The Goodwill bookshelves seem to have been taken over by Nicholas Sparks, the guy who wrote The Notebook. Turns out he wrote other stuff too. I have read none of it, for reasons too complicated to go into ( It’s an aversion to drips).
Today I bought The Lessons of History and Tom Sawyer. Some couples are big enough to have their last names omitted – Sonny and Cher, Barrack and Michelle, Brad and Angelina. Are “Will and Ariel” in that class?
With Tom Sawyer, Mark Twain may have tied John Steinbeck as my most purchased author, not counting Agatha Christie, who is merely a diversion from the heavy hitters (like Mark Twain and John Steinbeck). I’ll have to count someday.
Speaking of Agatha:
There are some things possible for an author to arrange that real life could not. The way Poirot solves cases being a fine example. No real human could notice and connect such small things – and be right – as he does over and over again. I just finished The Blue Train, which Dame Agatha, evidently, was not particularly fond of. I guess it could have been a little tighter, and there might be too many characters – e.g. Russians With Jewels occupy a great many words at the very beginning, and then are not even mentioned again until the very end.
But I liked a lot. There were so many plausible guilty parties that, while having my own favorite, I wasn’t sure until the end: the victim was about to divorce her lazy boy husband, who instead inherited millions upon her death; her scoundrel boyfriend was trying to steal her jewels; her maid mysteriously abandoned her, etc.
Poirot to the rescue, with those miraculous connections -- “It occurs to me – could the boy she saw be a girl?” and, mirabile dictu, he’s right.
Of course, if you aren’t capable of miracles, why invent you and write about you?
Monday, November 23, 2009
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Hello Again: Vidal's Empire
Okay, so I’m blog challenged.
Long ago I read Burr -- twice, in fact -- admiring it greatly, puzzled by it, but not dreaming that it was the start of a series that would consume the rest of Gore Vidal’s career. I’ve since read other of his American History novels – Lincoln, Hollywood, I think 1876.
And now, Empire. Let’s face it: these books have become exercises in which Vidal mingles created characters with historical figures in clever ways, and little more. Nothing happens in Empire beyond friends of Henry Adams making snide remarks about prominent political figures. Which is another thing: they all think alike, the characters and the real people they deal with: the fictional Stanfords and the real Adams, John Hay and William Randolph Hearst. They all agree, for instance, without saying (they do finish each others’ sentences quite frequently), that Teddy Roosevelt was a corrupt and ignorant buffoon, and they do so as if it’s common knowledge that everybody is in on. Which is, of course, absurd.
(Or, as Vidal would write it:
"Which is, of course . . ."
"Absurd?"
"Yes!"
Don’t get me wrong. Vidal writes beautifully and cleverly. It’s just that nothing happens that warrants the setting or the time or, well, the book. Caroline Sanford buys a newspaper and gets pregnant. Her brother builds a house and is secretly gay – though, surprisingly, considering it’s 1904 and same sex public hand-holding is frowned upon, his orientation causes him no problems or even worry. Having Theodore Roosevelt drop in once in a while has no bearing whatsoever on any of that.
What is most worthwhile in Empire are the passages that could have been written in the last few years (they were written in he mid-Eighties):
“Religion ran like poison through their veins, followed by – or mingled with – racism of a sort undreamed of in wicked old Europe. There was always a ‘they’ at whom a pejorative verb could be launched, automatically transitiving ‘they’ to the ominous all-evil ’them’ who must be destroyed so that Eden could be regained” (p. 372)
There are also a number of references to the press inflaming hatred and thus violence, resulting specifically in the assassination of McKinley, but, you know, it happens today on talk radio and Fox News.
Long ago I read Burr -- twice, in fact -- admiring it greatly, puzzled by it, but not dreaming that it was the start of a series that would consume the rest of Gore Vidal’s career. I’ve since read other of his American History novels – Lincoln, Hollywood, I think 1876.
And now, Empire. Let’s face it: these books have become exercises in which Vidal mingles created characters with historical figures in clever ways, and little more. Nothing happens in Empire beyond friends of Henry Adams making snide remarks about prominent political figures. Which is another thing: they all think alike, the characters and the real people they deal with: the fictional Stanfords and the real Adams, John Hay and William Randolph Hearst. They all agree, for instance, without saying (they do finish each others’ sentences quite frequently), that Teddy Roosevelt was a corrupt and ignorant buffoon, and they do so as if it’s common knowledge that everybody is in on. Which is, of course, absurd.
(Or, as Vidal would write it:
"Which is, of course . . ."
"Absurd?"
"Yes!"
Don’t get me wrong. Vidal writes beautifully and cleverly. It’s just that nothing happens that warrants the setting or the time or, well, the book. Caroline Sanford buys a newspaper and gets pregnant. Her brother builds a house and is secretly gay – though, surprisingly, considering it’s 1904 and same sex public hand-holding is frowned upon, his orientation causes him no problems or even worry. Having Theodore Roosevelt drop in once in a while has no bearing whatsoever on any of that.
What is most worthwhile in Empire are the passages that could have been written in the last few years (they were written in he mid-Eighties):
“Religion ran like poison through their veins, followed by – or mingled with – racism of a sort undreamed of in wicked old Europe. There was always a ‘they’ at whom a pejorative verb could be launched, automatically transitiving ‘they’ to the ominous all-evil ’them’ who must be destroyed so that Eden could be regained” (p. 372)
There are also a number of references to the press inflaming hatred and thus violence, resulting specifically in the assassination of McKinley, but, you know, it happens today on talk radio and Fox News.
Monday, August 24, 2009
Do The English Write Westerns?
A guy on the bus -- Rich, a knowledgeable Cub fan -- is offering lots of vegetables from his garden. I look forward to eating them.
It's a thing, having a friend on the bus. A Bus Friend. I read until we approach the corner where he boards, and then I look anxiously to see if he's there. he isn't always. Sometimes I've been glad if he's not, depending on what I'm reading. Mostly, though, I've noticed I hope he's waiting, look forward to having a conversation, to communing with new humans. We talk about things besides the Cubs -- vegetables, obviously, among other things. He asked my name the other day, which surprised me, because it's usually me that forgets a name.
I have such a large backlog of books now that I haven't done a serious Goodwill excursion in a while. I go merely to glance. (The entire "Left Behind" sputem is there at the moment, however many volumes of it there are). I've started on Gore Vidal, having finished another Agatha, which followed The Invisible Man, and there was a Sherlock Holmes recently, and PD James awaits, and I've become aware I spend a lot of time in early 20th Centiury (or older) England. Which is a little tiresome after a while. So Vidal (Empire), and trhen maybe Hemingway or, if I need a break, maybe Tom Robbins or Vonnegut or Elmore James or some other good ol' Yank. Steinbeck. Hemingway.
I have a large backlog.
It's a thing, having a friend on the bus. A Bus Friend. I read until we approach the corner where he boards, and then I look anxiously to see if he's there. he isn't always. Sometimes I've been glad if he's not, depending on what I'm reading. Mostly, though, I've noticed I hope he's waiting, look forward to having a conversation, to communing with new humans. We talk about things besides the Cubs -- vegetables, obviously, among other things. He asked my name the other day, which surprised me, because it's usually me that forgets a name.
I have such a large backlog of books now that I haven't done a serious Goodwill excursion in a while. I go merely to glance. (The entire "Left Behind" sputem is there at the moment, however many volumes of it there are). I've started on Gore Vidal, having finished another Agatha, which followed The Invisible Man, and there was a Sherlock Holmes recently, and PD James awaits, and I've become aware I spend a lot of time in early 20th Centiury (or older) England. Which is a little tiresome after a while. So Vidal (Empire), and trhen maybe Hemingway or, if I need a break, maybe Tom Robbins or Vonnegut or Elmore James or some other good ol' Yank. Steinbeck. Hemingway.
I have a large backlog.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Dreamy Delusion
So both Emma Bovary and Blanche Dubois believe they deserve lives they can never have. Charles loves Emma unequivocally; Stella loved Stanley unequivocally – both even when faced with evidence that would allow them abandon their love. And as both stories near their denouement, a blind person appears.
Thus ends my Madame Bovary/Streetcar Named Desire medley. Lessons: some themes, symbols, devices transcend time, nation, even art form; and the line between aspiration and illusion, between dreams and delusion, can be a very fine line. The Rock Island Line is a mighty fine line ….oops, stream of consciousness.
Streetcar remains one of my favorite plays, after all of Shakespeare, about as favorite as West Side Story and Camelot and some Greek extravaganzas, more favorite than The Iceman Cometh, which is much too long. I also like Waiting For Godot, Ghosts, Threepenny Opera. I haven’t read many plays lately – a book of Sophocles a year or so ago is all, and thigs that old are difficult to imagine as stage productions.
