddling with new item and figure out how it works.  Those on the other side will, at best, at best look around for a printed owner's manual or, more likely, just freeze up and not know what to do with the item.  [And, there are of course exceptions--there are people on the older side of the Divide who are quite adept at using new technology and technophobes on the young side--but there are remarkably few exceptions in my experience.]

The Technological Divide plays out in many curious ways, but to return to the matter at hand, the new law against texting while driving is a perfect example of it.  People on one side of the Technological Divide find texting to be difficult, time-intensive, and something requiring great amounts of concentration.  People on the other side of the technological divide can text with one hand while thinking about something else.  So, the people on the Old side of the Technological Divide think texting while driving is one of the most dangerous things that can be done; the people on the Young side don't see why texting is even a problem.

Now, it is fairly obvious to anyone with Wisdom that texting while operating a motor vehicle is exercising something less than perfect Good Sense and Caution.  I am happy to report that I have never once texted while Driving and the new law will have precisely zero effect on my behavior.  However, it is the fact that this particular act has been deemed illegal which intrigues me.  Using a cell phone to talk while driving is still legal.  Why the difference?  I do not think it is coincidental that people on the Old side of the Technological Divide use their cell phones for talking; cell phones used for talking are a lot like land lines, which predate the Technological Divide.  (People on the Young side of the Technological Divide use their phones for many purposes other than talking by the way; indeed, talking is not even the primary use of the cell phone for many people on the Young side of the Technological Divide.)  So, the people who make the Laws have outlawed an action which they find confusing and time intensive, while allowing an action which they find convenient and easy.

So, again, let us agree that texting while driving is distracting.  But so is dealing with screaming kids in the backseat (still legal), fiddling with the radio (still legal), engaging in an engrossing conversation with a passenger (still legal), reading a book while driving (still legal), applying makeup while driving (still legal), eating while driving (still legal, even if you are eating a very messy sandwich), driving while extremely tired (still legal), and so on ad nauseum.  What makes all these different from driving while texting?  It is not the level of distraction--it is hard to imagine anything more distracting than a screaming infant in the backseat in a rear-facing infant car seat, yet there has been no law to ban infants from cars.  The difference between texting and all those other activities is that texting while driving is not the sort of thing done by people on the Old side of the Technological Divide; it is new and thus suspect; it is done only by people on the Young side of the Technological Divide, and thus it was a simple matter to outlaw the practice.

While I have been noticing the Technological Divide for some time now, this is the first time I can recall of legislation marking the Divide.

And, for your enjoyment, here is the anthem of the Old Side of the Technological Divide.

It is but a blog post

Epictetus, The Handbook  (aka The Encheiridion)
Marcus Aurelius, Meditations

I read these two books over the course of the summer.  (This by, the way, at long last finishes writing reviews of the books I read over the summer--sadly, the books I have read since the start of the semester but have not yet reviewed are already starting to accumulate).  I started the Epictetus book right at the outset of summer, and finished the Aurelius book right as summer was ending.  These are the two Stoic classics---both great, though if you only want to read one, I'd suggest Epictetus' book--it is both shorter and better.  (And it is really short--18 pages in my edition.)  I've read both before, but one of my students borrowed Epictetus from me, and when she returned it, it was on my desk, so I picked it up and read it (it is short, after all) and then I thought it would be fun to reread Marcus Aurelius, whom I last read over a decade ago--maybe even close to 20 years ago.

Becoming more of a Stoic is ever my goal.  As Epictetus notes:
"In the case of everything attractive or useful or that you are fond of, remember to say just what sort of thing it is, beginning with the least little things.  If you are fond of a jug, say 'I am fond of a jug!' For then when it is broken you will not be upset.  If you kiss your child or your wife, say that you are kissing a human being; for when it dies you will not be upset.”

Similarly,
"When you are about to undertake some action, remind yourself what sort of action it is.  If you are going out for a bath, put before your mind what happens at baths--there are people who splash, people who jostle, people who are insulting, people who steal.  And you will undertake the action more securely if from the start you say of it, 'I want to take a bath and to keep my choices in accord with nature; ' and likewise for each action.  For that way if something happens to interfere with your bathing you will be ready to say, 'Oh, well, I wanted not only this but also to keep my choices in accord with nature, and I cannot do that if I am annoyed with things that happen."

Or this,:
"You are foolish if you want your children and your wife and your friends to live forever, since you are wanting things to be up to you that are not up to you, and things to be yours that are not yours.  You are stupid in the same way if you want your slave boy to be faultless, since you are wanting badness not to be badness but something else."

Epictetus is the single best guide to parenting I have ever read.  I am constantly telling myself, "They are but children; it is in the nature of children to fail at accomplishing seemingly simple tasks like doing the dishes quickly and without endless fighting."    I am much better at being a Stoic at work than at home, though.  And when it comes to the Raiders, I am not even remotely Stoic--I am trying to work out a theory on why a perfect Stoic should, in fact, care passionately about whether the Raiders win--so far, I am having a hard time working out this theory--surely one cannot say it is in the Nature of the Raiders to lose, and thus when they do lose, why should I be terribly upset?--you can see my problem.

Marcus Aurelius' book isn't as good as Epictetus'--partly because it is longer and when you get right down to it, Stoic philosophy isn't all that complicated.  The biggest thing I noticed this time, though, was how much the translation matters in reading Meditations.  This time, I bought a new translation the book, and it was vastly better than the translation I read a long time ago.  So, if you are going to read this, I would recommend the Gregory Hays translation.

The Tea Party Comes Back to Boston

Just to get it over with--the Raiders lost yesterday in a heart-breaking, gut-wrenching fashion.  I cried.  Literally.  All I can say is:  Job had it easy.  He didn't have to see the Raiders lose like that.

In other news--which is necessarily more pleasant news because it is impossible to think of anything which would be worse news than that relayed in the preceding paragraph:

In the last 24 hours, I received two, yes two, requests for specific blog posts.  To what is this world coming when Your Humble Narrator is receiving requests for topics to be covered in a blog which earnestly endeavors to cover nothing of particular importance at all?  But, in the interests of the Public Welfare--improving which is certainly necessary given the event recorded in the opening paragraph of this post--I shall henceforth make it a policy--a new policy since the event being covered by this policy is a new event in the history of Mankind--to cover topics which Readers, scarce though they may be, request be covered. 

The topic of the Day:  Sales Taxes in Massachusetts.

This November, there are three issues on the State Ballot. (Three issues seems remarkably small, by the way, compared to what is typically on the California ballot--California is obsessed with ballot initiatives.)  Two of the three ballot issues are measures to reduce the sales tax in MA.  Question 1 abolishes the recently enacted sales tax on alcohol; question 3 would lower the sales tax on all goods covered by the tax from 6.25% to 3%.  I was asked to offer my opinion on these two measures.

First, a little information on taxes. {Insert Loud cheers!} In the US, governments raise funds through three big taxes: income, sales and property taxes.  Given historical quirks, the Federal government relies primarily on income taxes, and Local governments use primarily property taxes.  The states use different mixes of taxes, but most use a combination of income and sales tax.  So, the first big question is: if the State of MA is going to raise funds to pay for the things paid for by the State, which type of tax should it use?  Economic theory does not have a universally accepted answer to that question--a serious argument can be made for income, sales or property taxes as the primary source of revenue for the State.  If we were starting from scratch, I would use the sales tax for state governments.  That isn't a strong preferences; I could be talked into other tax structures easily enough.  But, the sales tax is nice because a) with competition between states, it would force states to economize on the size of the government to keep the sales tax low--it is easier to buy things from another state than it is to earn your income in another state and b) since the federal government does not have a sales tax and local governments have a hard time using sales taxes to pay for local government services (not all localities have sufficient numbers of businesses to make a local sales tax feasible (this is why big cities are more likely to have a separate sales than than small rural towns)), the sales tax would be zero unless states levied one, so it is a nice natural way to raise funds.

