Review of Natsume Soseki's "Kokoro"

This novel, one of Natsume Soseki’s last and written on the cusp of Japan’s epochal rise to becoming a world power, reflects the author’s preoccupation with conflicting cultural attitudes in the transition from the feudalist Late Tokugawa Shogunate to the capitalist, more modernized Japan it would become during the Meiji Restoration. Of course, this period wasn’t just marked with bureaucratic, political, and military reforms; it also trickled down into the personal lives, families, and friendships, and this intensely personal impact is what Soseki looks at here.

“Kokoro” tells the story of a narrator who sees a man walking down a beach one day; he eventually befriends this man who we only come to know as “Sensei.” The development of their relationship and growing friendship forms the first part of the book’s tripartite structure. The narrator repeatedly emphasizes his own naiveté in contrast with the worldliness and cynicism of Sensei. Sensei is a guarded man who is old enough to work but chooses not to (we never get the impression that this is out of laziness), has few close friends, and doesn’t wear his emotions on his sleeve. While the innocent young narrator initially sees Sensei as the stereotypical older wise man, he slowly begins to realize that he has something unique to teach him. 

When the Emperor dies, his beloved General Nogi commits junshi, ritual suicide after the death of one’s feudal lord or master. Being a man of the old Tokugawa era, this act evokes more of a reaction in the Sensei than it does in the younger narrator – another sign that Soseki is telling the story of a generational and cultural divide. When Sensei sees General Nogi kill himself out of loyalty for the Emperor, he realizes that he doesn’t feel comfortable in this new Meiji dispensation, with the “modern age, so full of freedom, independence, and our own egotistical selves.” 

The second part, “My Parents and I,” sees the narrator’s father’s health start to decline, which leaves his future as a very recent college graduate very uncertain. He and his brother are both curious about what the will has in store for them, but the recent manner in which General Nogi died brutally underscores the new era’s selfish interest in material things. The last part consists of a very long letter that Sensei wrote to the narrator before he too decides to commit suicide. We learn of his youth, his family, and an episode during his time as a student (that I won’t reveal here) that ties together all the facets of Sensei’s personality and finally completely reveals who he is. 

Throughout the novel, the prose is spare, sharp, lean, and clear. Even Sensei’s voice, in his extended letter, varies very little stylistically from that of the narrator. This spare quality adds a sense of quiet distance between the reader and the story, which perhaps for more harmonious reflection. The language may just be the product of a particularly good translation, but I found the writing well suited to describing the characters and the Soseki’s themes: human frailty, the inevitability of the culture clash, the unrelenting quality of modernity, and confrontation with one’s troubled youth.

Review of Allan Bloom's "The Closing of the American Mind"

Unless you were attending a university when this book was published, or have a special interest in the general ongoing dialogue we call the culture wars, "The Closing of the American Mind" may not be on your radar. When it first came out in 1987, it caused quite a fracas and became, I'm sure to everyone's (including Allan Bloom’s) surprise, a bestseller. It's difficult for me to imagine a book by an unprepossessing University of Chicago professor on the debilitating effects of Heidegger and Nietzsche on higher education becoming a bestseller today. This may only serve to bolster Bloom's case that the "liberal" attitude of openness has gone a few steps too far.

Or it might be the direct effect of Bloom's "voice" - which is, despite what any of his intellectual confreres say, by turns elitist, rankly unegalitarian, and possibly anti-democratic in content; in tone, he often comes off as the curmudgeonly old grandfather shaking his newspaper at you and telling you to get off of his lawn. I personally have no problem with the elitism or anti-democratic attitudes when it comes to teaching. There are, quite simply, some books that are better than others, and some ideas that are better than others, and having to pretend otherwise is simply to play the ostrich's game of sticking our heads in the sand. The better books should be taught for the moral education of the student body while inferior books should be set aside (surely to be picked up by many people who, after graduating from university and having been introduced to the greats, choose to eschew them and read pulp instead.) I, like Bloom, regret that recent American culture has lost the sense of education as a kind of moral training. Bloom's critics, however, also do him the grave disservice of hitching his tone onto the wagon that is the content of his intellectual argument. Who's going to take this cranky old man seriously - who sees an uncontrollable sexual release in a young teenage boy unashamedly gyrating his hips to rock 'n' roll, who unabashedly and unashamedly blames affirmative action as one of the contributing factors in the decadence of the contemporary American university, and whose explanation of the breakdown of the American family (if there indeed has been such a thing) is, quite charitably, described as "old-fashioned."

Bloom's argument is large and multifaceted; no review of a few hundred words could deal with it in all its complexity. What it claims at its base, though, is that certain attitudes popular in the sixties and seventies - universal acceptance, universal tolerance, the slow erosion of critical faculties - which eventually came to shape the minds of university students and even how university are administered. He claims, after Nietzsche, that we live in a time "beyond good and evil" - that is, where we have ceased not only looking for the differences in good versus bad (he archly points out that we describe nothing as "evil" anymore), but that we don't even know how to discern those differences. For Bloom, the moral education must consist of "a vision of the moral universe, reward for good, punishment for evil, and the drama of moral choices." That is, at the very least, an education in critical moral discernment. He argues that this is all but gone.

He claims - dubiously, I think - that he noticed a steep drop in the number of students who were interested in the "Great Books" from the time when he first started teaching in the United States in the early sixties to the time of writing this book. At many stages in his argument, Bloom seems to have counterfactually reimagined a world in which students walked into the university already well-versed in Plato, Homer, Stendahl, and Hegel, Aristotle, eager to be filled to the brim with The Wisdom Of The Masters. I think everyone was exposed to Homer in high school, but how many of us took it "seriously" - what Bloom would call seriously? Were they familiar with the importance of “xenia” and the “oikos” in Homer? (And no, you don’t get translations of those words.) I can speak from personal experience that many of teachers themselves didn't have the intellectual background to teach Homer this rigorously. 