But Madame Bovary has cracked my Top 3 books, joining To Kill A Mockingbird and The Bell Jar. I would mention that Bovary and Jar are in there mainly for the artful writing itself; I was not particularly enraptured by The Bell Jar’s plot, not uplifted by the fate of the Bovary family. But man, are they all genius, or what?
Yes, they are.
Found a collection of Dame Agatha at Goodwill. Will be resting from Great Literature for a while, relaxing as if at the beach with a book a cut (but just a cut) above a beach book.
Thus ends my Madame Bovary/Streetcar Named Desire medley. Lessons: some themes, symbols, devices transcend time, nation, even art form; and the line between aspiration and illusion, between dreams and delusion, can be a very fine line. The Rock Island Line is a mighty fine line ….oops, stream of consciousness.
Streetcar remains one of my favorite plays, after all of Shakespeare, about as favorite as West Side Story and Camelot and some Greek extravaganzas, more favorite than The Iceman Cometh, which is much too long. I also like Waiting For Godot, Ghosts, Threepenny Opera. I haven’t read many plays lately – a book of Sophocles a year or so ago is all, and thigs that old are difficult to imagine as stage productions.
But Madame Bovary has cracked my Top 3 books, joining To Kill A Mockingbird and The Bell Jar. I would mention that Bovary and Jar are in there mainly for the artful writing itself; I was not particularly enraptured by The Bell Jar’s plot, not uplifted by the fate of the Bovary family. But man, are they all genius, or what?
Yes, they are.
Found a collection of Dame Agatha at Goodwill. Will be resting from Great Literature for a while, relaxing as if at the beach with a book a cut (but just a cut) above a beach book.
Saturday, July 18, 2009
A Lucky Guy On The Bus
Oh, Madame Bovary! Oh, you, you . . . you French woman, you!
I don't know exactly what I expected when I started reading Madame Bovary and A Streetcar Names Desire at the same time. I thought, though, for some reason, that Emma Bovary was a nice lady. How wrong i was! I don't know if she's evil, or just crazy. At the moment -- about 30 pages left to read -- she seems certainly to be descending into madness. She has had a hard time facing reality, accepting it; and her impression of the green grass on the other side of the fence is quite delusional. So I guess she's always been a little nuts.
I have this ongoing problem, though, with stories in which children are abused or neglected or hurt: that becomes the theme for me, the defining plot element. This is one of the best books I've ever read, and maybe Emma has just tricked herself into madness -- but, because of her treatment (or more accurately, non-treatment) of her daughter, she will always be, to me, a rotten person.
In the context of the book, that is, by far, not her biggest sin. I'm just saying.
She seems to want to live a life as intense as Stanley Kowalski. She wants a life that fills any room it walks into, as Stanley personality forces itself to the center. The Kowalskis are lower middle class, I guess, which Madame Bovary would never accept. But Stanley's intensity matches the intensity of the life she thinks she deserves, in which there is a thrill a minute (so to speak).
Whether evil or nuts, she is definitely not a victim. She, and she alone, has taken herself to where she had arrived. It's like she assumes rich people do nothing but party and so, having convinced herself she should be rich, she parties, expecting no consequences because that's what people like her (the illusory her) do. I'm at the point where the consequences are starting to intrude.
At the point I've reached in Streetcar, by the way, Stella and Stanley are back together and still in love, much to Blanche's horror.
Meanwhile, the bus has been taking detours due to some invisible construction around the hospital: really, cars are going down the road, but the buses are skipping a mile out of the way for no apparent reason. Some guy got off on the detour Thursday, and the bus driver even asked if he was sure, and he said yes. I had to admire his fortune at getting on a bus that he couldn't possibly have known was going to deposit him exactly where he wanted to go, saving him a long walk from the normal bus stop.
I don't know exactly what I expected when I started reading Madame Bovary and A Streetcar Names Desire at the same time. I thought, though, for some reason, that Emma Bovary was a nice lady. How wrong i was! I don't know if she's evil, or just crazy. At the moment -- about 30 pages left to read -- she seems certainly to be descending into madness. She has had a hard time facing reality, accepting it; and her impression of the green grass on the other side of the fence is quite delusional. So I guess she's always been a little nuts.
I have this ongoing problem, though, with stories in which children are abused or neglected or hurt: that becomes the theme for me, the defining plot element. This is one of the best books I've ever read, and maybe Emma has just tricked herself into madness -- but, because of her treatment (or more accurately, non-treatment) of her daughter, she will always be, to me, a rotten person.
In the context of the book, that is, by far, not her biggest sin. I'm just saying.
She seems to want to live a life as intense as Stanley Kowalski. She wants a life that fills any room it walks into, as Stanley personality forces itself to the center. The Kowalskis are lower middle class, I guess, which Madame Bovary would never accept. But Stanley's intensity matches the intensity of the life she thinks she deserves, in which there is a thrill a minute (so to speak).
Whether evil or nuts, she is definitely not a victim. She, and she alone, has taken herself to where she had arrived. It's like she assumes rich people do nothing but party and so, having convinced herself she should be rich, she parties, expecting no consequences because that's what people like her (the illusory her) do. I'm at the point where the consequences are starting to intrude.
At the point I've reached in Streetcar, by the way, Stella and Stanley are back together and still in love, much to Blanche's horror.
Meanwhile, the bus has been taking detours due to some invisible construction around the hospital: really, cars are going down the road, but the buses are skipping a mile out of the way for no apparent reason. Some guy got off on the detour Thursday, and the bus driver even asked if he was sure, and he said yes. I had to admire his fortune at getting on a bus that he couldn't possibly have known was going to deposit him exactly where he wanted to go, saving him a long walk from the normal bus stop.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Group Participation
I've gotten to the scene of Stanley yelling for his wife. Everyone knows it, and you know you're dying to say it. So come one, everybody, let's get it out of our systems:
"STELLA! STELLA!"
Nice scene with Karl Malden. I mean, Mitch. Isn't this the role for which Malden won his Oscar?
Meanwhile, Madame Bovary has had her affair. The guy seems slimy to me -- kind of like the Matt Dillon character in Something About Mary. I imagine that if radios had been invented by 1850, he would have been eavesdropping on Emma's conversations, for info with which to seduce her.
"STELLA! STELLA!"
Nice scene with Karl Malden. I mean, Mitch. Isn't this the role for which Malden won his Oscar?
Meanwhile, Madame Bovary has had her affair. The guy seems slimy to me -- kind of like the Matt Dillon character in Something About Mary. I imagine that if radios had been invented by 1850, he would have been eavesdropping on Emma's conversations, for info with which to seduce her.
Monday, July 6, 2009
Rock n' Books
Just saw a list of "the 100 best books ever", on which War and Peace was Number 1 and 1984 was Number 2. Madame Bovary was 46.
On a previous list, Anna Karenina was Number 1 and Madame Bovary Number 2. I didn't even see AK on the new list (I admit I didn't scroll all the way to the end).
Which just goes to show. Literary consensus must be much harder to reach than, say rock music consensus. On any Top 100 Albums list, Revolver, Pet Sounds, Sgt. Pepper and Bringing It All Back Home are all hovering near the top, in whatever order. Reading, one might conclude, is a more subjective experience than listening. Or, the rules of rock are more dogmatic than the rules of literature (and if that's true, how ironic!).
Anyway: Madame has flirted with the idea n an affair, and avoided it only because the prospective pigeon moved away. But, she seems ready to fall into the arms of Rudolpho at the moment.
Meanwhile, I've slowed down Streetcar, because I was going to finish it way before MB. Best lines contest entry:
BLANCHE: Please, don't get up.
STANLEY: Nobody's going to get up, so don't be worried.
In the annals of subtle, yet devastating, put downs, that's right there with Mr Dylan: "You just sort of wasted all my precious time. Don't think twice, it;s all right."
Haven't been on the bus, or at work, for 4 days: 4th of July, plus a day off (today) for a medical procedure. Although, the preparation of said procedure has me doing a lot of sitting and, thus, reading.
On a previous list, Anna Karenina was Number 1 and Madame Bovary Number 2. I didn't even see AK on the new list (I admit I didn't scroll all the way to the end).
Which just goes to show. Literary consensus must be much harder to reach than, say rock music consensus. On any Top 100 Albums list, Revolver, Pet Sounds, Sgt. Pepper and Bringing It All Back Home are all hovering near the top, in whatever order. Reading, one might conclude, is a more subjective experience than listening. Or, the rules of rock are more dogmatic than the rules of literature (and if that's true, how ironic!).
Anyway: Madame has flirted with the idea n an affair, and avoided it only because the prospective pigeon moved away. But, she seems ready to fall into the arms of Rudolpho at the moment.