As for levying the sales tax on alcohol, there is no particular reason in economic theory why alcohol should not be subject to a sales tax, but there are two interesting practical complications.  First, alcohol is subject to its own set of taxes already, independent of the sales tax, so sales of alcohol will be taxed no matter what happens with proposition 1.  Moreover, the reason food is exempted for the sales tax is because the sales tax is inherently regressive (poor people pay a higher percentage of their income in sales tax than rich people do--since poor people spend a higher percentage of their income on food than do rich people, food is exempted to reduce the regressivity of the tax).  I believe poor people also spend a higher perecatge of their income on alcohol than do rich people, so having a sales tax on alcohol is regressive.  All that being noted, you can get the same effect on alcohol prices by levying a higher specific tax on alcohol as you get by having a sales tax on alcohol.

So, on the straight question how should the state government should raise its funds, I tend to think that sales taxes are not a bad way to do it, and thus if I were picking taxes to lower in the state, I would not choose to lower the sales tax or the tax on alcohol.

However, as odd as it may seem, voters are not being asked to design the tax system from scratch.  So, the real question is: given the current structure of taxes in MA, is it desirable to lower the overall tax burden by lowering sales taxes or should we rather keep the total tax burden the same?  On these grounds, I like the idea of reducing the State's revenue stream; the MA government has not impressed me with its ability to use the funds it raises in a wise fashion, and thus at the margin, it would be better if they had a smaller sum of money with which to play.  (Note this is not the same thing as saying taxes should be reduced to zero--I happen to like the idea of State governments and State governments do need some money to do the sort of things we want State governments to do.)

In other words, I would much rather be voting on a reduction in the state income tax than a reduction in the state sales tax--I think that would be a better way to reduce the income of the state government.  But, given that I don't have that option, I will merrily vote yes on both propositions 1 and 3.  Given that this is MA, I also fully expect that I will be in the minority.  I don't often vote with the majority in this state.

By the way, while we citizens of the state are voting to reduce the taxes levied by the state government, my local town is putting an initiative on the ballot to raise property taxes by roughly 14%.  The Tea Party has come to Boston, but it seems to have bypassed the school building committee in Granby.

Shooting Horses

Last weekend, I read Horace McCoy's They Shoot Horses Don't They?  It is one of the novels in the Library of America's Crime Novels: American Noir of the 1930s and 40s.  I had heard of the movie (starring Hanoi Jane) and knew the movie was about a Dance Marathon, so I was a bit puzzled to find the story in this volume.  The movie was based on the book, and yes, indeed, it is about a dance marathon, but the book was much more interesting than it sounds.  The novel opens with our protagonist telling us that he did indeed shoot a girl in the head, but that she was happy that he did so.  Then the story begins in which there is no mystery about who killed whom, but rather, why in the world this seemingly pleasant guy would shoot this particular girl in the head.  The story is nicely done.  And that Dance Marathon--well, suffice it to say, it is a rather miserable experience--it's odd to think that such things happened in the 1930s.  We are not talking about just dancing for a night or two.  Imagine dancing with a 10 minute break every two hours for over a month.

But, as nice as the novel was, it certainly isn't High Literature and would only be enjoyed by people who like the Noir type of story.  So, why did I like it?  There is something about imagining the dark side of human nature which is terribly intriguing.  That is not the same thing as reading about disturbed individuals who commit horrible acts--that sort of thing doesn't really interest me all that much--some people are just seriously crazy.  But, thinking about why a normal well-adjusted person would do something which seems horrible and then imagining the thought process in which said horrible event looks perfectly normal and sensible is pretty intriguing.  This book does that--by the end, it really isn't hard to see how a nice, normal guy could shoot a girl in the head at point blank range and think he was doing a good and perfectly sensible thing.

In unrelated news, the Recession ended last year.  Incidentally, this is only news if your source of news is things like news programs and newspapers.  Now, maybe, just maybe, the conversation on the economy will change.  Oh, and in other news, the recent recession was not as bad as the Great Depression.  Shocking, to be sure. 

Satan, Your Kingdom Must Come Down

The semester seems to have ended its beginning of the school year rush--I haven't had anyone stop by my office for 2 hours!  (I think since last Tuesday my longest stretch of being visitorless was about 20 minutes.  This happens every Fall, but eventually, life returns to normal.)

And so, a series of seemingly unrelated (but, perhaps secretly related) observations:

1. Convocation last week was the usual bacchanalian revel.  That event should really be called a Pep Rally and then we faculty can stop going to witness our students exhibiting levels of modesty and sobriety somewhat less than those constituting Civilized Norms.

2. The highlight of Convocation--our new President led off her speech with a lengthy discussion of...baseball!  I am starting my 17th year here and this is the first sports reference I have heard in a college speech.  Lynn (said New President) really likes baseball--her devotion to the Red Sox seem comparable to my devotion to the Raiders.  She also indicated she would like to be Commissioner of Baseball (indeed, her internal college e-mail address is commish).  I ran into her the next night at a different event and figured it would be worth discovering if she was qualified to be commissioner of baseball, so I asked where she stood on the DH.  She is in favor if it.  I expressed my disapproval.  Let us hope that she exhibits better wisdom in the matter of running a college than on the matter of baseball.

3. Emma is off at another Beauty Contest for Horses (aka Dressage Show) this weekend.  Lily and Clara are both home sick today.  I am tempted to take Janet out to dinner tonight--I pity her being home all day with the two younger Offspring, but I suspect her maternal instincts will keep her from desiring to leave the house when said children are ill.

4. I am a bit behind in the book review department.  Toward the end of the summer, I read a few books from authors with whom you know exactly what you will get when you start a book:
Wodehouse, Bachelors Anonymous
Gaiman, Stardust
Christie, Endless Night
They are listed in declining order of Goodness.  The Wodehouse book is very late Wodehouse--his second to last novel if memory serves--he didn't lose a step at the end.  The Gaiman book was fun.  The Christie book was terribly problematic.  I read it over two nights--I think it needed to be read in one night.  The problem was a bit odd.  It's a 180 page book.  Nobody dies until page 130.  I stopped the first night before page 130, but well into the book.  Then my mind started roaming over the book.  Here we have an Agatha Christie book--over halfway through, nobody has died.  Obviously somebody will die at some point.  So, if somebody is going to die, who is it and who did it?  It wasn't hard to figure out when I thought about it.  I think if I had read the book right through without pausing to wonder about the strange nature of a murder mystery in which the murder doesn't happen until very late in the book, it would have been a much better mystery.  But, it is a little bit of a let down to read a murder mystery when you have solved the question of who will murder whom before said murder has even happened.

5. A new album review:  I got a copy of Robert Plant's latest, Band of Joy. (Amazon Deal of the Day, naturally--I can't remember the last time I bought an album for regular price.)  It's an album of covers.  The lead song, Angel Dance can be heard here.  That song is a cover of a Los Lobos tune.  (The title of this post is another song from the album--it's an old gospel song.)  The whole album is interesting--mellow--more like late Zeppelin than early Zeppelin.  Plant is one of the few old Rock Heroes who has aged gracefully--he seems to get that a 60+ year old pretending he is 24 is really quite silly (yeah, I'm looking at you Mick and Keith and Roger and Pete).  I think Janet will like this album too, but she hasn't heard it yet.  I have no idea if the young'ins will approve.

6.  Football Season started.  Life is good.

7. The Raiders lost in week 1.  Life isn't so good after all, I suppose.  See the title of this blog post.

8. I had three visitors between the time I started writing this and now.

More Help?

This would seem to be the Year of the Workshop to Help Faculty.  Today's help comes in the form of a workshop I can attend if I so desire with the wince-inducing title Staying Alive, which is not as the Unwary Reader might suspect, conducted by John Travolta.  No, instead we get a guy of whom nobody has ever heard whose biographical blurb tells us that he is, and I quote, "a literary coach and educational consultant, working with faculty on projects for university presses and with organizations interested in nature, culture, and the human journey."  This seminar promises to help me, the poor, deprived faculty member:

"This workshop focuses on living a healthy and creative life in academia, where much quiet desperation arises from confusion about what is really going on.  At every stage, three fundamental factors come into play: the person, the profession, and the institution.  We will explore how they operate across the arc of an academic career using Erik Ericksons model of adult development correlated with the traditional Indian stages of apprentice, warrior, householder, and elder."