Richard Heffner, one of Bloom’s interlocutors following the popular press cavalcade after the release of the book, suggested during his interview with the professor that being an elitist might mean “thinking some questions are better answered by Hegel than by Joyce Brothers.” By that measure, I would imagine the vast majority of intelligent people are in fact elitists. Knowledge properly used and appropriately fostered quite simply makes you a better person. I think even the most obnoxious paladins of popular culture would admit that there is intellectual territory that Oprah’s Book Club hasn’t yet broached.

You may vehemently disagree with much of what Bloom has to say, or at least how he says it (it would put you in good company), but this comes highly suggested for anyone who thinks that answers to life’s “higher and deeper” questions deserve our most serious consideration. It serves as an honest refutation against the idea a few easy shibboleths of our times: that all answers are equally good, all educations are equally fulfilling and worthy, and all truths are equally valid.

Review of Carlo Levi's "Christ Stopped at Eboli"

This book was recommended to me probably eight years ago by a delightful old woman who worked with me by the name of Eleanor Jordan. I’d never heard of the book before, and didn’t think much of it for several years. One day, I saw it while browsing, picked it up, and just recently decided to read it, intermittently thinking of Eleanor. The title combined with the brief content summary she provided me prompted me to ask, “What is it? Fiction? A travel guide?” She just answered with her usual candor. “Just read it!” she would say. So I finally did.

There are heavily autobiographical elements in the book, so it’s difficult to tell where the memories begin and the actual history ends. Levi was an Italian doctor who wrote against Mussolini in the thirties and was exiled because of it, in the little town Gagliano (not its real name), for about a year in 1935; the next year, he and several other political prisoners were freed under general amnesty. The events in this book take place during that year, and but were only written down several years later, 1943-1944, when he was writing for an Underground resistance paper called “La Nazione del Popolo” in Florence.

The title ironically undercuts the entire book. The people of Gagliano say that “Christ stopped short of here, at Eboli” which means that the people of the town have not grown accustomed to human and humane things: Christian civilization, morality, any kind of historical progress. Levi’s carefully attentive documentation of their life challenges his self-perceived isolation; their life is as full of all the sadness, beauty, and joy that anyone else’s is. Gagliano isn’t the blessed paradise that we hear about from Peace Corps volunteers; it has just as many brigands, self-satisfied bureaucrats, and generation-long family rivalries as any other village where presumably “Christ did stop.”

Eventually, Levi is released as a political prisoner and therefore no longer obliged to stay there – but he finds it difficult to leave, even further testament to the humanity and likeability of its inhabitants. He returns to Florence to work with the Resistance, but never forgets his year-long stay at Gagliano. Like the American writer William Kennedy’s Albany cycle of novels, this book belongs to a rather small class in which a gifted writer goes to some small corner of the world, though his fictive craft makes it magical and wondrous, and then invites the entire world to come and see.

Review of Jeanette Winterson's "The Passion"

Several years ago, I read Jeanette Winterson's “Written On The Body,” which made a tremendous impression on me, and unfortunately I haven't found my way to another Winterson novel until now. What struck me most about her writing then and still what attracts me the most is her command of an innovative, unique style that reminds me of a melange of the best of Robertson Davies, Angela Carter, and Borges. It has a fantastical quality all its own that seems quite separate from magical realism, and in my opinion is much more engaging.

The novel comes in a tiny package, but there's plenty to think about. One of the leitmotifs is the idea of passion in all its forms – war, human love, gambling, the epicurean passions of the sybarite. The character of Villanelle, the daughter of a Venetian boatman who at night masquerades as a man in the Felliniesque casinos of her city, allows the novel just as openly to play with themes of identity and gender – a continuing them in Winterson's fiction.

Henri is a professional soldier in Napoleon's army, fatefully chosen to be the tender of the Emperor's larders as he makes the monomaniacal decision to invade Russia – in the winter, which the characters call “a zero winter.” Villanelle is a fascinating character: married to a vile man, she ends up getting sold into Napoleon's army as a prostitute for community use. Villanelle and Henry meet as Napoleon's army is finally collapsing under its own weight, and Henri has made the decision to desert, along with Patrick, an eccentric priest with a history all his own. During their journey back to Italy, Henri and Villanelle fall in love.

After they finally make it back home, he rescues her beating heart from a Venetian palace, places it back into her body, goes stark raving mad (like Emperor, like soldier), and is committed to a prison where he is forced to see his beloved row by in her gondola every single day. Just like the end of every other love story you've ever read, right?

Villanelle is also a body of paradoxes – a whore and a savior, a man and a woman, a warrior and a lover. Winterson uses religious imagery to highlight her, and successfully manages to make her dialogue with the character of Henri almost kerygmatic. (The passion of the gospels is possibly still another that Winterson is trying to unearth as the story develops.)

While I may very well go back to my old ways and not read her again for another several years, Jeanette Winterson's fiction deserves some serious attention. You can always expect her to be concerned with the mercurial nature of human love (and especially lesbian love), but beyond that, you will never know the set of tropes she will use to explore it – fantastic historical fiction here, physics in “Gut Symmetries,” a post-apocalyptic hellscape in “The Stone Gods,” or memoir in “Why Be Happy When You Could Be Normal?” But I hope I’ve learned my lesson and don’t neglect her again for nearly as long.