Meanwhile, I've slowed down Streetcar, because I was going to finish it way before MB. Best lines contest entry:
BLANCHE: Please, don't get up.
STANLEY: Nobody's going to get up, so don't be worried.
In the annals of subtle, yet devastating, put downs, that's right there with Mr Dylan: "You just sort of wasted all my precious time. Don't think twice, it;s all right."
Haven't been on the bus, or at work, for 4 days: 4th of July, plus a day off (today) for a medical procedure. Although, the preparation of said procedure has me doing a lot of sitting and, thus, reading.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
A Bus Named #15
Meanwhile, back at the bus, Streetcar and Bovary move on. Both seem to be headed toward adulterous affairs. Okay -- I know what happens in Streetcar. Stanley Kowalski disappears for a few days, and when he returns he reveals he'd been in Argentina with Madame Bovary . . .or was that a news story I heard somewhere?
Anyway. Emma Bovary seems to be looking for passion she assumed would blossom when tended by her new husband: "And now she could not bring herself to believe that the calm in which she was living was the happiness she had dreamed of." Stanley, on the other hand, seems to be nothing but passion, and there is sure to be some overgrowth, like a garden jumping its fences.
By the way, these are both brimming with fine writing, excellent construction, vivid characters - everything that defines literature at its best. But you knew that already.
Anyway. Emma Bovary seems to be looking for passion she assumed would blossom when tended by her new husband: "And now she could not bring herself to believe that the calm in which she was living was the happiness she had dreamed of." Stanley, on the other hand, seems to be nothing but passion, and there is sure to be some overgrowth, like a garden jumping its fences.
By the way, these are both brimming with fine writing, excellent construction, vivid characters - everything that defines literature at its best. But you knew that already.
Friday, June 26, 2009
We Are The World
There have been no comments, but having read yesterday’s item, I think it may have come off harsher than I meant it to be. Not so much in my opinion of why Michael Jackson’s life was tragic, but in failing to acknowledge that, to a generation now in their l20s and 30s, he was a godsend, a marvel, a source of immense enjoyment. I don’t mean to deprive them of that, or of whatever degree of mourning they may wish to indulge these few days.
I just hope they will humanize their hero.
For my generation, we had our moment when John Lennon was murdered. There was talk, at the time, that he was a secular saint. And before that, there was a widespread notion that the Beatles were somehow more enlightened than the rest of us, that ipso facto they could do no wrong and their music was intended to elevate humanity to some new level of understanding. Music does do that, of course; but the Beatles were thought to have brought us a new kind of elevation, apart from that of mere mortal musicians.
Nope. They were better at it than most, but that was all – it was better, not transcendent. We managed, finally, to understand that.
Sic Mr. Jackson.
My point:
John was called arrogant for musing that the Beatles were more popular than Jesus. What would we say if he had called himself The King of Pop? Arrogant? Yes, I think so.
Michael Jackson was placed in a bubble at a young age, and his talent made it unnecessary to evict him from the bubble, to break the bubble, to do anything but pander to his world view – and it was a view of a bubble, with one glorious occupant.
This was too bad for Michael Jackson. It was too bad for his alleged victims (if they were victimized).
So I’m not condemning him. Rather, I’m disappointed in the adults around him, if there were any, who could have taught him humility, kept him in the human race.
I think it is doing Michael Jackson a favor to appreciate his music for what it was, rather than attribute to it (and him) a level transcendence it did not achieve. He was a committed human being -- "we are the world" indeed -- NOT a savior. He revolutionized the music video, not the treatment of cancer.
Listen to the Beatles today. They do not have to be angels, or aliens, or super human beings. How great it is that they are us, that representatives of our modest schnooky race produced such magic.
Sic Mr. Jackson.
I just hope they will humanize their hero.
For my generation, we had our moment when John Lennon was murdered. There was talk, at the time, that he was a secular saint. And before that, there was a widespread notion that the Beatles were somehow more enlightened than the rest of us, that ipso facto they could do no wrong and their music was intended to elevate humanity to some new level of understanding. Music does do that, of course; but the Beatles were thought to have brought us a new kind of elevation, apart from that of mere mortal musicians.
Nope. They were better at it than most, but that was all – it was better, not transcendent. We managed, finally, to understand that.
Sic Mr. Jackson.
My point:
John was called arrogant for musing that the Beatles were more popular than Jesus. What would we say if he had called himself The King of Pop? Arrogant? Yes, I think so.
Michael Jackson was placed in a bubble at a young age, and his talent made it unnecessary to evict him from the bubble, to break the bubble, to do anything but pander to his world view – and it was a view of a bubble, with one glorious occupant.
This was too bad for Michael Jackson. It was too bad for his alleged victims (if they were victimized).
So I’m not condemning him. Rather, I’m disappointed in the adults around him, if there were any, who could have taught him humility, kept him in the human race.
I think it is doing Michael Jackson a favor to appreciate his music for what it was, rather than attribute to it (and him) a level transcendence it did not achieve. He was a committed human being -- "we are the world" indeed -- NOT a savior. He revolutionized the music video, not the treatment of cancer.
Listen to the Beatles today. They do not have to be angels, or aliens, or super human beings. How great it is that they are us, that representatives of our modest schnooky race produced such magic.
Sic Mr. Jackson.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
I Want You Back
So "Beat It" was super, "Billie Jean" spectacular, Thriller a blast. The best song Michael Jackson ever sang, though, was "I Want You Back", his first with his brothers. The way he slid into the chorus bouncing from "ooh" to "baby give me one more chance" was, well, thrilling, and the song just rocked. It rocked better than anything that followed. In my opinion.
Which is not to say that what followed wasn't great. It was, much or most of it. But "I Want You Back" was the best.
What was tragic about Michael Jackson, what ruined it all for me and for many others, was the unbridled, unfettered indulgence of his ego and fantasy.
He was a boy who never had to grow up, who had the potential to make a lot of money for a lot of people who, evidently, didn't have the guts or authority or influence to put a brake on anything the child's feverish imagination dreamt up. He could call his home Neverland, not feel obligated by the orders of a judge, believe that everything he did was the greatest thing anyone ever did.
That's the gist of it, I think, the root from which the weirdness and perversion grew. There was, evidently, no one able, or willing to say: "Whoa there pal. You are NOT the King of Pop."
And it's true: he was the self-proclaimed King of Pop, and there is a huge difference. His enablers in the music industry ( I heard today someone named him "artist of the century" -- what century? who did he beat? Gershwin? Picasso?) and his entourage allowed him to get away with it, to let the child believe he was King of the Beatles, of Elvis, of countless other musicians who have had more of an influence on the music we play and hear, on the way we live, on our attitudes, than Michael Jackson was capable of. He was the King of Promotion, if of anything, and at that he was truly transcendent.
No harm in that, by itself. He was an industry,making all that money for all those people, and, yes, bringing joy and enjoyment to all those others.
But it was promoted, not as promotion, but as fact. Evidently, he believed it himself. And if he could believe he really was the King of Pop, why would he not believe there was nothing he couldn't do? Wasn't his imagination a value in itself ? And so, must it not be unrestrained?
So there he was at the end, perhaps offering himself as The Universal Race and Universal Gender, succeeding only in looking quite ill.
And before that, there he was, marrying not a trophy wife, but a trophy legacy. (Could he or would he ever have married Lisa Marie Rydell? Lisa Marie Perkins?)
To say nothing of the child molestation charges which, I truly believe, he was truly Guilty in our world, merely misunderstood in the world of whose Pop he was King. That is, I don't think he was motivated by lust for children. I think he was just bestowing the light of his love on those who were deprived of that kind of love, though they were the most lovable of the race. In his mind, I think, he was, being generous and compassionate, that's all. For he was, after all, the King of Pop. No one had told him otherwise.
Maybe if, 25 years ago, someone had said "Whoa there pal. You are NOT the King of Pop" that could all have been avoided. Maybe not. But maybe.
So now. Deflate the music a little. Separate it from The King of Pop, and let it be from Michael Jackson. Let him be a singer, songwriter and dancer. Nothing more.
I wish he himself had done that 25 years ago. I think I would have liked him.
Which is not to say that what followed wasn't great. It was, much or most of it. But "I Want You Back" was the best.
What was tragic about Michael Jackson, what ruined it all for me and for many others, was the unbridled, unfettered indulgence of his ego and fantasy.
He was a boy who never had to grow up, who had the potential to make a lot of money for a lot of people who, evidently, didn't have the guts or authority or influence to put a brake on anything the child's feverish imagination dreamt up. He could call his home Neverland, not feel obligated by the orders of a judge, believe that everything he did was the greatest thing anyone ever did.