Now this is a seminar not to be missed--we get to play Cowboys and Indians!  I wanna be the Warrior Professor--you have to be the Householder Professor [insert snickering].

Being an "educational consultant" is obviously an even bigger racket than being a professor.  American Professors have easily the most privileged job in the world--with tenure, we can't be fired no matter how lousy we do our job, most of my colleagues don't even bother to show up for work more than half-time (if you count the summers when on an average day there are only two members of my 10 member department actually in the office) (the school year is only a bit better, by the way (on Friday afternoon, for example there are the same two of us around)), and we have no actual boss to tell us what to do, so we can do whatever we want.  Ah, but we are of course quietly desperate from being confused about what is going on.  So, here we have theoretically relatively bright individuals (we all have Ph.D.s after all) who cannot figure out the easiest job on the planet to figure out.  So, we get an educational consultant to come in to tell us all about Indians and adult development, after which we can all feel better about ourselves.

Seriously, it is impossible to write a satire of the modern American Academy.

Help is on the way?

The semester started last week.  Every year I forget how much time starting a new semester takes.  But, I did receive a very helpful e-mail.  It turns out that the Powers That Be at MHC have arranged a faculty seminar which I can attend to help me learn how to teach writing to my students.  That's nice of them to help me with that.  Here is the first paragraph explaining the seminar I can take:

"We aim to convene a cross-disciplinary, cross-division conversation
about effective ways to teach writing to diverse students at various
levels within the liberal arts curriculum. With an emphasis on praxis,
participants together will explore best practices through hands-on
workshops of their own teaching materials. Close readings of their own
assignments, lessons, feedback strategies, and pedagogical tactics will
be informed by a larger discussion of contemporary ideas in writing
pedagogy provided by facilitators and guest speakers."


Hmmm.  If some student turned in prose like that in a class of mine, I would mark it up and note, probably not very politely, that the whole paragraph is jargon masking a lack of substance.  In other words, students who write like that don't get good grades on papers I grade.  I can think of two explanations for this fact:

1) I am terrible at teaching writing because I cannot recognize good prose like that being sent out by the writers of this workshop;
2) The organizers of this workshop have no business teaching others how to teach writing but should themselves  learn something, anything, about how to write.

Determining which of those is the appropriate conclusion is left as an exercise for the Reader. 

Movie Night at Folsom Prison

In the last week, I have watched a couple of movies from off the beaten track which were quite good--actually one was outstanding and the other was very good.  I am still of mixed mind about adding a record of the movies I have watched, but these two are certainly worth mentioning largely because neither one is as well known as would be proper in a World in which Good Movies were the only ones which were Well Known.

1. The Lives of Others
 If there was a word which meant "Movies which achieve the status of Great Literature," this movie would merit that accolade.  Incredible in every way.  It's the story of a member of the Secret Police in East Germany and a writer whom he is watching.  Every character in the movie is played perfectly, the story line is great--it has a Shakespearean air to it.  The movie is German, but has subtitles for the non-German speakers among us.  If you like Good Literature, you will like this movie.

2. Metropolitan
This was a very witty movie; not slapstick, but wit.  The tale of a bunch of the bored, young rich in Manhattan and thier lives of...well, they don't do much of anything.  And that is the point.  The whole movie is brief snippets--few scenes run long; yet it is cleverly done throughout--well, cleverly done until the last couple of minutes which are a bit painful--I think the director couldn't really figure out a way to end the movie, so he tacked on a standard Happy Ending to a movie which really should have had a pointless ending to make the whole thing cohere.  But that is a minor blemish on a movie which is otherwise well worth wathcing.

I suppose I can also throw in an album review.  The Amazon Download of the Day ($3.99) a week or so ago was Johnny Cash's At Folsom Prison, a live album from the place suggested by the title of the album.  It's amazingly good.  (Though I am sorry to say that Lily now speaks of the album with the same tone of voice she speaks about Frank Sinatra ("Not this album again.).  Sigh.  At least Lily has grown to love my Flogging Molly album.  Actually, even Janet is now enjoying Flogging Molly.  Maybe there is some hope for my family yet.  (On the other hand, none of them like Led Zeppelin.  (But, then again, Lily is starting to like the Rolling Stones.)))  Anyway, there doesn't seem to be a YouTube clip from the At Folsom Prison album, but this one is close.

If you're happy and you know it...

What would happen if Plato wrote a book after he read Augustine?  You'd get Boethius' The Consolation of Philosophy.  Written in the early 6th century AD, this book is an extended discussion between the author and the personification of Philosophy.  It's Great--as in a Great Book.

It covers a lot of ground, and I have neither the time nor the inclination to reflect upon the host of themes and ideas contained in this rather short volume.  But, one thing which really got me pondering:  the nature of happiness.

1. Aristotle noted that the end to which all our actions are directed is to increase our happiness.   
2. Evil seems to prosper in this world; people who engage in evil acts seem to attain the objects of their desire.  Good people do not always prosper.
3. 1 and 2 together seems to imply that evil people are happier, and thus to attain our ultimate end, it would be best to be evil.

Boethius' solution:
Evil ends do not make one happier.  Boethius makes a distinction between true happiness, which can only be attained through Good, and some sort of brutish sensation which people often mistake for happiness. 

This raises the interesting problem:  is it possible that I can feel happy, but not be happy?  Is there a difference between feeling happy and being happy?  If so, why is being happy more important or better than feeling happy?

Over the years in class discussions, I have raised the question:  why shouldn't we all simply go into some sort of permanent drug-induced state, being happy for the rest of our lives, instead of struggling through life sober and miserable?  (This is not an original question of course--both Homer (implicitly) and Augustine (explicitly) ask it.)  Students frequently say that the drug induced state is "fake happiness."  I always laugh and ask what is the difference between fake happiness and real happiness.  No student has ever had an answer.  I also don't have an answer.  My students' instincts are surely correct--surely there is some difference between the state of feeling happy and the state of being happy, but how can that difference be explained?

The problem reverses--if it is possible to Feel Happy but not Be Happy, then it could also be possible to Be Happy but not Feel Happy.  And if they are that different, which is better?  If given the choice between Feeling happy but not Being happy for the rest of your life or Being happy but not Feeling happy for the rest of your life, which is the better choice?

At this point, cue Bobby McFerrin.

Silly Old Bear

Frederick Crews, The Pooh Perplex, was a Christmas gift, and it is as worthy of note as anything else ever contained in these musing to relate that upon finishing this tome, I have completed reading all the books I was given last Yuletide.

The next thing worthy of note (with the caveat mentioned above) is that the title of the book was abbreviated in the last paragraph.  The Full Title is:
The Pooh Perplex: A Freshman Casebook.

But, that is not the title as it appears on the Cover.  On the cover we read:
The Pooh Perplex In Which It is Discovered that the True Meaning of the Pooh Stories is Not as Simple as is Usually Believed But for Proper Elucidation Requires the Combined Efforts of Several Academicians of Varying Critical Persuasions.

Pondering the differences between the assorted things which this book could be named is fully in the Spirit of the Book itself.

At a quick glance, the book appears to be the sort of book assigned in first-year English classes in which a dozen authors offer critical perspectives on a work.  Think about the Norton Critical Anthologies, for example.  (Or, if you prefer, you can think about the Ignatius Critical editions, instead.)  (Actually, you are probably now thinking about both of them.)  (Then again, you may not have heard of the Ignatius series; it's relatively new and aimed at more traditionally minded teachers, which is code for Roman Catholic Homeschooling parents.)  (But, non-Roman Catholic homeschooling parents will also enjoy the series, as will Roman Catholic non-homeschoolers and even some non-Roman Catholic, non-homeschoolers.)  (The set of asides is also fully in keeping with the spirit of this book.)

As mentioned, it looks like a Freshman Casebook.  There are the essays, brief biographies of the authors and "Questions and Study Topics" following each essay.