Book Haul #15

The books I discuss are:

Self and Society in Medieval France, the memoirs of Guibert of Nogent

The Knight, the Lady, and the Priest, Georges Duby

Second Skin, John Hawkes

Becoming a Man, Paul Monette

Modern Faith and Thought, Helmut Thielicke

Anecdotes of Destiny and Ehrengard, Isak Dinesen

Selected Novels and Short Stories, Patricia Highsmith

Jesus: An Experiment in Christology, Edward Schillebeeckx

Alone of All Her Sex: The Myth and the Cult of the Virgin Mary, Marina Warner

Review of David Sedaris' "When You Are Engulfed in Flames"

When sitting down to consider the overall experience that I had when reading a writer like David Sedaris, never would it have occurred to me that I would get to show off my knowledge of Eric Havelock or the Parry-Lord thesis. I’ll spare you the details, but I promise the central idea is important: people used to saying things do so much differently than people used to writing things, even when those two sets of things are exactly the same. The example that Parry, Lord, and Havelock were most to cite was Homer, arguably the best-known western writer of pre-literacy. They say that Homer communicates things in such a way that would be very different, and even unnecessary in a literate society, because he simply didn’t have this thing we call “writing.” 

Of course, the Parry-Lord thesis can quickly grow to be much more technically difficult than what I’ve said here, but the basic idea holds. When you’re reading something, the way you experience it is drastically different than from when you hear a raconteur “tell” it (especially a raconteur on the order of Homer). For about a decade, I’ve heard the occasional David Sedaris piece on NPR’s “This American Life” with host Ira Glass, who I imagine to be every bit as painfully awkward and borderline sociopathic as Sedaris is. I’ve never found Glass funny. He is what Philip Roth would have become had he taken up comedy, and one of the words that doesn’t come to mind when I think of Philip Roth is “comedian.” Sedaris, however, got the occasional chuckle out of me. I appreciate a sense of humor that’s off the beaten path, and his reflections on this or that – I somehow never seem to quite remember the content of his stories – did the trick. 

So, I found this in a used bookstore the other day for three dollars (yes, yes, I know it’s a hardback, but even at Goodwill hardbacks are going for three dollars these days), thinking that I would make up for all those times of passing him up in the New Yorker to look at the cartoons. I finished the book yesterday, and if hard-pressed to match the plots of the stories with their titles, I’m still not sure I’d be able to do it – maybe because they hardly ever have anything to do with one another. But I suppose my point is: I find the writing to be incredibly flat, overly indulgent, repetitive, and too autobiographical (if such a criticism can be made). You will hear endlessly that he lives in France, of his international travels, his long-suffering partner Hugh, et cetera. These are incessantly and grindingly shoved in your face, so much so that the book begins to lose the sense that it might have an audience.

The lack of interest in the stories on the page is probably attributable to Sedaris’ whiny, effete voice and overall stage presence. He just so much sounds the persnickety curmudgeon that he can’t help but be occasionally funny. His voice – both its physicality and tender faux sentimentality – are lost on the page. I suppose what I really found funny was his unashamed prissiness, his unmitigated misanthropy – both available, at least to me, only when I hear him reading his stories to a live audience. While even the prissiness and misanthropy can get old after a while, they never even struck me while simply reading him on the page. My reaction to this collection (at least as presented here, in book form)? Eh. I could really take it or leave it. In the future, I’ll probably do more of the latter.

Review of John Williams' "Stoner"

Until recently, I usually begin a book with the same amount of enthusiasm with which I end it. Good books have inviting beginnings, which sustain me through to the end; to be overly simplistic about matters, bad ones can be bad in many different ways (see the first sentence of “Anna Karenina”) but I usually still trudge through due to my half-hearted attempt at self-discipline and genuine belief that To Quit A Book Is A Serious Thing, Indeed. Lately, I’ve been beginning books with one opinion and finishing them with another. “Stoner” was one of those.

It begins as a tight, crisp story, without lingering over any of the main character Stoner’s biographical details too much. Stoner comes from a poor family of farmers and after a few semesters of thinking he is going to get a degree in agriculture, soon finds that his true calling is literature. He pursues an M.A. and a Ph.D. which draws him further away from his family, gets married to a cold, distant debutante named Edith, and has an adorable daughter named – and this is important - Grace. 

As the book and the marriage wear on, Edith becomes more and more inexplicably heartless, tormenting, and cruel, you feel like you’re reading “The Good Soldier” – something Dreiserian in its ability to induce pathos. One of the biggest unsolved mysteries of the novels – and it’s really one that should have been explained more carefully – is why a mild-mannered milquetoast like Stoner would have married a total bitch like Edith. Divorce wasn’t completely unheard of a century ago; they certainly didn’t run in social circles where they had to keep up appearances. So, what gives? 

The one thing the story has going for it is Williams’ refusal to romanticize Stoner, his occupation in academia, or any other aspect of his life. This certainly isn’t an Ivory Tower university (not that those are always so cozy either) where he gets paid to spend hours idling over dusty books in the Rare Books Room; he has several undergraduate classes, teaches a graduate seminar about the influence of Latin literature in late antiquity, and is responsible for a spate of graduate students’ dissertations. In addition to this, he also researches and writes to be published (how little things change over the decades). Well, two things: that and Stoner’s implacable dedication to the profession of teaching. 

Williams was once asked in an interview about Stoner’s life, and if he thought it was “sad.” He responded with an affirmative “no,” that Stoner had an absolutely wonderful life. This good life, full of wonder, can only be adjudged to be such against Stoner’s own standards of what it means to be a teacher and how closely he hewed to them. He was a passionate teacher, even though we’re told in the opening lines that “Stoner’s colleagues, who held him in no particular esteem when he was alive, speak of him rarely now; to the other ones, his name is a reminder of the end that awaits them all, and to the younger ones it is a sound which evokes no sense of the past and no identity with which they can associate themselves or their careers.” 