That's the gist of it, I think, the root from which the weirdness and perversion grew. There was, evidently, no one able, or willing to say: "Whoa there pal. You are NOT the King of Pop."
And it's true: he was the self-proclaimed King of Pop, and there is a huge difference. His enablers in the music industry ( I heard today someone named him "artist of the century" -- what century? who did he beat? Gershwin? Picasso?) and his entourage allowed him to get away with it, to let the child believe he was King of the Beatles, of Elvis, of countless other musicians who have had more of an influence on the music we play and hear, on the way we live, on our attitudes, than Michael Jackson was capable of. He was the King of Promotion, if of anything, and at that he was truly transcendent.
No harm in that, by itself. He was an industry,making all that money for all those people, and, yes, bringing joy and enjoyment to all those others.
But it was promoted, not as promotion, but as fact. Evidently, he believed it himself. And if he could believe he really was the King of Pop, why would he not believe there was nothing he couldn't do? Wasn't his imagination a value in itself ? And so, must it not be unrestrained?
So there he was at the end, perhaps offering himself as The Universal Race and Universal Gender, succeeding only in looking quite ill.
And before that, there he was, marrying not a trophy wife, but a trophy legacy. (Could he or would he ever have married Lisa Marie Rydell? Lisa Marie Perkins?)
To say nothing of the child molestation charges which, I truly believe, he was truly Guilty in our world, merely misunderstood in the world of whose Pop he was King. That is, I don't think he was motivated by lust for children. I think he was just bestowing the light of his love on those who were deprived of that kind of love, though they were the most lovable of the race. In his mind, I think, he was, being generous and compassionate, that's all. For he was, after all, the King of Pop. No one had told him otherwise.
Maybe if, 25 years ago, someone had said "Whoa there pal. You are NOT the King of Pop" that could all have been avoided. Maybe not. But maybe.
So now. Deflate the music a little. Separate it from The King of Pop, and let it be from Michael Jackson. Let him be a singer, songwriter and dancer. Nothing more.
I wish he himself had done that 25 years ago. I think I would have liked him.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
It's Hot
Monsieur Bovary has just met the future Madame Bovary, and is infatuated with her fingernails. When we left Streetcar, Blanch had just met her sister Stella, and was infatuated with a bottle of whiskey hidden in a closet.
The AC on the bus was not working this morning. Nor did it work on the bus yesterday evening. It's in the mid 90s. So I am getting a taste of the deep South in the 1940s, and rural France in the 1850's. It will help me appreciate my Reading material. The flaw in this argument is that I don't need help like this. It would be best, I think, if I were sitting beside a pool, or an ocean.
The AC on the bus was not working this morning. Nor did it work on the bus yesterday evening. It's in the mid 90s. So I am getting a taste of the deep South in the 1940s, and rural France in the 1850's. It will help me appreciate my Reading material. The flaw in this argument is that I don't need help like this. It would be best, I think, if I were sitting beside a pool, or an ocean.
Monday, June 22, 2009
Out of My Head/Can't Take My Eyes Off You
Why should a "medley" only refer to music?
(And in some cases, vegetables?)
New experiment: I am reading two books at once to see if they sync up: Madame Bovary and A Streetcar Named Desire. The latter, of course, is a play, and I have read it before. Madame Bovary -- never read, but I'm aware of its reputation.
I'm thinking of it as the literary equivalent of listening to a medley, in this case maybe something elegant and something bluesy, maybe "Hey Jude/Giant Steps". Or for the more wacky, "Mozart's 40th/Beethoven's 5th". Hoo boy - can you imagine those together? That's incongruity!
Not sure how to handle it. Bovary in the morning and Streetcar on the way home? But Bovary is much longer. Hard nut to crack. I mean, I want to enjoy the synergy, the synthesis, anything else that starts with "sy" that applies; so there has to be a method that allows synthesis, not just some random "feel like Tennessee right now" thing. I read a little today, MB first, then SND, then back to MB. I'm surprised there's a first person narrator, and it's neither the Madame nor her husband, but a little kid (whom I'm sure will grow up before the dirty parts, heh heh). So far, Mr. Bovary's been teased in school and his dad has proven to be a scoundrel. Meanwhile, Blanch has shown up at the Kowalski's and is condemning the house.
Cruelty! Drunken cruelty, as (I think) the Kinks once said.
Speaking of drunken cruelty, I still have to review Isn't It Romantic by Ron Hansen. Or maybe I just did.
(And in some cases, vegetables?)
New experiment: I am reading two books at once to see if they sync up: Madame Bovary and A Streetcar Named Desire. The latter, of course, is a play, and I have read it before. Madame Bovary -- never read, but I'm aware of its reputation.
I'm thinking of it as the literary equivalent of listening to a medley, in this case maybe something elegant and something bluesy, maybe "Hey Jude/Giant Steps". Or for the more wacky, "Mozart's 40th/Beethoven's 5th". Hoo boy - can you imagine those together? That's incongruity!
Not sure how to handle it. Bovary in the morning and Streetcar on the way home? But Bovary is much longer. Hard nut to crack. I mean, I want to enjoy the synergy, the synthesis, anything else that starts with "sy" that applies; so there has to be a method that allows synthesis, not just some random "feel like Tennessee right now" thing. I read a little today, MB first, then SND, then back to MB. I'm surprised there's a first person narrator, and it's neither the Madame nor her husband, but a little kid (whom I'm sure will grow up before the dirty parts, heh heh). So far, Mr. Bovary's been teased in school and his dad has proven to be a scoundrel. Meanwhile, Blanch has shown up at the Kowalski's and is condemning the house.
Cruelty! Drunken cruelty, as (I think) the Kinks once said.
Speaking of drunken cruelty, I still have to review Isn't It Romantic by Ron Hansen. Or maybe I just did.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Who Cases!
Slim pickings at Goodwill lately, and it's been that way for a while. I could have done all my Christmas shopping already if people I know want Football Stars of 1998 or Windows 95 For Dummies. But they don't.
Today is kind of a lazy Saturday, Dad day Eve, cleaning and shopping done, the Cubs on TV and the weather warm and cloudy. There was an Agatha Christie at the Goodwill a few weeks ago -- the only one quite some time -- and I've figured out that she is my literary equivalent of a nice lazy day: not challenging, like, say, Saul Bellow (or even as much as PD James); but not annoying, like that Artemis Fowl or the one I'm currently reading. That one is by Ron Hansen, who was a year ahead of me at Creighton, and whom I've never read before, and who has a very fine reputation.
Wow, there was a flurry of correct who cases!
The Christie book was And Then There Were None, which was originally called Ten Little Indians, and I assume it was changed because, well -- Ten Little Indians. Ten people are lured to an island, and one by one they die. There really was no possible way to identify the killer, and the book could have ended with all its readers frustrated, had not a fishing trawler found, long after the fact, a confession in a bottle floating on the sea. The only problem I had was the nagging feeling after each death, that the next death could have been avoided if the characters acted like normal people instead of as inevitable victims. There were many reasons they couldn't get off the island and, as I said, no way to identify the killer. So they spent all their energy trying to identify the killer rather than figuring out what was going to happen next -- which had been conveniently written out for them in the poem "The Little Indians".
Other than that, unchallenging fun. Happy summer.
Today is kind of a lazy Saturday, Dad day Eve, cleaning and shopping done, the Cubs on TV and the weather warm and cloudy. There was an Agatha Christie at the Goodwill a few weeks ago -- the only one quite some time -- and I've figured out that she is my literary equivalent of a nice lazy day: not challenging, like, say, Saul Bellow (or even as much as PD James); but not annoying, like that Artemis Fowl or the one I'm currently reading. That one is by Ron Hansen, who was a year ahead of me at Creighton, and whom I've never read before, and who has a very fine reputation.
Wow, there was a flurry of correct who cases!
The Christie book was And Then There Were None, which was originally called Ten Little Indians, and I assume it was changed because, well -- Ten Little Indians. Ten people are lured to an island, and one by one they die. There really was no possible way to identify the killer, and the book could have ended with all its readers frustrated, had not a fishing trawler found, long after the fact, a confession in a bottle floating on the sea. The only problem I had was the nagging feeling after each death, that the next death could have been avoided if the characters acted like normal people instead of as inevitable victims. There were many reasons they couldn't get off the island and, as I said, no way to identify the killer. So they spent all their energy trying to identify the killer rather than figuring out what was going to happen next -- which had been conveniently written out for them in the poem "The Little Indians".
Other than that, unchallenging fun. Happy summer.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
My Life In A Species
Origin by Irving Stone. Stone made his living writing novelized biographies of the Giants. Most famously, he wrote The Agony and the Ecstasy and Lust for Life (Mike Angelo and Vince Gogh, respectively), both of which were made into movies with big stars (Chuck Heston and Kirkie D, respectively).