The book, however is a parody.  The whole thing was written by Crews.  It is quite funny if one likes to laugh at the silliness of that which passes for literary criticism.  As the immortal Homer Simpson once said, "It's funny cuz it's true."  Crews does a great job imitating not just the substance but also the style of the different types of critics.  The biographies of the authors are pitch-perfect, and the study questions at the end of each chapter are hysterical--they are exactly the sort of vacuous nonsense you see in poorly taught literature courses.

So, now I know all about the Marxist and Freudian and Religious undertones in Pooh; I learned how it isn't as good as anything DH Lawrence wrote. I learned that it was full of hidden meanings.  I learned about the exhaustively fascinating importance of the differences between the text and the pictures.  I learned that Milne's autobiography is really important to understanding the books.  I learned about the books which helped shaped Pooh.  I learned how the book fits into an Aristotelian framework.

One thing I didn't learn, though, was that it is very easy to take a children's book like Pooh and torture the text in all sorts of marvelous ways which does nothing to help anyone actually appreciate or enjoy the book.

Martini Time

The impetus for this post came from reading Lowell Edmunds' nice little book, Martini: Straight Up, an exploration of all things Martini-related, telling its history both as a beverage and and as social phenomenon.  It's full of fascinating anecdotes and literary passages demonstrating the place of this drink in American culture--and yes, the Martini is most definitely an American Drink.

But, as good as the book was, it is nothing compared to the Drink Itself.

The Martini is, without a doubt the finest alcoholic beverage.  (It is not, of course the finest beverage period--coffee holds that title.)  I have been seriously disturbed, and I mean seriously disturbed, over the years at the shocking ignorance regarding the proper making of this most perfect drink.  I recently dined with my wife at one of the finest restaurants in the area (the Blue Heron) and had a shockingly and perfectly horrid Martini.  This restaurant prides itself on its bar, and the bartender displayed a complete an utter ignorance of the Proper Means of making of this drink  (It was, I kid you not, warm.  I have never sent food or a drink back at a restaurant, but I came really close to doing so on this occasion.)  (So, I would recommend the restaurant to anyone (seriously, the food is outstanding), but whatever you do, do not order a Martini there.)

So, here, as a Public Service, is a Guide to Making a Perfect Martini.

First, Martinis are made with Gin, not Vodka.  The "Vodka Martini" is an Abomination and a Blight upon Civilization.  Vodka is a fine substance, perfect when you want alcohol with no flavor (which is the whole point of vodka), and thus much beloved by people who don't actually want to taste the alcohol in their fruit punch.  But a Martini is not fruit punch, and vodka has no business being associated with the drink.  This does mean that the term "Gin Martini" is redundant.  The phrase "Vodka Martini" is an oxymoron, but useful for benighted souls who do not know about what they speak.

Don't even get me started on the Candytini Craze.  Suffice it to say that pouring a bunch of colored sugar water into a Martini glass makes for neither a potable beverage nor a Martini.

A Martini is Gin and Dry Vermouth.  That's it.  Dry Vermouth is the clearish kind, not to be confused with Sweet Vermouth, which is red.

It is acceptable to have a Gin to Vermouth ratio of anywhere between 3:1 and 8:1.  The lower the amount of vermouth, the more "dry" the Martini is--so a dry Martini is 8:1.   3:1 is a bit outside the normal upper range for the amount of vermouth, but it has some historical merit, and makes for an acceptable drink.  I prefer something in between 4:1 and 5:1; getting a more finely tuned ratio requires a rather full set of measuring cups.  (And, yes, the amount of alcohol must be measured out--if you ever see anyone just eyeballing the proper amounts of liquid in making a Martini, just ask for a glass of water instead.)  As noted, 3:1 is pushing the limit, any ratio beyond that is a different drink.  8:1 is the lowest permissible amount of vermouth.  If anyone ever says they want their Martini "very dry" or "extra dry" or some such other phrase, tell them to just order straight Gin.  Truth be told, people uttering such a phrase probably have no idea what they mean, but they think such a statement makes them sound sophisticated.  [I once heard a gentleman in a restaurant loudly tell the waitress than he wanted a "Vodka martini, extra dry."  I almost laughed out loud.  Such a drink would, by definition, have as little flavor as possible.]

There are two acceptable methods for mixing the Martini--Shaking or Stirring.  Much ink has been spilt over which is the proper method, but the truth is that both are acceptable, they just make different versions of the Martini.  Stirring gently mixes the Gin and Vermouth, lulling the Gin to sleep in the drink--it is the proper method when one wants a soothing Martini, designed to calm the nerves and lull one into a lazy complacency in which the world looks like the Sunset over the Pacific Ocean.  Shaking, on the other hand, wakes up the Gin, making it lively--it is the proper method when one wants a Martini designed to shake off the cares of the day, preparing one for an evening with friends or family, giving a new start in which the world looks like a Sunrise over the Atlantic.  Most of the time, I prefer to Shake my Martini--I like the optimistic feel infused into the Drink.

To properly shake a Martini, one needs a proper Shaker.  I prefer the Standard Stainless Steel shaker--some prefer fancier Shakers, but I like the idea that the Shaker is Functional, and not a form of Art.  (Using an artistic Shaker is acceptable, however.)  Fill the Shaker 3/4 full of Ice.  Add the Gin, then the vermouth.  Shake vigorously until the shaker itself becomes too cold to hold.  (This is one of the virtues of the standard shaker--with some of the fancier variants, you will have to adjust the shaking time accordingly.)  When the shaker is too cold to handle, pour the liquid into a chilled Martini Glass.  The glass must be chilled.

To this, you can add either a lemon peel or an olive.  I have never understood the appeal of the lemon peel, so I use olives.  If olives are used, it must be an odd number of olives--it is acceptable to use either one olive or three olives.  An even number of olives--e.g., two olives--is an insult.  And, I cannot think of any excuse for ever using a Martini as a means of insulting someone.  The olives should rest in the drink until the very end--they may be eaten after the drink has been finished.  For this purpose, it is acceptable to experiment with different types of olives--just please don't used those canned black olives--that is simply repulsive.  Green olives are normal, but I have enjoyed excellent Martinis with other kinds of quality olives.

The choice of olive is one way that permissible individuality can be added to the drink.  The other, and far more important, decision to be made is the choice of Gin.  [I prefer Tanqueray; I suspect, however, that this Gin choice comes from the fact that my grandmother used to drink Gibsons (just like a Martini, but with a cocktail onion instead of an olive--though in later years, I don't know if she added vermouth--she may have just been drinking Gin with an onion--I was too young to know anything about alcoholic beverages, so I never really paid much attention) and this was her Gin of choice--so, usually at a subconscious level, the aroma of Tanqueray reminds me of her.]

An acceptable, and quite good variant on the Martini is a Dirty Martini--follow the above but add a small amount of the brine from the olives to the mixture.  FDR used to make his Martinis in this fashion.

Now, as you will note, it is not terribly difficult to make a proper Martini, which means that there is really no excuse for an improperly made Martini.  Yet, I am often shocked at most  restaurants because the bartender has no idea how to make such a simple, yet perfect, drink.  And I wince every time I see one of those little signs on a restaurant table with a list of "Martinis" served by the establishment, none of which is actually a "Martini."  The name of a perfect drink has been stolen and applied to liquids which no civilized person should ingest.  The decline of the Proper Martini is without a doubt the surest sign of the Decadence of Western Civilization and a sign of the coming Collapse of Civilization as we know it.

Comic Book Roundup

With the impending End of Summer, it seems Like A Time Most Appropriate to provide Summary Statement about a few of the Comic Books I read this Summer.  In No Particular Order:

1. Herge, Tintin in Tibet, Flight 714 to Sydney, The Calculus Affair
After seeing how much Clara liked reading Bone, I figured it would be fun to revisit Tintin after many a year, and read along with Clara.  Only half that proposition worked.  I enjoyed the Tintin books; Clara, alas, did not.  Clara's principle objection was to the Art; she was not enamored with the appearance of the assorted characters--Tintin and his spiked tuft of hair annoyed her in particular.  The characters were, in Clara's perpetual word, "Weird."  I, on the other hand, found much to enjoy in the exploits of Tintin and his Companions.  Nice little stories, well told.  They tend to be Children's literature, but of the sort that adults can enjoy without feeling their brain cells die as they turn each page.  The plots, dressed up a bit, would serve as genre fiction--not high literature, but also not a bad way to spend a bit of time.  Having enjoyed these sufficiently well, I'll undoubtedly be reading more Tintin in the months or years to come.  Rumor has it, by the way, that Spielberg has a Tintin series of movies in the works.  So, if you like to be ahead of cultural trends, you should read some Tintin now, so that when the movies come out, you can feel hip.