Let’s be brutally honest here: when all is said and done, the will be said for 99.9% of us. That old Greek wish of being remembered generations and generations hence, which came to easily to Odysseus, just will not come to fruition for most of us. Does that make our lives any less full of wonder, or regret, or even the sublime? Stoner’s life, I think, serves as an answer: “no.” For it is in how we pursue what is most meaningful to us that marks the truest measure of ourselves. As someone more eloquent than myself said in her Goodreads review, “it is about how the inner life redeems the outer.” How simply, and how beautifully said.

Review of Robert Luis Wilcken's "The Spirit of Early Christian Thought"

Anyone who has ever tried to dip their toes into the waters of medieval theology can quickly be overwhelmed by its complexities and occasional rank obscurantism. Wilken, much to his credit, knows his subjects so well that he can distill their most important ideas in historical context (especially important as this book covers a period where much of the known world begins as Roman and pagan and ends several centuries later, when both the Empire and its paganism were gone) and explain how they were important in the development of Christian intellectual history – all while remaining extraordinarily accessible for the reader with no formal knowledge of patristic theology. 

At the heart of the book are two major messages. First, to separate evidence and sensory knowledge from pure faith – very much a temptation for those of us who have been born since the Enlightenment – would have made no sense to the early Church fathers. From the time of Origen and Tertullian, earthly evidence and divine faith were both seen as necessary, and even to feed into one another. Thinking is part of believing, and vice versa. Second, the series of practices that we recognize as early Christianity are undoubtedly social and communal in nature. Wilken stresses over and over again that even the monks would lived in desert confinement for decade after decade, still saw Christianity, at its root, as love for fellow man and community.

The thinkers that he covers are all very important, and range in time from its first couple of centuries to approximately the eighth century, covering the entire harvest of early Christian thought. The most important among them include Justin Martyr, Origen, Clement (and Cyril) of Alexandria, Athanasius, Basil of Caesarea, Ambrose, John Chrysostom, Gregory of Nyssa, Maximus the Confessor – and perhaps the greatest mind the Church has ever known, Saint Augustine. To assist the reader who has minimal familiarity with this rich history of thought, Wilken arranges his discussions topically, with chapter names drawn from an appropriate epigram which opens each chapter. “Founded on the Cross of Christ” discusses how we come to know God, “An Awesome and Unbloody Sacrifice” references worship and the sacraments, and “Seek His Face Always” picks up Trinitarian themes (Trinitarian discussions, as fundamental as they were to early Christology, are not relegated to this one chapter alone). For me, the most fascinating chapters were on a couple of the first Christian poets, and another on importance of the Bible and how the shape and texture of its writing so differed from Greek and Roman literature that it profoundly refigured the ideas of the early fathers. 

While the author covers a wide range of topics that are often considered dry, the overall effect of the book comes across as the passionate history of a fascination with the people Wilken writes about. His vim and vigor for the fathers of the early Church is clear and unmistakable, so much so that the historical figures he presents almost seem whitewashed – pure and almost superhuman. His orthodoxy perhaps results in a lack of thorough criticism on some points where it would have been welcome. However, if you’re looking for critical responses to the fathers, these should not be difficult to find. However, as pure contemporary apology for a centuries-old intellectual tradition, this book stands above many others I have read.

Review of W. Somerset Maughm's "The Moon and Sixpence"

When this was published almost a century ago, I’m sure the story of a man abandoning upper middle-class English life (along with his wife and two children) to pursue the life of a libertine artist in Paris would have packed more of a punch. It’s difficult to write about how and why people do such things beyond just saying, “They must or else, according to the flights of their fanciful imagination, they will wither away and fail to fulfill their truest being.” But alas, that’s not even enough to fill out a short story. Sometimes a short, studied approach like this one works for huge, ponderous questions like the one this novel raises, and sometimes it falls incredibly short. 

Maugham’s writing is best suited to short stories or novels like this one, which has such a “short story feel” to it that it could easily be read in a quick sitting. The only other piece by Maugham I’ve read was “Razor’s Edge” which, though written a whole generation later, I remember having much the same literary style. The writing, especially in the first half, is so artful and balanced, and at the same time epigrammatically clever and playful, as to be unbelievable. Some of the quotations jump off the page and straight into your lap, begging to be included in the next edition of Bartlett’s. While this falls off a bit toward the end, this is one of the few pieces of fiction I have read lately where the simple elegance – and sheer, unrepentant wit - of the style can’t help but strike you. 

Despite the incredibly controlled writing, judged strictly as whether it was able to shed any light onto the artistic process, or why someone would choose to repeatedly endure the gauntlets of the self-critical artist, I learned little here. Charles didn’t strike me as the heartless cad that I’m sure he probably appears to be to other readers; he’s just pursuing what he thinks he needs to be fully happy. Maybe that’s what Maugham is trying to insinuate through the title: that we should appreciate what we have (the moon – most people seem to be perfectly happy with a spouse and two children without fulfilling their need to run away from everything and start all over again), instead of thinking that we can be well-adjusted people and wanting to absolutely have it all. 

Should we hold it against Charles that he makes such a drastic decision? It’s unclear whether Maugham takes delight in punishing Charles, but he certainly weathers a lot of punishment – living in near squalor, dying a slow, painful death. Of course none of this is to say that he couldn’t have mitigated this punishment by being a decent person to Dirk’s wife, who then would have gladly taken him in when he needed her most. Did Charles suffer the fate of being almost wholly unrecognized during his lifetime and the scourge of disease directly because he so eagerly embraced the reckless decision to leave his family? Is Maugham trying to make a moral point? If so, it’s a very subtle one; none of the language in the book comes across as sermonizing in tone.