Origin concerns itself with Darwin. Right off the bat, I'll say that Stone might as well have dropped the "novelized", and just written a biography. He had to have done meticulous research, and the dialogue, I'll bet, had to have been lifted straight from journals, letters etc. Stone had an annoying habit of putting dialogue in separate paragraphs, as if he expected great things from even mundane pronouncements. That is: there is no such thing as "Charles answered 'She is a pretty girl'." Rather it would be
Charles answered:
"She is a pretty girl."
That aside, I liked it. I didn't know much about Darwin other than the obvious 2 sentences that sum up his work, and Stone drew a picture of a whole man. In fact, this is like one of those old 50s school books about George Washington, in which the hero may be a little too good to be true. Darwin is given all the most cherished characteristics a human could want. He's brilliant, of course, and persistent, thorough, kind, empathetic, loving, broad minded, generous, loving, compassionate. Was he? Well, why not? We who aspire to such things have to believe they're possible, so why would it be surprising that someone did what we ourselves hope to do? Darwin is given a wonderful family and family life, immediate and extended. I wish that, rather than ending by quoting a ridiculous critic, Stone had ended with a little about Darwin's wife Emma, after Darwin's death.
Maybe the best thing -- and I can't tell if it's the "best thing" about Darwin, or about Stone's writing -- is that Darwin's dedication to his work was so vivid it makes me want to rededicate myself, more seriously, to my work. I guess that makes it a pretty good book.
Meanwhile, the bus winds around through what used to be Aksarben race track (It's now an "erase track", as a typo reminded me -- typo since corrected of course). There is now a complex there - shopping or condo/apartment, I don't know (I never read the local newspaper). There's a grocery store and a bank, as far as I can see. Maybe there are other businesses down the streets and around the corner, but the bus has it's route and all it allows me to see is the grocery store and the bank. Those two businesses could indicate a living community. Or it could be a high-end shopping area. Will I investigate, with the same dedication with which Darwin investigated barnacles? I suggest:
"No."
What the bus route does allow me to see -- and anyone going down Center Street will see it -- is a blatant phallus out front of the whole operation. I guess it's a reminder of the former occupant, as it's embossed with the word "Aksarben" and could only have been inspired by a horse.
I wish Omaha would display more imagination in its symbolic architecture. I mean, this thing by Aksarben isn't even disguised.
Origin concerns itself with Darwin. Right off the bat, I'll say that Stone might as well have dropped the "novelized", and just written a biography. He had to have done meticulous research, and the dialogue, I'll bet, had to have been lifted straight from journals, letters etc. Stone had an annoying habit of putting dialogue in separate paragraphs, as if he expected great things from even mundane pronouncements. That is: there is no such thing as "Charles answered 'She is a pretty girl'." Rather it would be
Charles answered:
"She is a pretty girl."
That aside, I liked it. I didn't know much about Darwin other than the obvious 2 sentences that sum up his work, and Stone drew a picture of a whole man. In fact, this is like one of those old 50s school books about George Washington, in which the hero may be a little too good to be true. Darwin is given all the most cherished characteristics a human could want. He's brilliant, of course, and persistent, thorough, kind, empathetic, loving, broad minded, generous, loving, compassionate. Was he? Well, why not? We who aspire to such things have to believe they're possible, so why would it be surprising that someone did what we ourselves hope to do? Darwin is given a wonderful family and family life, immediate and extended. I wish that, rather than ending by quoting a ridiculous critic, Stone had ended with a little about Darwin's wife Emma, after Darwin's death.
Maybe the best thing -- and I can't tell if it's the "best thing" about Darwin, or about Stone's writing -- is that Darwin's dedication to his work was so vivid it makes me want to rededicate myself, more seriously, to my work. I guess that makes it a pretty good book.
Meanwhile, the bus winds around through what used to be Aksarben race track (It's now an "erase track", as a typo reminded me -- typo since corrected of course). There is now a complex there - shopping or condo/apartment, I don't know (I never read the local newspaper). There's a grocery store and a bank, as far as I can see. Maybe there are other businesses down the streets and around the corner, but the bus has it's route and all it allows me to see is the grocery store and the bank. Those two businesses could indicate a living community. Or it could be a high-end shopping area. Will I investigate, with the same dedication with which Darwin investigated barnacles? I suggest:
"No."
What the bus route does allow me to see -- and anyone going down Center Street will see it -- is a blatant phallus out front of the whole operation. I guess it's a reminder of the former occupant, as it's embossed with the word "Aksarben" and could only have been inspired by a horse.
I wish Omaha would display more imagination in its symbolic architecture. I mean, this thing by Aksarben isn't even disguised.
Monday, May 4, 2009
Don't Forget - Fathers Day is a month away!
Godwill is pretty random -- there hasn't really been anything there I've wanted, anything I've been excited to find, for months.
The bus is random too. The schedule changed. I have to get up earlier. On the bright side, I get home earlier. But, I have to get up earlier.
Today I purchased (for $2) West of Dodge by Louis L'Amour. La'mour wrote westerns. I like Larry McMurtry better, but, when I say L'Amour wrote esterns, I mean that, evidently, that is all he did, 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. He was, in short, prolific.
I bought West of Dodge,not because I need to read another L'Amour (I've had two; that's enough), or because the subject matter seemed intriguing (don't know what it is). I bought t because inside the front cover was this:
" October 31 '96
"Dad,
"As a child, I remember your office was full of westerns and Louis L'Amour books. So, when I saw this book, and read about L'Amour's son finding these lost short-story (sic) manuscripts I thought you might enjoy them. This book is for those times when you want to step back in time and spend a few minutes in the Old W est.
"Happy Birthday Dad!
"Love, Shari"
How's dad doing today? Shari? Had they been separated? Did the office still exist, or is it gone and that's why she had to "remember" it? By "step back in time" does Shari mean back to the days when Dad had all those books? Or to the time the books are about? Anyone out there recognize Shari and her dad?
Anyway, I'm intrigued.
The bus is random too. The schedule changed. I have to get up earlier. On the bright side, I get home earlier. But, I have to get up earlier.
Today I purchased (for $2) West of Dodge by Louis L'Amour. La'mour wrote westerns. I like Larry McMurtry better, but, when I say L'Amour wrote esterns, I mean that, evidently, that is all he did, 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. He was, in short, prolific.
I bought West of Dodge,not because I need to read another L'Amour (I've had two; that's enough), or because the subject matter seemed intriguing (don't know what it is). I bought t because inside the front cover was this:
" October 31 '96
"Dad,
"As a child, I remember your office was full of westerns and Louis L'Amour books. So, when I saw this book, and read about L'Amour's son finding these lost short-story (sic) manuscripts I thought you might enjoy them. This book is for those times when you want to step back in time and spend a few minutes in the Old W est.
"Happy Birthday Dad!
"Love, Shari"
How's dad doing today? Shari? Had they been separated? Did the office still exist, or is it gone and that's why she had to "remember" it? By "step back in time" does Shari mean back to the days when Dad had all those books? Or to the time the books are about? Anyone out there recognize Shari and her dad?
Anyway, I'm intrigued.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Middle School Musical
(A digression from the norm here)
We attended the closing night of Back To The 80s, the long running musical at the Westside Middle School (3 nights). One can only hope there will be a revival, a la Kiss Me Kate, Chicago, and other staples of Broadway.
The songs, by the popular team of Michaels-Lauper-Ocean-Bon Jovi-Madonna-Loggins-Geils-Slick (there are more, of course) were strong, and eminently suitable for the plot. The story os one that could become a classic: Good boy loves good girl, who is tricked into loving the bad boy, but in the end the good boy wins the good girl and the bad boy gets kciked in the groin by the nerd.
The cast was one strong performance after another. All students at William Ocean High, the characters had names like Feldman, Bueller, McFerrin, Tiffany, Easton, Corey, Alf -- all of which reminded us of something we couldn't put our finger on during Back To The 80s. There was some good acting, nice singing, and tremendous dancing.
The fact that she is our step daughter by no means prejudices this reviewer, but Samie Steed put on a dancing performance for the ages, and perfectly delivered the final smackdown of the bad kid.
I would be glad to recommend everyone see Back To The 80s, but, as mentioned earlier, this was the last performance.
And by the way, the band was tremendous.
We attended the closing night of Back To The 80s, the long running musical at the Westside Middle School (3 nights). One can only hope there will be a revival, a la Kiss Me Kate, Chicago, and other staples of Broadway.
The songs, by the popular team of Michaels-Lauper-Ocean-Bon Jovi-Madonna-Loggins-Geils-Slick (there are more, of course) were strong, and eminently suitable for the plot. The story os one that could become a classic: Good boy loves good girl, who is tricked into loving the bad boy, but in the end the good boy wins the good girl and the bad boy gets kciked in the groin by the nerd.