2. Thompson, Blankets
This is a comic book for adults; a slow-moving, coming-of-age story.  There is much in it that is good, but on the whole, I thought it was just decent.  The storyline isn't terribly exciting--it is "autobiographical"--largely the tale of a guy who hits his teenage years and a) falls in love with a girl and b) falls out of love with his church.  Some of the art was very well done--in particular, Thompson does quite a bit with panels containing no dialogue.  But, all that being said, I wasn't too enamored with the book.

3. Moore, The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen, Volume 1 and Volume 2.
I just reread these after reading Wells' Moon story.  The scientist in Wells book and his invention allowing for lunar travel, are an important part of the plot in the first book.  These comics are a sort of trivial pursuit story.  They have nonstop references to just about everything from the literature of the early 20th century.  The hook is that all the fantastical stories written then are true.  And so, the main characters, the secondary characters, the plots, the details, and even the pictures in the background are all out of some story or other.  So, reading the books is largely a matter of constantly thinking either, "I get it--I know where he is from" or "I wonder what obscure book that character is in."  Having read Wells' book for example, I smiled when the scientist guy showed up, and there is a plot development late in the story which makes way more sense now than it did when I first read the story.  (Wells' books are omnipresent throughout--War of the Worlds is the basis for the second story; The Invisible Man is part of the League; Dr. Moreau and his creatures play a big role in the second story.)  So, are these good?  I don't know--they are gimmick books--I suppose if you know enough of the original stories, they are amusing, but I am not sure they hold up well on their own terms.

4. Morse, Magic Pickle
The story of a Superpowered Pickle and his battles against the Evil Vegetables. Yes, it is as idiotic as it sounds.  And now, you are wondering why I read it.  Thereby hangs a tale.  Not a good tale, mind, but a tale nonetheless.  I was at the library with Clara wandering around the kid's section while she was looking for books.  I saw this sitting on a shelf and figured it would be funny to see if I could convince her to read it--it looked, shall we say, somewhat less than high literature.  She, not surprisingly, just winced and said the book looked, you guessed it, "Weird."  So, I told her it looked really funny and she should read it.  She gave me a look of visible scorn  So, I said that if she wasn't going to read it, then I was going to check it out and read it.  So, I did. Clara was mortified.  When we got the checkout counter, Clara made a big point of saying so that the librarian could hear her, "Dad, I can't believe you are going to read that book!" I replied, "It's OK, Clara.  There is nothing wrong with you wanting to read it.  You don't need to be embarrassed."  The librarian then told Clara that indeed  lots of kids have been reading about the Magic Pickle.  So, when we got home, I read it--it was, truth be told, rather lame.  But, don't tell Clara I said that--I told her is was hysterically funny.  She still didn't read it.  I think she didn't believe me.

The State of First Things, August/ September 2010

The second issue with the new format.

A. Must Read Articles
1. David Hart, "A Perfect Game"
An essay about the wonders of baseball.  Marvelously done.  Hart is a wonderful writer, and the subject is sublime.  Somebody really needs to write a paean to football, an even better sport and thus meriting an even greater hymn of praise.

2. Glen Loury, "Why We Didn't Overcome" Review of Freedom is Not Enough by James Patterson
Loury is always worth reading.  His falling out with the conservatives a few years back was an intellectual tragedy--and completely pointless and needless.  Podhoretz wrote a hit piece on him in National Review, which was a real shame all around.  This essay is far more than a book review; it is a nice reflection on why the discussion on race in America is so pathetic.  Loury notes that the Left's attack on the Moynihan report was "a brand of intellectual thuggery that became all too familiar afterward."  And thus discussion (you know, talking and that sort of thing) became impossible in matter relating to race.  Someday, one hopes, it will again be possible to have a polite, informed discussion about race in this country--until then, I am afraid that many, far too many, people will continue to suffer.

B. Flawed, but worth reading
1. David Goldman, "The God of the Mathematicians"
Kurt Godel and theology.  An interesting juxtaposition.  Unfortunately, nobody, including Goldman, is entirely sure what happens when these two mix.

2. Robert George, "God and Gettysburg"
The American Constitution Society for Law and Policy published a pamphlet with the American State Documents, including the Gettysburg Address. They changed the Gettysburg Address, omitting the words "under God."  George notes the change was deliberate.

3. Bottum, "Pullman Sleeper" Review of Philip Pullman's The Good Man Jesus and the Scoundrel Christ
An amusing review of a very silly book by a very silly author--well it's amusing if you like seeing silly authors get called silly.

4. Robert Miola, "Willy-Nilly" Review of James Shapiro's Contested Will: Who Wrote Shakespeare?
Miribile Dictu! Shakespeare wrote Shakespeare.  But, the book and review have an interesting discussion of the reasons why everyone has been so keen to argue otherwise.

5. Lee Smith, "The Apologists" Review of Paul Berman's The Flight of the Intellectuals
Another salvo in the war against Islamic terrorists and their allies in the Western Intelligentsia

Also, I don't normally mention the poems, but a a couple of them in this issue are particularly good: Robert Crawford, "Not2B.com" and "Saro's Love Song" translated by Joseph Bottum.

A Tale of a Tub

"There are certain common privileges of a writer, the benefit whereof I hope there will be no reason to doubt; particularly, that where I am not understood, it shall be concluded that something very useful and profound is couched underneath; and again, that whatever word or sentence is printed in a different character shall be judged to contain something extraordinary either of wit or sublime."

Ah, I too would like to have that common privilege.

The sage to whom I owe that witty and sublime profound thought is Jonathan Swift, in A Tale of a Tub, a tome which has much in it worthy of commendation to those who have not yet perused said tome, and perhaps even much worthy of commendation to those who have previously read it, it, in this case, being a Great Book, and thus, by presumption, worthy of being read on Diverse and Multiple Occasions.  It will cause no Wonder to the Reader to Discover that Your Humble Narrator has become enamored with a book whose author states in the Conclusion:
"I am now trying an experiment very frequent among modern authors, which is to write upon nothing, when the subject is utterly exhausted to let the pen still move on; by some called the ghost of wit, delighting to walk after the death of its body."
The only wonder is that Your Humble Narrator had not read this book before now.

In between the first quoted material, found in a preface and the second quoted material, found (as noted earlier) in the conclusion, there is, in part, a tale of three brothers, Peter, Martin and Jack.  Peter bears a striking resemblance to a particular Church centered in Rome, Martin bears a strong resemblance to an established Church which has broken off from the Church at Rome, and Jack, well Jack is much akin to the assorted and sundry churches of Presbyterian (and, maybe even, dare I say it, Baptist) Affiliation.  All three brothers squabble endlessly over a coat bequeathed to them by their Father, said coat resembling a Book of Some Note.  By the time the Brothers are Done with it, said coat bears little resemblance to its original form.  Martin comes off the best in the book, which may not be surprising given that it is widely rumored that the author of this tome (published anonymously, of course) was a Dean in the Church of Ireland.

That tale is a nicely done satire, but it is not the tale itself which was most charming to Your Humble Narrator.  It was the Digressions.  And, wonder of wonders, the chapter title to End all chapter titles, the veritable summa of chapter titles, a gift to the world of Chapter Titles which can only have come from Holy Inspiration, this book contains Section VII, entitled:

A Digression in Praise of Digressions

And the content of that chapter with such a marvelous title--well, the author digresses from the topic promised in the chapter title.