As with any good story, there are more questions than answers. Charles is certainly supposed to strike us, I would think – to make a forceful point. That point, however, eludes me still. That it might just as easily elude others may have convinced him that he’s nothing but a heartless beast. I’m convinced that he is not one of those. But what is he? That, I don’t know.

Review of Maxine Hong Kingston's "The Woman Warrior"

“The Woman Warrior” is haunted with ghosts: Mexican ghosts, Negro ghosts, white ghosts, janitor ghosts, teacher ghosts, and so on. I don’t mean this to be a paranormal or spiritual observation. Kingston uses the term so casually, we know what she is talking about – a ghost is almost anything or anyone outside of her Chinese-born family – but that still left me wanting a fuller explanation. We don’t get one. So, what is a ghost? It is something that, despite its seeming absence, leaves a trace of itself, a residue that can’t be erased. It’s a metaphor that runs throughout the entire book, and is extraordinarily apropos for a book that is, at its core, about the archetypical clash of two cultures.

I enjoyed the novel as a total reading experience – and I suppose there’s not a lot more you can ask from a book – but I felt because I wasn’t a Chinese woman, that I was missing something vitally important. I figured that most of the people who have probably enjoyed it haven’t been either of these things, so I tried to ignore how awkwardly self-conscious the book made me feel about my own identity, and trudged merrily on. 

The book is about a lot of things – growing up in the United States with parents who were born in their native China; the difficulties one has living with parents who have yet to become properly acculturated even though you as a daughter are already intimately familiar with that culture; even what it means to be Chinese, and how the weight of Chinese history and civil mythology can weigh heavily on someone who hasn’t even set foot in that country. The book is composed of five vignettes or chapters, which don’t flow in a chronological way, but revolve around the same characters: Maxine, her mother, her female Chinese relatives she’s never met. 

I can see how this would have been a punch to the literary establishment’s gut when it was published nearly forty years ago, on the coattails of “Fear of Flying” and a myriad of other works important to the feminist tradition. Not only does Kingston’s story recognize her womanhood and coming to terms with that in a particular time and place in the United States, she complicates matters by recognizing her Chinese heritage, which has very different ideas of what it means to be a good daughter, a feminine woman, and so on.

This has been sitting on my bookshelf staring at me for several years now, and I’m glad that I finally chose to read it. Is it something that I’m likely to ever read again? Probably not. It’s exactly the kind of book that college students across the humanistic disciplines – sociology, anthropology, cultural studies – should be exposed to: horizon-expanding and full of ideas to widen the minds of parochial university freshmen, i.e., kids that need the aforementioned culture clash. Once out of school, many people would never again admit to reading for self-edification. I’m not one of those, and self-edification was part of the reason I read this book. It’s just that every time I stop to think about it, I can’t help but think all over again of how self-conscious it made me of being a privileged white male. I know, I know. #FirstWorldProblems

Review of Robert Musil's "The Confusions of Young Torless"

Despite its obvious second-class status behind Musil’s much more canonical “The Man Without Qualities,” this novel’s reputation still precedes it. Sometimes this can present an interpretive problem, and I think that is what happens here. Considering the overt mixture of both violence and masochism and their relationship to (especially political) power and the date of publication (1906), Musil’s novel is bound to be read as a critique of what “he saw coming” – the failure and abdication of Kaiser Wilhelm II, the promise of a democratic Weimar Republic, and the eventual rise of the National Socialists and breakdown of liberal parliamentarianism as Germany had known it up to that point. There are certainly instances in which political circumstances are paramount in the consideration of a piece of fiction. I would never argue that this is an exception. However, to argue that Musil anticipated something like the rise of fascism an entire generation before it came to be would be to commit the critical mistake of a posteriori reasoning. 

The novel is horrifying enough without any knowledge of pre-Weimar Germany, but the entire piece – essentially a novel-length reflection on the brutality of power gone awry – can be read with political implications still. The novel opens with Torless being delivered by his blithely unsuspecting parents to an all boys boarding school. The events revolve around Torless (whose first name we never learn) and three others boys: Reiting, Beineberg, and Basini. One day Torless, Reiting, and Beineberg catch Basini stealing some money from one of the follow boys, and begin to threaten and ostracize him over it; in time, this turns into physical abuse, and eventually Reiting and Beineberg “taking turns” violently sodomizing Basini. 

Instead of evoking a pure disgust in Torless, a complex mixture of pure sexual passion and moral confusion ensues which provides the forward momentum for the novel. Torless’ own less-than-ambiguous homosexuality only adds to his feeling as an outsider, and to his “confusions.” He is at once physically drawn to Basini’s small, tender, epicene physique, but revolted by the violence that he endures at the hands of those who he thought to be his friends. When Torless finally advises Basini to report his abuse, a formal investigation comes to an unsurprising conclusion, but I won’t spoil it here. 

During his testimony, Torless gives a bewildering speech on the nature of the rational and irrational. It consists of an expansion on what Reiting says earlier in the novel in regards to torturing Basini: “If everyone, and there are no many, contributes just enough it’s enough to tear him to pieces. I like these mass movements as a rule. No one intends to do anything in particular and yet the waves grow ever higher until they crash together over everyone’s heads. You’ll see, no one will stir, yet there will be a raging storm. It gives me extraordinary pleasure to stage something like that” (130-131). Words like these, from the mouths of babes, make it easier to understand why “The Confusions of Young Torless” is so easily read as Musil trying to be yet another author-prognosticator.

Review of Wole Soyinka's "Ake: The Years of Childhood"

Wole Soyinka, the first African to ever be awarded the Noble Prize in Literature, grew up in Nigeria in the fifties, when both his native country and much of the rest of Africa was still roiling under imperial European rule. To no one’s surprise, this results in a memoir that very much reads as if the writer is being torn between two priorities, two sets of values, two worlds. Soyinka’s “Ake: The Years of Childhood,” which cover his earliest memories up through approximately age eleven, is no different: he grew up in a world of ancestral religious, social, and cultural practices that mostly coincided easily with, but occasionally butted heads, with the imperial English culture with which it had to share its lebensraum. 