The cast was one strong performance after another. All students at William Ocean High, the characters had names like Feldman, Bueller, McFerrin, Tiffany, Easton, Corey, Alf -- all of which reminded us of something we couldn't put our finger on during Back To The 80s. There was some good acting, nice singing, and tremendous dancing.
The fact that she is our step daughter by no means prejudices this reviewer, but Samie Steed put on a dancing performance for the ages, and perfectly delivered the final smackdown of the bad kid.
I would be glad to recommend everyone see Back To The 80s, but, as mentioned earlier, this was the last performance.
And by the way, the band was tremendous.
Saturday, April 18, 2009
If Your Name Is James, Your Book Is Probably Mentioned Here
Washington Square by Henry James. I read this maybe a year ago. I also read it in high school. As did, I suppose, everyone. I had no recollection of its content or characters from my high school assignment, but I know I read it because when I went to New York and visited Washington Square I said to myself "I read this book!".
But really, why bother with these old books? Why bother high school kids with them, why bother when you're 59 and riding a bus? A gold digger tries to con a young girl starved for love -- gosh, never heard that one before. Why, really, bother?
In my case - partly because the book was on the shelf at Goodwill. But, given that, I did choose to read it. Ivanhoe is sitting there currently, and there it will continue to sit. I've skipped others, too, but OTOH I've read The Prince and the Pauper, Candide, The Idiot and a few others whose combined age reaches back to before novels existed.
The thing about books, and maybe art in general, is that you get into them. I don't mean like hippie talk or love talk, "so into you little girl" stuff. I mean you are sucked in, there is nothing else, you are experiencing something. How well, whether it's worth it, depends on the skill of the writer. There could easily be a tale told of a gold digger and an anxious daughter that's just a story, that doesn't allow you to feel what any of the characters experience. The fact that a book is old, that it's language or form is out of date, can be interesting, actually, and is merely incidental to the experience, to the insight. The characters in Washington Square are complex, for the most part. Catherine, the daughter, the victim, is neither gorgeous nor brilliant (as she would probably have to be for mass marketing purposes today -- I see Hilary Duff in the role), but is caring, longing for emotional union. Her father is cold, mean, but right in his appraisal of what's going on, and has has an excuse for his frigidity. Morris is smart, can be caring, knows the form of love but not the substance but is, after all, only in it for the money. Mrs. Penniman -- well, imagine if Mrs. Kravitz had moved in with Darren and Samantha.
There's nothing intrinsically wrong with old books. For instance, no one would speak like this, even in a song: "She hangs upon the cheek of night like a rich jewel in an Ethiop's ear." Yet our culture, with excellent reason, can't let go of Shakespeare.
At one point in Washington Square, Mrs. Penniman says "I shall see him often; I shall feel like one of the vestals of old tending the sacred flame." She could have made that reference any time from around 1000BC until Henry James's time, and most educated people would know what she meant. How many would know now? Few, I'd bet. It seems to me there was a common thread, a thread of knowledge or culture or whatever, that ran for a long, long time and is now in danger of being cut and lost. That might be good, it might be bad, it might be neutral, it might not even be true. But if true, it's at the very least something to be wistful about. Reading these old books isn't so bad. Those people back then - they were us.
A Taste for Death by P.D. James. Why does anyone commit murder when there are English detectives around? Clever as you think you are, Murderer, you will be caught. Oh yes, you will be caught.
I don't know if Ms James has been Damed like Dame Agatha Christie. But based on this book alone, I'd have to say she is more literary, if not as concise a story teller as Dame Ag. Her hero in this one is a master detective and a poet (though we see none of his poems). The victim has recently thrown off his worldly possessions and was hiding in a church when he died; his bereaved survivors are, for the most part, jerks, and the secondary detectives struggle with various shades of inner turmoil. Poirot doesn't have inner turmoil. Mr Marple doesn't write poems. The solution was satisfying. A good book. I would read more of PD, yes I would.
Omaha by James Celer. Not written yet.
But really, why bother with these old books? Why bother high school kids with them, why bother when you're 59 and riding a bus? A gold digger tries to con a young girl starved for love -- gosh, never heard that one before. Why, really, bother?
In my case - partly because the book was on the shelf at Goodwill. But, given that, I did choose to read it. Ivanhoe is sitting there currently, and there it will continue to sit. I've skipped others, too, but OTOH I've read The Prince and the Pauper, Candide, The Idiot and a few others whose combined age reaches back to before novels existed.
The thing about books, and maybe art in general, is that you get into them. I don't mean like hippie talk or love talk, "so into you little girl" stuff. I mean you are sucked in, there is nothing else, you are experiencing something. How well, whether it's worth it, depends on the skill of the writer. There could easily be a tale told of a gold digger and an anxious daughter that's just a story, that doesn't allow you to feel what any of the characters experience. The fact that a book is old, that it's language or form is out of date, can be interesting, actually, and is merely incidental to the experience, to the insight. The characters in Washington Square are complex, for the most part. Catherine, the daughter, the victim, is neither gorgeous nor brilliant (as she would probably have to be for mass marketing purposes today -- I see Hilary Duff in the role), but is caring, longing for emotional union. Her father is cold, mean, but right in his appraisal of what's going on, and has has an excuse for his frigidity. Morris is smart, can be caring, knows the form of love but not the substance but is, after all, only in it for the money. Mrs. Penniman -- well, imagine if Mrs. Kravitz had moved in with Darren and Samantha.
There's nothing intrinsically wrong with old books. For instance, no one would speak like this, even in a song: "She hangs upon the cheek of night like a rich jewel in an Ethiop's ear." Yet our culture, with excellent reason, can't let go of Shakespeare.
At one point in Washington Square, Mrs. Penniman says "I shall see him often; I shall feel like one of the vestals of old tending the sacred flame." She could have made that reference any time from around 1000BC until Henry James's time, and most educated people would know what she meant. How many would know now? Few, I'd bet. It seems to me there was a common thread, a thread of knowledge or culture or whatever, that ran for a long, long time and is now in danger of being cut and lost. That might be good, it might be bad, it might be neutral, it might not even be true. But if true, it's at the very least something to be wistful about. Reading these old books isn't so bad. Those people back then - they were us.
A Taste for Death by P.D. James. Why does anyone commit murder when there are English detectives around? Clever as you think you are, Murderer, you will be caught. Oh yes, you will be caught.
I don't know if Ms James has been Damed like Dame Agatha Christie. But based on this book alone, I'd have to say she is more literary, if not as concise a story teller as Dame Ag. Her hero in this one is a master detective and a poet (though we see none of his poems). The victim has recently thrown off his worldly possessions and was hiding in a church when he died; his bereaved survivors are, for the most part, jerks, and the secondary detectives struggle with various shades of inner turmoil. Poirot doesn't have inner turmoil. Mr Marple doesn't write poems. The solution was satisfying. A good book. I would read more of PD, yes I would.
Omaha by James Celer. Not written yet.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Recap, again
Since I'm having so much trouble being current, I thought I'd get a little something in, if for no other reason than to insure an April entry.
So, once again, just to jog your (and my) memory, here's the point of this
In other words, it could happen (and has) that I finish Voltaire and start Mary Higgins Clark. David Baldacci follows Turgenev. Winston Groom precedes Mark Twain. It's very random, topsy-turvy, indiscriminate.
Kind of like the bus I'm riding while I read. I started taking the bus almost4 years ago, for environmental reasons, mainly; though it's turned out it saves money, too. (By the way, once in a while I survey the cars going by the bus stop. In Omaha, on the average, 92 out of a hundred cars are occupied only by their driver. This has increased lately, in my last count a couple of weeks ago.)
The bus goes straight down Center Street. I get on near Interstate 680, and the first leg of the ride is through veritable suburbia, with lawns brick houses and access roads. It swoops down a long hill, eases through an area of strip malls past a Walgreens and a supermart, past a cemetery and up into a hospital complex. Emerging from that, we're in a city, an industrial city, with mud on the street, dilapidated buildings, industrial businesses, a new shopping area. We massly transit that and are back to a residential area. That's where I get off.
So it's one change after another both inside and outside the bus. The passengers change as drastically as the quality of the books and the scenery. There are only one or two that are there most days; for the most part, it's a mixed and unpredictable lot.
So that's the set-up. I've got a backlog of books to review, which is good: I'm currently reading a PD James, my first by that lady. So far, I'm liking it. But the next review might be something I read a few years ago --maybe The Prince and the Pauper, or Encountering the Dharma, or maybe Winston groom. If I can remember the name of the book he wrote that isn't Forrest Gump.