For reasons Obvious to even a cursory perusor of the musings on this blog, this tale of a tub was a subject of great Diversion and Amusement for the author of these musings.  But, the Reader impatiently asks, will this tome be of interest to anyone who is not as enamored with absurd prose masking a lack of thought in service of digressions serving no purpose other than allowing the author to construct sentences whose opaqueness is only exceeded by the lack of content contained therein?

Truth be Told (always a Noble Act): It isn't nearly as good as Gulliver's Travels or A Modest Proposal, but on the whole, it is well worth reading.

Acadia

We just returned from a week of camping in Acadia National Park (in Maine).  In short: Acadia is unbelievably beautiful.  (As Janet noted--you don't get to be a National Park if you are just sort of a nice place.)  You could easily spend a month there hiking all over and still not exhaust all the possibilities.  We camped at Seawall, which is one of the two campgrounds in eh National Park itself.  Campgrounds used to be a lot nicer before they started packing everyone in like sardines.  Now they are really just a place to sleep before you head off for the day.  But, for $14/night, you can't complain too much. 

Oddly, in the midst of staggering natural beauty, one of the the most impressive things I saw was the two planned gardens at which we stopped (Janet likes gardens.).

So, if you are looking for a good place to go camping--head off to Acadia.  You won't regret it.

The camping Book Report:

I finished three books on the trip (all read by a campfire at night after the rest of the family had gone to bed--one interesting thing about Acadia--no mosquitoes, so reading by the campfire does not mean being eaten).

1) and 2) Ellery Queen: Wife or Death and The Golden Goose
 These two novels came bundled in a single book ("A Signet Double Mystery by Ellery Queen: 2 Full length novels for the price of one").  I picked up this volume at a library book sale back when I was in college (or maybe high school).  I have had it ever since, but never read it.  I figured camping was a good time to read it.  The one word summary of both novels: Terrible.
Ellery Queen was originally two cousins, but then they let others use the name as a marketing bit.  These two novels were apparently written by hacks.  Both are meant to be the Agatha Christie style solve-the-mystery-using-the-clues-provided.  I think I would have had to read them when I was 7 not to have noticed right away who the murderer was.  The experience of reading them was thus one of hoping that it wasn't really so obvious, that there was a surprise in store, that maybe there was a modicum of cleverness somewhere, but alas, 'twas not to be.  The Golden Goose was the better of the two, by the way, because it at least tried to be funny--it wasn't funny, but at least it tried to be funny.  But, reading this book does have the virtue that for the first time in decades, it will no longer be on my bookshelf.

3) Wells, The First Men in the Moon
Having been utterly disappointed with the first two books I read, I decided to rad this one out of the stack of book I brought along.  I liked the previous books I had read by Wells--not loved them, but liked them, so I figured this was a safe choice to be a pleasant way to spend a couple of evenings.  I was wrong.  It was a disappointment.  This was a pretty influential book, though, so it had the virtue of at least being historically interesting.  I now know, for example, why the first volume of C.S. Lewis' Space trilogy (Out of the Silent Planet) was so bad--it was imitating this book by Wells.  The problem with the book is that it was tedious--much of it read like a Jules Verne travel narrative--lots of descriptions abut places which were probably impressive before an era when I have seen countless movies and TV shows about alien planets.  There was an interesting precursor to Brave New World in here.  This book also allowed Wells to go off on his Socialist Utopian dreams, which again was a bit tedious.  Not a horrible book in the end (at least I will keep this one around), but sadly, not the best book to read while camping.

So, all in all, I cannot say that my book selections were the high point of vacation.

War Movies

Purely coincidentally (at least I think it was a coincidence, but one never knows about the workings of one's subconscious (speaking of which, has anyone doubted the existence of the subconscious since Freud (that's not a rhetorical question; I really don't know (so I should probably look it up)))), in the last week two weeks, I have seen three war movies.  In chronological order (by war, not by date of film (but, as you will notice, if they had been placed in chronological order by date of film, the order would be the same)):

Gone With the Wind
Saving Private Ryan
The Hurt Locker

The first two I had seen before.  Both are classics (but you knew that).  The last one is destined to be a classic--it was fantastic.  But, besides the overall observation that if you haven't seen any one of those three films, you should make a point of doing so, they do make for an interesting reflection on the changing nature of war.  War is a lot less bloody than it used to be.  In The Hurt Locker, we find it to be an utter tragedy when one soldier dies.  In Saving Private Ryan, one guy dies before anyone else does anything, and then a zillion more die before they even get onto the beach at Normandy.  In Gone With the Wind, not only are all the soldiers dying, but a whole city and surrounding region is burned to the ground.  That is the odd thing:  War is just as tragic today as it was in the late 1800s, but the death toll is incredibly smaller now than it used to be.  The tragedy of war seems constant, which means that the unit of tragedy per death had to skyrocket.  There is an interesting math equation in there somewhere, which would enable measurement of the tragic factor in death. 

The other observation--anyone who is not in awe of the courage shown by and overwhelmed with gratitude for the sacrifices of the guys at Normandy and the guys currently roaming around Iraq and Afghanistan is completely and utterly morally bankrupt.

It's the end of the world as we know it

And I feel fine.

(OK, the REM song isn't really about the literal end of the world, nor about the extinction of humanity.  But it's a good song.)

Imagining the world if most of humanity was destroyed is an interesting way to pass the time.  Imagine you were the only one left alive in a 200 square mile radius.  What would you do?  Leave? Stay?  And if you couldn't leave for some reason, what would you do? Where would you live--which house--your current one or the nicest one in the area?  What would you spend the day doing?  What would you eat and drink?  Now a lot depends on why the rest of humanity was gone, obviously, and what still works (do you still have electricity in the short run, for example.)  It's an interesting puzzle.

This sort of thing is a staple of science fiction type things.  In some cases the world is populated by roving bands of semi-humans from which our narrator must hide (see, for example, McCarthy's The Road (not even close to his best book, though) or the movie The Omega Man (with Charlton Heston) (or its remake I Am Legend (with Will Smith)).  Those scenarios present an extra element of challenge, so you can consider them advanced work in daydreaming about the end of the world.

Stewart's Earth Abides, a 1947 pioneer in this genre, imagines a more benign world--almost everybody is dead.  Our hero, Ish, slowly gathers some people around him and they have kids and then they have kids, so there is the start of a new age.  But, the older age slowly decays.  On the whole, the book was OK--I am not sure why it has such iconic status in the science fiction world--it wasn't phenomenal or anything.  There are way too many parts in the book which just seem ridiculous.  For example, in the end of the world scenario, one of my first thoughts is how to make sure you will have food and water.  In this book, the municipal water supply still works, so Ish just ignores it.  Twenty-two years later, the reservoir runs dry, and the community faces a huge crisis--where are they going to get water?  Think about that--for 22 years, people are using tap water coming from a nearby reservoir they have never visited being pumped through pipes about which they have never thought.  Is that even possible?  Seriously, could anyone go over two decades without once thinking about the water supply?  Similarly, right after the disaster when almost all of humanity dies, Ish drives across the country to see what is up.  I get that; it makes sense to see if there are places where lots of people survived.  But, he starts in Berkeley, and  never goes to, believe it or not, San Francisco or Los Angeles.  He drives south in California, but rather then drive over to LA, he decides to cut across the desert.  Does that make any sense at all?  I cannot think of any reason to do that; it serves no point in the plot--nothing would have changed in the book if he had gone into LA.  He then visits a few big cities, but before driving down the Eastern seaboard, he decides to go back to Berkeley.   Why?  Again, I have no idea.

So, the book is littered with some silly bits.  But, on the whole, it wasn't a painful read--more of a lazy way to ruminate about the end of the world.  Now, if all of humanity is wiped out, I'll be more prepared--for example, I won't forget to bring a chainsaw when I drive across the country.

They're meaningless and all that's true

Postmodernism: In Ye Olde Modernist Times, Reason was the chief means of discovering new things and carrying on a discussion.  Postmodernism is the movement to replace Reason with Jargon.

