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.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
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.
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