I'm Buddhist, btw, and that has entered into reviews more than once, as it very storngly colors my world view.
There - up to date, in a kind of not-really-up-to-date way.
So, once again, just to jog your (and my) memory, here's the point of this
Books on the Bus
What I want to do mainly is write about books I read. I work near a Goodwill where, on a good day, I can buy 10 books for $5. Because it's a Goodwill, of course, I can't intend to buy anything in particular, and I'm at the mercy of whoever it is that donates books to Goodwill.In other words, it could happen (and has) that I finish Voltaire and start Mary Higgins Clark. David Baldacci follows Turgenev. Winston Groom precedes Mark Twain. It's very random, topsy-turvy, indiscriminate.
Kind of like the bus I'm riding while I read. I started taking the bus almost4 years ago, for environmental reasons, mainly; though it's turned out it saves money, too. (By the way, once in a while I survey the cars going by the bus stop. In Omaha, on the average, 92 out of a hundred cars are occupied only by their driver. This has increased lately, in my last count a couple of weeks ago.)
The bus goes straight down Center Street. I get on near Interstate 680, and the first leg of the ride is through veritable suburbia, with lawns brick houses and access roads. It swoops down a long hill, eases through an area of strip malls past a Walgreens and a supermart, past a cemetery and up into a hospital complex. Emerging from that, we're in a city, an industrial city, with mud on the street, dilapidated buildings, industrial businesses, a new shopping area. We massly transit that and are back to a residential area. That's where I get off.
So it's one change after another both inside and outside the bus. The passengers change as drastically as the quality of the books and the scenery. There are only one or two that are there most days; for the most part, it's a mixed and unpredictable lot.
So that's the set-up. I've got a backlog of books to review, which is good: I'm currently reading a PD James, my first by that lady. So far, I'm liking it. But the next review might be something I read a few years ago --maybe The Prince and the Pauper, or Encountering the Dharma, or maybe Winston groom. If I can remember the name of the book he wrote that isn't Forrest Gump.
I'm Buddhist, btw, and that has entered into reviews more than once, as it very storngly colors my world view.
There - up to date, in a kind of not-really-up-to-date way.
Monday, March 16, 2009
Dutch Schultz and Show Choirs
Multi-page paragraphs are the enemy of the bus reader (e.g. pp 58ff, Billy Bathgate) because you're a block or two from your stop, and you'd like to get to the end of the paragraph, someplace neat and memorable to leave off, but the paragraph just goes on and on and on and you have to stop in mid-thought. Or miss your stop, which is never going to happen. So please: if you are writing a book that is going to end up on a Goodwill bookshelf where I might buy it to read on my bus trips to and from work (oooo - a neat capsulizing of the raison d'etre of this blog, that was!), be considerate enough to use short paragraphs. We'll say no more than half page long. Okay?
So: Billy Bathgate by E.L. Doctorow. This is the first Doctorow book I've read in which the main character wasn't the era. By which I mean, he sets his stories in the past, mostly in NYC, and that they are in the past is what they are about. Is that clear? Anyway, BB is set in the past, in the mid 1930s, but it's actually more about the characters than the era. Billy's a street kid who falls in, by design, with Dutch Schultz, a few months before Dutch Schultz's famous murder. He escapes harm, profits mightily from his association with the racketeers,financially and sexually and, mostly, in self esteem. I guess he could have turned out a cynical and violent man himself, but evidently does not.
I think this may be a better book than the more famous Ragtime, maybe because Doctorow focuses on one character and fully develops him and as a result fully develops those circling around him. The writing, too is less annoying than usual, less pastoral, not as nostalgic-for-a-less-smoggy-sky as the other books of his I've encountered. (Though there a number of passages that begin "I will now tell you...", which is okay once but they just kept on coming). As it got going I got more involved, which is just what you want from a book.
Meanwhile, it's been years (or so) since I've written here. In the interim Lost has answered some questions, we got Super Mario Galaxy, and Samie's show choir keeps winning competitions. Also, it appears Spring might be coming to Omaha.
So: Billy Bathgate by E.L. Doctorow. This is the first Doctorow book I've read in which the main character wasn't the era. By which I mean, he sets his stories in the past, mostly in NYC, and that they are in the past is what they are about. Is that clear? Anyway, BB is set in the past, in the mid 1930s, but it's actually more about the characters than the era. Billy's a street kid who falls in, by design, with Dutch Schultz, a few months before Dutch Schultz's famous murder. He escapes harm, profits mightily from his association with the racketeers,financially and sexually and, mostly, in self esteem. I guess he could have turned out a cynical and violent man himself, but evidently does not.
I think this may be a better book than the more famous Ragtime, maybe because Doctorow focuses on one character and fully develops him and as a result fully develops those circling around him. The writing, too is less annoying than usual, less pastoral, not as nostalgic-for-a-less-smoggy-sky as the other books of his I've encountered. (Though there a number of passages that begin "I will now tell you...", which is okay once but they just kept on coming). As it got going I got more involved, which is just what you want from a book.
Meanwhile, it's been years (or so) since I've written here. In the interim Lost has answered some questions, we got Super Mario Galaxy, and Samie's show choir keeps winning competitions. Also, it appears Spring might be coming to Omaha.
Friday, February 6, 2009
Unloading
A couple of frustrations to vent today.
So we're at a crowded restaurant tonight, and I'm sitting with a TV practically in my face, on ESPN, and it's some show about football, college and pro, what's up for next season. I ignored it best I could, but it reminded me of a somewhat passionate gripe. Here's the thing:
The only reason that sport is popular is because ESPN and TV in general keep hammering at it. Last summer a Baseball Tonight was preempted because &^%^&%^& Brett Favre was going somewhere. For the last 2 days they've been going in depth of college recruiting. About the time the NBA playoffs begin and the baseball season is getting interesting, they'll do 24/7 (almost) in- depth minute yammering on the NFL draft. Will they do that for the baseball draft, for college basketball recruiting? Oh sure, you bet. It's like they look for excuses to show something football related, no matter what other sport they have to denigrate to do so. It makes me sick. Change your name to EFPN. You're a football network that gets annoyed when you have to cover other sports. And you annoy me.
If other sports got the same coverage they give football -- or if football got the same coverage they give other sports -- there would not be a question of football being the most popular sport. Give them a even playing field and see what happens. TV has a vested interest in promoting football, and with reason: football is uniquely suited to TV's needs: it was a made-for-TV sport just waiting for TV to be invented. They grew together, starting in the late 50s, and when the networks figured out they had a symbiotic relation with football, of course it started promoting it, because as football would grow, TV would grow.
Hence, we have an idiotic program in my face, a week after the season ended, because ESPN dare not let go.
I used to be mildly interested in football from time to time. TV has made me hate it. I didn't watch a minute this year until the Super Bowl. And that was mainly to see the E-Trade baby.
Anyway, the food was okay, though it took forever. And I was with family, which was great.
I've never rooted against the "hero" of a book as much as I rooted against Artemis Fowl, by Eoin Colfer. Artemis Fowl is a super genius, super criminal. Also, he's a jerk. Trouble is, much as I hoped, a many junctures, that the little creep would get his skin flayed off by the fairies he was torturing, I knew he wouldn't because there's a whole series of books about him. My hunch is that someone thought he'd be a good answer to Harry Potter. He isn't. Also, Colfer can't write.
I had assumed this book was meant for kids, for the Potter aficionados. But there's swearing and the bad guys win. Blech.
So we're at a crowded restaurant tonight, and I'm sitting with a TV practically in my face, on ESPN, and it's some show about football, college and pro, what's up for next season. I ignored it best I could, but it reminded me of a somewhat passionate gripe. Here's the thing:
FOOTBALL SEASON IS OVER!!!
The only reason that sport is popular is because ESPN and TV in general keep hammering at it. Last summer a Baseball Tonight was preempted because &^%^&%^& Brett Favre was going somewhere. For the last 2 days they've been going in depth of college recruiting. About the time the NBA playoffs begin and the baseball season is getting interesting, they'll do 24/7 (almost) in- depth minute yammering on the NFL draft. Will they do that for the baseball draft, for college basketball recruiting? Oh sure, you bet. It's like they look for excuses to show something football related, no matter what other sport they have to denigrate to do so. It makes me sick. Change your name to EFPN. You're a football network that gets annoyed when you have to cover other sports. And you annoy me.
If other sports got the same coverage they give football -- or if football got the same coverage they give other sports -- there would not be a question of football being the most popular sport. Give them a even playing field and see what happens. TV has a vested interest in promoting football, and with reason: football is uniquely suited to TV's needs: it was a made-for-TV sport just waiting for TV to be invented. They grew together, starting in the late 50s, and when the networks figured out they had a symbiotic relation with football, of course it started promoting it, because as football would grow, TV would grow.