Once upon a time, I really did think that Postmodernism had some substance, but over time I have begun to suspect it is really just Jargon hiding a lack of content.  I am now convinced.  The source of my conviction was:

Penner, ed.,  Christianity and the Postmodern Turn

This book (a Christmas gift) did a masterful job at unintentionally playing the role of the boy in the Emperor's New Clothes.  It has Six Christians, both philosophers and theologians, debating the the relationship of Christianity and Postmodernism.  Some like postmodernism; some don't.  Now what made this book so useful is that none of these six people are the leading Philosophers of the Age--in fact, I doubt many people outside the world of Christian Philosophy have heard of any of them (but I could be wrong about that).  So, the book is a nice demonstration of what we can call Vulgar Postmodernism--this is what happens when postmodernism escapes from the Fortress of Derrida et. al. and migrates to the masses.  The result?  Well...

The highlight of the book came at the conceptual midpoint.  The book is structured as an initial essay by each of the six authors, followed by a response essay by each of the six.  The first sentence of the first response paper:
"I have a feeling that many readers who make it to the end of this book will still be wondering, "So what is Postmodernism anyway?" 
Ya think?

That, it turns out, is the beauty of postmodernism--Not only does it mean exactly what I want it to mean, it also never means what you want it to mean.  So, if you say something nice or cruel or indifferent about postmodernism, I get to say that you don't really understand postmodernism and it means whatever nice, cruel or indifferent thing I want it to mean.  And as long as neither one of us uses any language which actually conveys some precise meaning, we can carry on a 240 page debate about the matter and then all go out for a beer afterwards.

For example:  Lyotard (read: One of the Patron Saints of postmodernism) said that postmodernism is incredulity toward metanarratives.  Aha! you (if you are the critic) say.  Christianity is a metanarrative; thus Christianity and Postmodernism are opposed.  QED.  Aha!  you (if you are the supporter) say.  Metanarratives aren't just narratives which are meta, but have some sort of appeal to Reason.  Lyotard mentioned reason, right there.  See?  So, Christianity isn't a metanarrative in Lyotard's sense of the word.  It's a narrative which stands above all narratives, but not a metanarrative because it needs Faith.  Aha! you (critic again) say.  You get around the conflict between narrative and metanarrative and Christianity and atheism by redefining Christianity.  Aha! you say.  Why do you think you can define Christianity?  That is just the problem with you modernists.  Aha! you say. So, postmodernists deny the reasoned substance of Christianity.  Aha!  you say. Your argument assumes that you have some monopoly about the Truth of Christianity.  But, you are not God.  Aha! you say, so you deny that we can know Truth, which is exactly the postmodernist game in the end.  Aha! you say.  No, there is Truth, but we can only know what can be known within our own language game, and those in a different language game will know different things.  Aha! you say.  So, you deny that the Truth can be communicated, which necessarily means evangelism is absurd.  Aha! you say.  See you don't understand a thing I am saying.  Aha! you say.  I understand completely. Lyotard was an atheist.  Aha? you say.  Why is that relevant?  Aha! you say.  See, you are the one who is confused.

That isn't an exact transcript of this book.  But it is pretty close.  Well at least in my language game that is what the book said.  If you have a different reading of the book, then the problem is that you still trapped in a Modernist belief that the book I just read might have some meaning independent of what the reader decides it means because after all, as Derrida told us, texts are really just mirrors, so I see myself in every book I read, and you see yourself in every book you read, and so we are not actually reading the same book anyway.  Which of course makes me wonder why you would read my review of a book since it seems logically impossible for you to determine what a book says without reading it yourself.
  
It just occurred to me that The Police actually wrote the Postmodern Anthem.

Atheism is Dead

One of the many things the world needs today:  A better class of atheists.  Seriously.  This is the subtext of David Hart's Atheist Delusions: The Christian Revolution and Its Fashionable Enemies.  And, in this respect, Hart is entirely correct.  Why can't the modern world have atheists of a higher intellectual caliber?  Once upon a time, there were really intelligent atheists--Marx, Freud, Nietzsche.  Those guys are worth reading.  Now we get Dawkins, Dennett, Harris, Hitchens, and those guys...well, just try reading their books.  Just try.  I think the only people who could read those books for profit or pleasure are those who have never, and I mean never, once read a theologically literature writer.  The new wave of atheists set up straw men for children and then work really hard to knock down those straw men.  Sometimes, they even manage to do so.

Hart's book is a merry romp through the historical idiocies of the New Atheists.  These atheists are guys who seriously argue we would all be better off if Christianity had never existed.  Really now?  In their rush to glorify the pagan past, they seem to have forgotten to discover just how, well, nasty and brutish those pagans were.  And in their rush to denigrate all things Christian, they seem to have forgotten to find out just what Christianity introduced to the world.  Set aside the theology of Christianity--who would argue against things like hospitals, the abolition of slavery, and equal rights for all men?  But, the New Atheists can't be bothered with historical accuracy--which is why Hart's job is, to be honest, not terribly difficult.  One senses throughout that Hart really wishes these New Atheists would present an argument somewhere, anywhere, that he might actually have to, you know, work to dismiss.  (And, don't even get Hart started on the philosophical failings of the New Atheists.)

I ran into this same phenomenon a few years back.  I was engaged to provide the response to Charles Freeman, who was talking about his book, The Closing of the Western Mind.  To do so, I read the whole of Freeman's book--not just skimming it to see if there was anything good in it--I read it with attention to detail.  It was palpably silly.  I am by no means an expert on the early church, and yet, the historical inaccuracies were painfully obvious.  I was thus terribly amused to run across this in Hart's volume:  "In 2003, for example, the amateur historian Charles Freeman published a volume called The Closing of the Western Mind that is an almost perfect compendium of every trite caricature of early Christianity devised since Gibbon departed to his long home....Along the way, Freeman provides a few damning passages from the church fathers (always out of context and without any mention of the plentiful counterexamples found in the same authors), attempts long discourses on theological disputes he simply does not understand, continually falls prey to vulgar misconstruals of the materials he is attempting to interpret, makes large claims about early Christian belief that are simply false, offers vague assertions about philosophers he clearly has not studied, and delivers himself of opinions regarding Christian teaching that are worse than simply inaccurate."  I wish Hart was exaggerating there for comedic effect, but he isn't.  I cannot even begin to covey my disappointment with that book--here I was, all set to participate in an interesting discussion about the whether Christianity did in fact cause a closing of the Western Mind, only to discover that the argument on behalf of the proposition wasn't really even worthy of debate.  Nor was it at least humorous (where's Voltaire when you want him?).  Dreary prose coupled with facile argument.

But, the one virtue of Freeman's book came in the introduction.  He writes, "This book is dedicated to my wife Hilary, with my love.  While I have been dealing with the complex and often stressful relationships between Christianity and pagan society in the fourth and fifth centuries, she, in her work as a psychotherapist, has been dealing with similar tensions in the minds of her clients.  So our concerns have often overlapped."  That passage, more than anything else I have ever read, explains the New Opponents of Christianity--they see historical study not as, you know, history or something like that, but rather history is simply a means of psychotherapy.  The goal is not to understand the past; that would be too, well, boring.  The goal is to help liberate their readers (or clients if your prefer) from their obsession with Christian morality (read: Christan sexual norms, for the most part).

[I should note that Freeman is not an atheist.  He does believe in God--that nice warm, fuzzy God who likes everything that Freeman likes.  Freeman also thinks Dawkins is rather silly.  It's sad when even the set of authors who are broadly making the same arguments find each others' work to be puerile.]

So, Hart's book is good, but it is really unfortunate that it needed to be written.  The New Atheists aren't really worthy of Hart's attention, but it is nice to know that somebody took the time to write this book.

And, if you want to get a nice flavor of Hart's book, you can read his essay in First Things.

Of what import are brief, nameless lives...to Galactus?

A novel which uses the quotation in the title of this blog post as an epigraph cannot fail to be worth reading.  And if you know the source of that epigraph, then you should most certainly read the book discussed below.  However, if that epigraph means nothing to you, then a) I feel really sorry for you, and  b) you are obviously not a complete nerd.

(And to relieve the curiosity of those whose nerd-quotient is rather low, the quotation is from Fantastic Four (no. 49, to be precise), but if you at least knew it was from the Marvel Universe, then that is close enough.)