This volume of Soyinka’s memoirs (there are several more by now: see below) is bound up mostly with his domestic life, though later there are memorable recollections of an emerging political consciousness which I’ll mention later. His father (“Essay”) is a local schoolmaster; his mother (“Wild Christian”), the very embodiment of a free spirit who occasionally takes in boarders to their house. Because the memoir uses the limited perspective of a very young boy in a mostly domestic environment, the voice can have the naiveté of a boy this age; however it never has the provincialism that you would expect to accompany that innocence. From the very first episodes of the story, we are able to envision him as a vibrant, curious, enthusiastic, and very precocious little boy. 

Though he is stuck at home, the family’s recent acquisition of a new television set gives Wole an initial way of understanding the complex political world around him. He heard of Hitler faintly and vaguely knew that he was an important figure. Later in “Ake,” Soyinka begins to track the actions of a group called the Egba Women’s Union which fights against excessive taxation. Wild Christian becomes prominent in the Union and begins a series of talks with the Alake of Egbaland, a native administrator.

Soyinka’s recollections of his early childhood resemble the kind of person I have seen him to be in interviews – joyous, thoughtful, intellectually curious, and appreciative. He displays the kind of wonderment and delight that we can only hope to have in fully grown adults. From the first chapter which describes the beautiful geography around Ake to the tumultuous politics of colonial Nigeria, the reader walks away from this memoir feeling that he has inhabited the shoes of a child who is bigger than the land that contains him, but at the same time will grow up to write its stories and tell its histories like none of his contemporaries have. Oh, and the language. The language! I will not quote anything directly, but suffice is to say that’s simply magisterial. 

To compliment this volume, readers might also be interested in “Isara: A Voyage Around Essay” (1989) which deals with the years directly before the ones in “Ake,” “Ibadan: The Penkelemes Years” (1994) which discusses tracks Soyinka’s life after “Ake” through the time of his arrest and two-year imprisonment, “The Man Died: Prison Notes” (1972) detailing those two horrific years, and most recently “You Must Set Forth at Dawn” (2006), about his experiences from young manhood until publication.

Review of David Bohm's "On Dialogue"

David Bohm, the author of “On Dialogue,” was apparently recognized as one of the greatest theoretical physicists of the twentieth century. Despite my background in physics, I’d never heard of his contributions to the field, and I’d certainly never heard of his contributions to other fields, including … well, whatever you could call this book. Is it philosophy? Communications? I know it’s not an attempt at literary theory, but some of it seems to resemble it. It fancies itself a visionary way of reimagining and reawakening the power of human communication, but much of it sounds like New Age occultism – spooky and obscurantist, weird and much of it frankly unfounded.

Bohm thinks that following his recommendations will result in a kind of enhanced, unbiased conversation (which he insists on calling “dialogue”) between people that will help foster a common sense of humanity, and that our dialogue with one another has been irrevocably tainted by personal ambition and unexamined prejudices. Because we have these presuppositions, we can only engage in “conversations” (which is somehow very different from dialogue, which is the idealized type of human interaction). How conversation is different from dialogue is never really discussed. The way we can reestablish this most meaningful type of human connection is by letting go of these ambitions and prejudices.

He says that dialogue should ideally begin with no set purpose, no leader, and no hidden assumptions or opinions which will only serve to make you defensive during the course of the dialogue. Now, gentle reader, there is a difference between suspending opinions which might be culturally or religiously biased, which is something I would completely understand doing to open a dialogue fully up, and what Bohm is asking us to do in this book. He seems to want us to sit and listen to absolutely anyone say anything they sincerely believe. But the problem with sincerity is this: it and four dollars will buy you a cup of coffee at Starbucks. 

Considering that Bohm is a scientist and is ostensibly on the hunt for something resembling truth about the physical world, this is somewhat disheartening to read. Do I need to suspend my judgments about the absurdity of Holocaust denial when I speak to someone who actually denies historical reality? Or fail to adduce the evidence that the Earth is roughly spherical to a flat Earther while engaged in a conversation with one? For someone who thinks that the scientific endeavor is something other than an utterly futile one, how can someone genuinely think these things? To request that we listen to varying opinions, measure their respective amounts of evidence, and adopt the one that has the most explanatory power all the while maintaining a cool head about those who have very different ideas from our own is a very good idea. Actually engaging people with ridiculous, patently false ideas is another. Not only is it silly, but it’s dangerous. There are some people who should be disabused of their false ideas. In fact, if that’s not the main point of dialogue, it should be one of its major reasons for existing. To say that dialogue shouldn’t be used for the purpose of convincing people of things we know to be true is detrimental to the idea of any kind of human interaction, especially if you believe that some things are true and some things aren’t.

This is mostly a collection of ad hoc work, with only a couple of pieces having been previously published elsewhere. Most of what I spoke about above is found in the first piece, “On Dialogue.” The subsequent pieces serve to expound upon the first in minor, tangential ways, and none of them seemed as egregious as what was set forward in the first piece. If this is the kind of uncritical work that Bohm is known for, I think I can safely bypass his other stuff and regard him for what he is: a physicist who should stick to doing what he knows best.