Hence, we have an idiotic program in my face, a week after the season ended, because ESPN dare not let go.
I used to be mildly interested in football from time to time. TV has made me hate it. I didn't watch a minute this year until the Super Bowl. And that was mainly to see the E-Trade baby.
Anyway, the food was okay, though it took forever. And I was with family, which was great.
I've never rooted against the "hero" of a book as much as I rooted against Artemis Fowl, by Eoin Colfer. Artemis Fowl is a super genius, super criminal. Also, he's a jerk. Trouble is, much as I hoped, a many junctures, that the little creep would get his skin flayed off by the fairies he was torturing, I knew he wouldn't because there's a whole series of books about him. My hunch is that someone thought he'd be a good answer to Harry Potter. He isn't. Also, Colfer can't write.
I had assumed this book was meant for kids, for the Potter aficionados. But there's swearing and the bad guys win. Blech.
Friday, January 16, 2009
Any Tiffs at Breakfast?
It hardly ever happens that I read a book after seeing the movie. The last one, probably, was From Russia With Love or Dr. No. I have no problem seeing the movie after reading the book, but not the other way around. I don't know why. Perhaps it's because of the time investment: if you know the ending, investing 2 hours in seeing the movie still isn't so bad; spending a week or so reading a book I know whose ending I know - nah.
That might be one reason I haven't seen Breakfast at Tiffany's yet.
We rented Shopgirl some time ago; I had never heard of it, but it starred Clare Danes and Steve Martin, two of my favorite people (for different reasons), and we kind of like small movies. It was okay: entertaining, well acted, unpretentious.
So when a very thin book spine called "Shopgirl Steve Martin" from the Goodwill shelf, I was intrigued, since I had no idea it had been a book before it was a movie.
Well, I was kind of right. The theme seems to be the relation between high and low emotions: Does desire sully love? Is love somehow not as noble if it starts as desire? Can desire change as love enters into it? These are all apt, insightful questions, and Steve Martin addresses them most annoyingly.
He's written a 130 page book of stage directions. Maybe it's worse than that: at times, it seems he's working out the characters' backgrounds, motivations, etc in his mind, except he's writing it down and getting it published: "Mirabelle replaces the absent friends with books and television mysteries of the PBS kind . . . She does not read these books as a romantic lonely hearts turning pages in the isolation of her room, not at all. She is instead an educated spirit with a sense of irony." Okay, Steve, now you've got your main character straight in your mind - great!
If the TV watching and the romances came up again in the unraveling of the plot, fine. But they don't. And did I mention that the entire book -- every sentence - is written in the present tense? "Carter Dobbs walks her back to Nieman's . . . he gives her his card. . . As he turns away from her, she finally can name what disturbs her about him."
Stage directions.
You do get a nice sense of the characters and their dilemmas. But, if the book had been longer, I probably would have put it down as too annoying to sit through. See the movie -- it's good.
And by the way, Steve Martin may be a bad novelist, but he is still the funniest stand-up comedian of my lifetime.
Speaking of putting down, in the last few months I've given up on Rebecca, and on Ann Beattie's Picturing Will. Plus, Dame Agatha has disappointed me lately (noted elsewhere). So I was starting to fear I was getting an aversion to female writers, until a fotunate thing happened: Goodwill had The Bell Jar. I read the first page and was floored: did Sylvia Plath maintain this level? Can it possibly be this good?
That might be one reason I haven't seen Breakfast at Tiffany's yet.
We rented Shopgirl some time ago; I had never heard of it, but it starred Clare Danes and Steve Martin, two of my favorite people (for different reasons), and we kind of like small movies. It was okay: entertaining, well acted, unpretentious.
So when a very thin book spine called "Shopgirl Steve Martin" from the Goodwill shelf, I was intrigued, since I had no idea it had been a book before it was a movie.
Well, I was kind of right. The theme seems to be the relation between high and low emotions: Does desire sully love? Is love somehow not as noble if it starts as desire? Can desire change as love enters into it? These are all apt, insightful questions, and Steve Martin addresses them most annoyingly.
He's written a 130 page book of stage directions. Maybe it's worse than that: at times, it seems he's working out the characters' backgrounds, motivations, etc in his mind, except he's writing it down and getting it published: "Mirabelle replaces the absent friends with books and television mysteries of the PBS kind . . . She does not read these books as a romantic lonely hearts turning pages in the isolation of her room, not at all. She is instead an educated spirit with a sense of irony." Okay, Steve, now you've got your main character straight in your mind - great!
If the TV watching and the romances came up again in the unraveling of the plot, fine. But they don't. And did I mention that the entire book -- every sentence - is written in the present tense? "Carter Dobbs walks her back to Nieman's . . . he gives her his card. . . As he turns away from her, she finally can name what disturbs her about him."
Stage directions.
You do get a nice sense of the characters and their dilemmas. But, if the book had been longer, I probably would have put it down as too annoying to sit through. See the movie -- it's good.
And by the way, Steve Martin may be a bad novelist, but he is still the funniest stand-up comedian of my lifetime.
Speaking of putting down, in the last few months I've given up on Rebecca, and on Ann Beattie's Picturing Will. Plus, Dame Agatha has disappointed me lately (noted elsewhere). So I was starting to fear I was getting an aversion to female writers, until a fotunate thing happened: Goodwill had The Bell Jar. I read the first page and was floored: did Sylvia Plath maintain this level? Can it possibly be this good?
Friday, January 9, 2009
Wizardry
I worked only 3.5 days New year's week due to doctor stuff, and not at all this week due to cataract surgery, so I've worked only 3.5 days since December 23rd. Seventeen days ago. Have I accomplished anything during this vacation? Does getting vastly improved vision count? Other than that: I've done a little work on a couple of stories, got one story up on Zoetrope, chanted more than usual, did a little research.
This may be boring you, but it's reminding me that I have to make better use of my time. Am I a writer, or a guy who says he's a writer and scribbles down just enough to have evidence?
New Year's resolution?
So I haven't actually read much -- I hope the bus company stayed solvent without my contribution -- but, having experienced the wizardry of modern medicine, I reminded that about a year and a half ago I jammed all 7 Harry Potter books into my brain. Maybe that's when the cataracts developed.
Suffice it to say that I read them all in a very short time, consecutively, and couldn't imagine having to wait a year or more between books (as most people did). I teared up at Dobby's fate. I kept changing my mind about Snape, and found the conclusion entirely satisfying.
Yeah, I got hooked, early and hard. You don't need me to tell you that the Harry Potter books are very, very good. So, I'll tell you the two things that were bad.
I only mention these because they weren't necessary -- just gratuitous screw-ups.
One: the big teen angst in Book 1 is the rivalry between houses, and Harry's house wins because Dumbledore just keep giving it points until it does. Why not just have them win? Or, why not just have Dubledore announce that he wants Griffindor to win and have done with it? Because, obviously, that's exactly what he wants.
Next big flaw is at the end of Book 7. Ginny's mom jumps into the fray at the most dangerous moment and says "Not my daughter!' In real life, she would have been blasted while she was talking. Very dramatic, but stupid.
Geez, am I nitpicking or what???
I'm currently reading Steve Martin's Shopgirl. When I get around to reviewing that one, I'll try to find two good things to highlight.
This may be boring you, but it's reminding me that I have to make better use of my time. Am I a writer, or a guy who says he's a writer and scribbles down just enough to have evidence?
New Year's resolution?
So I haven't actually read much -- I hope the bus company stayed solvent without my contribution -- but, having experienced the wizardry of modern medicine, I reminded that about a year and a half ago I jammed all 7 Harry Potter books into my brain. Maybe that's when the cataracts developed.
Suffice it to say that I read them all in a very short time, consecutively, and couldn't imagine having to wait a year or more between books (as most people did). I teared up at Dobby's fate. I kept changing my mind about Snape, and found the conclusion entirely satisfying.
Yeah, I got hooked, early and hard. You don't need me to tell you that the Harry Potter books are very, very good. So, I'll tell you the two things that were bad.
I only mention these because they weren't necessary -- just gratuitous screw-ups.
One: the big teen angst in Book 1 is the rivalry between houses, and Harry's house wins because Dumbledore just keep giving it points until it does. Why not just have them win? Or, why not just have Dubledore announce that he wants Griffindor to win and have done with it? Because, obviously, that's exactly what he wants.
Next big flaw is at the end of Book 7. Ginny's mom jumps into the fray at the most dangerous moment and says "Not my daughter!' In real life, she would have been blasted while she was talking. Very dramatic, but stupid.
Geez, am I nitpicking or what???
I'm currently reading Steve Martin's Shopgirl. When I get around to reviewing that one, I'll try to find two good things to highlight.
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