The book:

Junot Diaz, The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao

The single most amazing thing about the book:  it is full (and I mean full) of references which only the truly nerdy will get and it won the 2008 Pulitzer Prize for fiction. 

I read the book after it was strongly recommended to me (by Mallory Cohn (who is equally conversant in matters of high literature and nerdiness (prior to this recommendation, she was the source of my inspiration to read both Dickens' Our Mutual Friend and Gaiman's The Sandman (and now with the success of Oscar Wao, she has entered the "If Mallory says it is worth reading, then it is worth reading" category)))--who even wrote the title on a piece of paper and handed it to me so that I would not forget the title).

The basic story is an intergenerational tale of a family from the Dominican Republic whose later generations migrate to the United States.  It has quite a bit about the politics of the Dominican Republic in it and a hint of  Latin American magical realism going on (just a hint; it isn't overdone--there is a curse on the family (well, maybe it is a curse--that is sort of the point)).  Just on those grounds, the story is pretty good, the writing style is nice, and the book may be worth reading.

But, the thing that elevates the book far above its natural genre is the nerdiness factor.  Consider:
1) a government official in the Dominican Republic (whose dictator is a rather evil, brutish thug) is described as being not exactly a ringwraith, but not exactly an orc either;
2) Oscar (who is the nerd in the story) uses the pick-up line on a girl he just met that if she was in his game, he would give her an 18 charisma;
3) Oscar is at one point described as being so distracted that he loses interest in the last few issues of The Watchmen as they come out.

Now here is the great thing about those things--they aren't explained at all in the novel.  Either you get them or you don't.  If you get them, they are all pretty funny.  And the novel has a constant stream of references just like those.

Anyway, there isn't much more that needs to be said--this is probably the best literary novel for nerds I have ever read.  I seriously doubt it is Great Book territory, but it is certainly a novel I was very happy to read.

The Coffee Cantata

After reading about the bewilderment suffered by Your Humble Narrator at the lack of an appropriate Hymn to Coffee Tables, Aimee Gould (she who still leaves comments here under the name of her son, Noah (sooner or later, Noah will object to this wanton appropriation of his name for purposes of blog-commenting (probably later, since Noah is such a budding gentleman))) went one better and instead of composing a Hymn to Coffee Tables, leapt right to that Summit of all Poetic Arts by penning an Ode to Coffee.  Herewith, published for the first time.

Ode to Coffee
(set to the tune of the Mount Holyoke College Alma Mater (If you don't know the tune, then 1) shame on you and 2) here it is.))

O' true coffee we owe thee devotion,
For your flavor, robust, rich & strong.

Your caffeine is such a sweet bonus,
Those choosing decaf are wrong.

So from east & from west now we gather,
Magic beans that give life all day long.

Our honor, our love and our loyalty,
Dear coffee we offer to thee
Dear coffee we offer to thee.


And, let's be honest.  That may be the finest composition in the history of the West.  It has also given me a new occupation for committee meetings--I will now strive to compose an entire volume of Poetry devoted to Coffee.

He was a poet and hated the approximate

Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet

This is one of those books about which I have been hearing for years, never read, but found at the Granby Library Book Sale a few months back--50 cents seemed like a good price for it, so I bought it.  Now I have, at long last, read it.  But, I guess that was obvious from the fact I am now writing about it.

The book is a series of ten letters Rilke wrote to a young poet (hence the clever name of the volume).  What is it about?  Hard to say--it is about all sorts of things.  The Young Poet (Kappus) wrote Rilke, asking for criticism of his poetry.  Rilke wrote back with some advice, but no criticism, saying that a young poet should ignore all criticism, look deep within himself for inspiration and write, not worrying what anyone else would think.  In other words, writing poetry is like blogging--if you start thinking that you have an audience, then the whole enterprise becomes downright depressing--after all, where is the joy in ruminating about assorted odd details of life if one starts with the premise that said ruminations must be enlightening to others? Far better to imagine one's audience is oneself, and just write for the sheer amusement of the act itself.  Rilke notes that a young poet should start by asking himself if writing is as important as life itself, and if so, then it is worth writing.  I am not sure if blogging is worth life itself--if I could never write another word, would I be willing to go on living?  Somehow, I suspect I would.  Thus, I suppose the immediate conclusion is that I will never be a Great Blogger.  Which then sets the mind reeling.  There are Great Books, books which stand the test of time and are well worth reading 100 years after the book is published.  In a hundred years, will there be Great Blogs?  Is there a single blog out there, anywhere, which will be worth reading 100 years from now?  The answer is pretty obvious.

But, returning to Rilke, he ruminates about all sorts of issues in these letters, which means, oddly, that if he were alive today and not 100 years ago, he might have blogged about these issues.  (Does anybody still write letters these days?)  Are Rilke's reflections interesting?  It's hard to say.  He, like Dylan Thomas, writes in ways that cause one to wonder, "Is this deep and insightful or simply trite?"  Take, for example, this passage from Letter 8--and I'll note up front that the passage is longer than I would have liked to use, but the problem with these letters is that Rilke doesn't ever say anything concisely.

From Letter 8:
"We must accept our reality as vastly as we possibly can; everything, even the unprecedented, must be possible within it. This is in the end the only kind of courage that is required of us: the courage to face the strangest, most unusual, most inexplicable experiences that can meet us. The fact that people have in this sense been cowardly has done infinite harm to life; the experiences that are called "apparitions," the whole so-called "spirit world," death, all these Things that are so closely related to us, have through our daily defensiveness been so entirely pushed out of life that the senses with which we might have been able to grasp them have atrophied. To say nothing of God. But the fear of the inexplicable has not only impoverished the reality of the individual; it has also narrowed the relationship between one human being and another, which has as it were been lifted out of the riverbed of infinite possibilities and set down in a fallow place on the bank, where nothing happens. For it is not only indolence that causes human relationships to be repeated from case to case with such unspeakable monotony and boredom; it is timidity before any new, inconceivable experience, which we don't think we can deal with. but only someone who is ready for everything, who doesn't exclude any experience, even the most incomprehensible, will live the relationship with another person as something alive and will himself sound the depths of his own being. for if we imagine this being of the individual as a larger or smaller room, it is obvious that most people come to know only one corner of their room, one spot near the window, one narrow strip on which they keep walking back and forth. In this way they have a certain security. And yet how much more human is the dangerous insecurity that drives those prisoners in Poe's stories to feel out the shapes of their horrible dungeons and not be strangers to the unspeakable terror of their cells. We, however, are not prisoners. No traps or snares have been set around us, and there is nothing that should frighten or upset us. We have been put into life as into the element we most accord with, and we have, moreover, through thousands of years of adaptation, come to resemble this life so greatly that when we hold still, through a fortunate mimicry we can hardly be differentiated from everything around us. We have no reason to harbor any mistrust against our world, for it is not against us. If it has terrors, they are our terrors; if it has abysses, these abysses belong to us; if there are dangers, we must try to love them."

Now, I think that is potentially quite interesting.  But, I am not sure.  It's like poetry in this respect--it hints at what it is trying to say, but doesn't say it explicitly.  The reference to Poe's stories is clever (now I want to go read some more Poe--I have the Library of America volume of Poe, so I have been slowly, in odd moments stolen here and there, been working my way through his complete collection of stories--Poe is Great, by the way, but I'll write a further review of him if and when I ever finish up the volume (at the current rate, that will be in about 2017--will blogging still exist in 2017?).  The general point (being made by Rilke, not Poe) is, I think, right, but a bit disconcerting---does a denial of the possibility of the bizarre really corrupt human relationships?

But, that is what Rilke is like--the letters are worth reading once.  I suspect they are worth reading multiple times.  I suspect I will reread them at some point.  But, I don't know that I will ever think they are Great.

And the even bigger question--if I knew a young poet who was graduating from high school, would I give this book as a graduation present? 

[The title of the post is a quotation from Rilke found in my copy of Bartlett's Familiar Quotations. It is from The Journal of My Other Self.  I have no idea what it means.]