Review of Edward J. Larson's "Summer for the Gods"

The Scope Trial (occasionally referred to with both contempt and fondness as “The Monkey Trial”) has a life of its own, and much of that life has little or nothing to do with what actually occurred in Dayton, Tennessee during the summer of 1925 when William Jennings Bryan and Clarence Darrow met to defend the merits of the case. Lawrence and Lee’s 1955 play “Inherit the Wind” and the film based off it five years later form much of the basis for popular (but ultimately false) ideas about the trial. And of course it doesn’t help matters that the topics of science and religious have been held to be, at least in the popular imagination, mortal enemies. 

In “Summer for the Gods,” Edward J, Larson retells the story of the trial stripped of all the mythology, without compromising readability or interest for the layperson. Larson is both a law and history professor, so he’s in a unique position to clarify the historical content and the legal matters. He does a stupendous job of doing both. 

Not that the idea of media sensationalism is anything new, but one of the things I liked most about this book was that it shows exactly how the trial was, in many ways, a Potemkin village. As soon as the Butler Act (the statute which prevented the teaching of evolutionary theory in science classrooms in the state of Tennessee) was passed, the newly founded ACLU offered to defend anyone prosecuted by the state for breaking the law. Their plan – for the case to work its way up through the courts and eventually find itself in the Supreme Court docket – didn’t go exactly as planned.

The trial ended up bringing names that spelled the worst kind of boosterism for the beleaguered small-town residents of Dayton who had probably never seen the likes of the media circus they witnessed for those several days – two of the country’s best-known attorneys, Clarence Darrow for the defense and William Jennings Bryan heading up the prosecution. Darrow was fresh out of defending accused murders Leopold and Loeb, whose trial had only a year before also been breathlessly called in the media “the trial of the century”; Bryan was a decade out of his two-year stint as Woodrow Wilson’s Secretary of State, from which he resigned due to the international buildup of the First World War. He was a staunch progressive – back when “progressive” meant, among other things, supporting prohibition and belief in Biblical literalism. How times change.

The issues on the table? Well, they weren’t anything resembling what recent similar cases – say Dover v. Kitzmiller – argued. Bryan’s legal arguments really had very little to do with the merits of science or evolutionary theory. Instead, he argued on majoritarian grounds that if a state law is passed, it was obviously the will of the people and, having gained the appropriate number of votes in the legislature and being signed by the governor, it was constitutionally legitimate. It was much more of a states’ rights, or even a people’s rights, approach than the imagined epic battle between science and religion. The lynchpin of the defense was to get Bryan to testify and ultimately push him into a corner about the proclaimed literal truth of Genesis. A little spoiler alert: despite Darrow’s attempt to utterly embarrass and confound Bryan by getting him on the witness stand and grilling him on the timeline of the events in Old Testament (probably the most historically accurate part of the trial that people would remember) the trial ends in a way that most people who don’t know much about it wouldn’t anticipate. The presiding judge dismisses Bryan’s testimony as irrelevant, and Scopes loses. And since the Bryan’s purpose isn’t to shame Scopes or even make him a personal target, he magnanimously offered to pay the $100 fine for Scope’s conviction, which never had to be paid anyway, since the fine was overturned by a higher court. 

Being one of the many whose sole knowledge of the Scopes Trial was based mostly on the play and what was casually bandied about in high school science books, I appreciated Larson’s approach, as full of it is of equanimity and balance. Larson says a few things that make it rather obvious where he falls in the “debate” insofar as there is one (and among professional biologists, there really isn’t): he can look down condescendingly on Bryan on the witness stand trying to defend his ultra-literal view of Genesis, but those of us who credit science where it is due have a hard time not having a little fun at Bryan’s expense. Go read, then watch “Inherit The Wind.” Then as a good counterbalance, and some reliable history, read this. It’s one of the best books on science and religion I’ve had the pleasure of reading in a while.

Review of Jeffrey Burton Russell's "Mephistopheles: The Devil in the Modern World"

To be frank, I haven’t read any of the previous three of Jeffery Burton Russell’s books which together comprise a “history of the Devil” from antiquity through the twentieth century. I started at the end, because the only other volume I own, the third in the series, is packed away in a box somewhere and it didn’t have the chance to catch my eye. The reason why series like these attract me so much is beyond me – maybe I’m just drawn to big, unwieldy reading projects. However, judging from the last volume alone, this seems to be at a superficial treatment, with little to offer someone already interested in the history of religious ideas.

This volume picks up with the beginning of the Reformation, whose emphasis on sola fide revitalized older medieval ideas of diabology. Some interesting, and scary, fragments of Martin Luther’s life are retold, including the tidbit that one of his most important biographers, Heiko Oberman, described Luther’s whole existence as a “war with Satan.” He also uses this section of the book to look at the diabology of John Calvin and sixteenth-century mystic-contemplatives St. John of the Cross and Teresa of Avila. 

With the appearance of the Enlightenment, increasing popularity of empiricism, rationalism, and use of the scientific method, people started to take diabology – or at least the possible existence of the Devil – much less seriously (which is hardly a surprise). In this section of the book, Chapter III, the reader gets a plodding, thirty page-long piece of exegesis on Milton’s “Paradise Lost,” which while it is a poem largely about the Devil, seems to consist of too much summary and too much ham-handed literary analysis. Its appearance is abrupt and completely out of place in an otherwise smooth (at least until that this point) history of ideas. 

When Russell begins to talk about the Enlightenment and some of its most prominent thinkers, he weirdly and biliously starts tossing around pejoratives, like “propagandist.” He doesn’t seem to except the modern biological consensus position on evolution, stating “new reflections on randomness and time suggest that even in billions of years the information of intelligent life by random processes is virtually impossible,” though he intelligently stops short of trying to argue that a supernaturally intelligent being is responsible for the diversity of life on Earth (p. 151). 

He has a particular dislike for Hume, especially his argument against miracles, which Russell again endlessly belabors, attempts to rebut, and fails. He hilariously claims that de Sade is the “logical conclusion of atheism” – an interesting admission concerning an author whose work perhaps more than any other in the eighteenth century confirms the existence of evil in the world. He reads de Sade as an inveterate misanthrope and sexual deviant (which is much too easy) instead of as an ironist who is actually trying to make cogent points about the very real existence of good and evil in society. None of this bodes well for his reading of Goethe’s “Faust” – which is much shorter than his reading of Milton, though just as uninteresting. 

The overall tone of this book comes across as a later-day apology for religious ideas which don’t really jibe with modernity, which probably explains his hostility to several facets of it. Russell’s obvious trouble reconciling himself to commonly accepted scientific positions (like evolution), the long, meandering renditions of literary works (of which I only mentioned two, but there are several more of less important writers), and his obvious disdain for the Enlightenment make for a perfect storm which make this book both sad and funny to read. Russell’s specialization is the medieval time period, so maybe I just caught him trying to tie up loose ends in a historical period with which he has little familiarity. This can be forgiven. As soon as third volume finds its way out of a box and onto a bookshelf, I might pick it up.

Review of Joaquim Maria Machado de Assis' "Dom Casmurro"

“Dom Casmurro” is one of those books that, if you had the good fortune of given a solid Brazilian education in the humanities, you would be quite familiar with. In fact, de Assis is still regularly assigned in literature classes there, and is regarded as one of the greatest writers working in the Portuguese language in the nineteenth century. It’s one of those serendipities of history that we Anglophones don’t know him better; as many commentaries on the novel all too enthusiastically point out, he displays some unusual parallels to writers whose names are more familiar to our ears, namely Flaubert, Balzac, and Zola. 

On the surface, it’s a simple enough love story between Bento, a young boy whose mother has ambitions of him becoming a seminarian and his beloved Capitu. Bento actually goes to the seminary for a short time and meets and befriends a fellow seminarian named Escobar. There is a possibility that Escobar also loves Capitu, but de Assis leaves this wonderfully ambiguous. Flaubert, however, never played with the unreliable narrator to the extent that de Assis does in this novel. Because of the open ambiguity of Escobar’s feelings, Bento and his ravenous jealousy are left to narrate the novel as they will – and it does seem that his jealousy becomes a character all its own. It shapes the entire world of Escobar’s intentions, all the while never leaving Capitu the time to shape her own or explain her actions. Does Bento have reason to feel this jealousy, or is it all just a figment of his own imagination? 

These questions, which would otherwise form a good denouement for the action, are never resolved. You’re left in the position that Bento is, examining the minute details of his relationship for signs of Capitu’s infidelity. It’s difficult to tell whether someone like Ford Madox Ford knew of de Assis’ work , but if he did I wouldn’t be the least surprised. The similarities with “The Good Soldier” (which postdates this novel by fifteen years) are uncanny: the use of the unreliable narrator in the examination of a love triangle (or is it even a triangle at all?) is extraordinarily riveting and effective. For those weaned on the European canon and interested in branching out and finding new writers whose names might not be as well-recognized in the English-speaking world, you could do a lot worse than Machado de Assis.

Review of Eric A. Havelock's "The Muse Learns to Write"

About 28 centuries ago, one of the most importance occurrences in what would eventually become Europe took place: the sudden evolution of the Phoenician syllabary into the full Greek alphabet we know today. Before this time, absolutely all information had to be transmitted orally: from contracts between parties to how to become a Greek citizen to knowledge of everything from your complex family genealogy to how to engage on the battlefield. Two scholars, Milman Parry and Albert Lord, together proposed an idea which would have allowed all pre-literate poets (like Homer) to improvise their poetry; it also gives a cohesive set of explanations concerning why Homeric poetry looks the way it does. Their thesis, later picked up by the likes of Walter Ong and Eric Havelock, is called the Parry-Lord thesis. “The Muse Learns to Write” is Havelock’s last major work and mostly a book-length meditation on the Parry-Lord thesis. It is also a summa which tries to recapitulate an entire career’s worth of ideas while tying up loose ends. Because of this, its length – under 130 pages – it seem like a short, precursory introduction into the idea of orality. It is far more complex than its length would initially lead you to assume.

Havelock, for many years a Sterling Professor of the classics at Yale, is interested not so much in the shape of Homeric poetry, but rather the forms that occurred in human consciousness that were caused by the shift from orality to literacy. Also, how does this important transition inflict itself also upon the texts themselves, deforming or reshaping their meaning and content? 

Some questions are so important that they may be almost counted to be scandalous: “One of the difficulties of thinking about language is that you have to use language to think about it. A linguistic act has to be directed upon itself. Once written down, the act could be visualized and this visual this could be separated from the act of speaking and laid out in a kind of visual map. But what was the nature and significance of the speaking act itself? What has been its role in man’s history?” (Havelock, 34). According to Havelock, not even the emergence of Greek philosophy escaped the influence of the orality-literacy transition. He cites the unique character of Plato, whose denunciation of poetry as a form of rhetorical decadence marks a sharp break from his own written prose (a prose which, should be noted, is highly indicative of his own background as a dramatist). Since so much of philosophy was born of Plato’s dramatic dialogues involving Socrates, we have to ask ourselves whether even the most basic presuppositions of philosophy – ideas of freedom, individuality, and what it means to know could not have gone untransformed by the orality-literacy transition. 

Havelock goes on to present both a general and specific theory of Greek orality, as well as looking at the work of people whose work is closely related to his own, like Marshall McLuhan and Harold McInnis. For a one-stop précis of Havelock’s work, this is a wonderful place to start. As I said above, this is a summa, so it touches on many ideas, especially the ones on the orality-literacy break, which is most fully set forward in his earlier and more scholarly book “Preface to Plato” (1963).