It seems fitting that the narrator of this book never bothers to share his name. Perhaps it is an effort to portray him as a everyman in his early 20's. During the period when I read the bulk of the book, I was visiting my brother and delivering to him a copy of the The Big Lebowski by Joel Cohen. Both Chris and the Dude share a seemingly fate based view of the the evolution of one's life. Decisions can be made in the moment, but the circumstances that bring about that moment and generally the results of those decisions made in the moment are completely out of the believer's control.
The life which results from such a belief system cab be tempting. Depending on the stringent-ness of one's morality and a ever adjusting base level physical and emotional necessity, these Fatalists will find themselves occasionally in very comfortable circumstances. Unfortunately, as the unnamed narrator, Arthur Nersesian's fuck-up, discovers he who has no real hand in achieving good fortune has no way of ensuring its continuance. Sadly, Nersesian seems more of an Anglo-Saxon than Cohen or Curtis in his particular take on fate. The fuck-up is doomed to suffer the Wyrd of life. When he drifts loose in the world, things generally take a turn for the worse.
The narrator eventually settles on a life which would have been viewed as confining at the novel's beginnings, but the view from the hardest of rock bottom holes can make the mediocre seem acceptable, even satisfying.
The story was well written, and I read it with interest, but did not find nearly as much amusement in the fuck-up's suffering as I believe that the author had intended. Yet perhaps this was the intervention of my own fears. Identifying with or recognizing the fuck-up in one's own life is its most satisfying when one's own fuck-up has either emerged from this ideology or been a friend of karma. Otherwise, visualising a grown man getting deservedly beaten with bats by a junior high school baseball team isn't as much amusing as it is sad.
Saturday, March 31, 2007
Friday, March 30, 2007
Ragtime: and here I thought it was a crappy musical
I got into the writing of E.L. Doctorow two summers ago when I saw a three volume book on my friend's shelf. As it turns out I was incorrectly intrigued. I had read the man's name as the suave, and very clearly Spanish, El Doctorow. Amusingly, a similar misconception kept me from reading Ragtime even though I had enjoyed the mafioso adventures of Billy Bathgate, which had been my introduction to the author. All I knew of Ragtime was that it was a musical, and I am, possibly quite pigheadedly, no great fan of musicals in general.
The story of Ragtime is an historical fiction. Now, though I believe that I have only read a few of these types of fictions before, all have generally been enjoyed and one in particular, Little Big Man by Thomas Berger, was a favorite of mine for a long time in high school. Ragtime drew me in particularly quick, due in part to it choice of historical figures to include: Houdini, a beleaguered showman who worked always on the edge of death, frequently walked the line of high entertainer and lower class entertainment. Anarchist Emma Goldman, was also intermittently present throughout the story, ironical acted as one of the most stable figures in this story of the early part of America's twentieth century. She more than any of the other characters realized the size and and stink of the bullshit that was the American dream at this time.
That is what Ragtime represented to me, what has come to be the omni-present reality of America: purported opportunity for all, as long as it advances or does not hinder the rollicking ambitions of America's upper echelon. The were characters who saw the dream realized, who climbed from the stink of NY slum tenements to find an America where one could transform themselves into mysterious European Baron. After all, no one questions the claims of the wealthy and successful.
Yet, a character, such the as fictitious jazz musician Coalhouse Porter would find the world of Ragtime to be a place when you could only climb as far as a community's prejudice would allow. Yet, one could not live in this time, rise a little way, and not expect a system of justice and even-mindedness to rule in your favor. The failure of the system to do satisfy, the realization of what Goldman knew all along, that the American Dream is no more than a cardboard, Hollywood set piece, is a devastating blow for those who aren't cynical enough to see it coming.
What is to be done when a entire belief system is ripped away? Some, like the father of the family at the center of the novel, waste away, while others, like Coalhouse, reveal the true, unfathomable cost to an arrogant system when it believes that all men will go so quietly.
Where, on this sad spectrum, would your reaction would fall if you were faced with a similar collapse of all in which you once held faith? If you can, drop me a line when we get there, I, for my part, will try to do the same.
The story of Ragtime is an historical fiction. Now, though I believe that I have only read a few of these types of fictions before, all have generally been enjoyed and one in particular, Little Big Man by Thomas Berger, was a favorite of mine for a long time in high school. Ragtime drew me in particularly quick, due in part to it choice of historical figures to include: Houdini, a beleaguered showman who worked always on the edge of death, frequently walked the line of high entertainer and lower class entertainment. Anarchist Emma Goldman, was also intermittently present throughout the story, ironical acted as one of the most stable figures in this story of the early part of America's twentieth century. She more than any of the other characters realized the size and and stink of the bullshit that was the American dream at this time.
That is what Ragtime represented to me, what has come to be the omni-present reality of America: purported opportunity for all, as long as it advances or does not hinder the rollicking ambitions of America's upper echelon. The were characters who saw the dream realized, who climbed from the stink of NY slum tenements to find an America where one could transform themselves into mysterious European Baron. After all, no one questions the claims of the wealthy and successful.
Yet, a character, such the as fictitious jazz musician Coalhouse Porter would find the world of Ragtime to be a place when you could only climb as far as a community's prejudice would allow. Yet, one could not live in this time, rise a little way, and not expect a system of justice and even-mindedness to rule in your favor. The failure of the system to do satisfy, the realization of what Goldman knew all along, that the American Dream is no more than a cardboard, Hollywood set piece, is a devastating blow for those who aren't cynical enough to see it coming.
What is to be done when a entire belief system is ripped away? Some, like the father of the family at the center of the novel, waste away, while others, like Coalhouse, reveal the true, unfathomable cost to an arrogant system when it believes that all men will go so quietly.
Where, on this sad spectrum, would your reaction would fall if you were faced with a similar collapse of all in which you once held faith? If you can, drop me a line when we get there, I, for my part, will try to do the same.
Saturday, March 24, 2007
The Screwtape Letters unveil the devil in my mind
About time that I finally post to the 25 books archive. My only excuse, in honor of my first post, is that the devil made me delay. The Screwtape Letters is a correspondence between two devils, which C.S. Lewis claims he happened across during his various journeys and musings.
What it is in actuality, is a reverse indoctrination to Lewis' particular brand of Christianity. It was a book that had long sat neglected upon my shelf and was finally read as a stealthy addition to my British Literature curriculum. Ahh, the pleasure of a, in many ways, former Roman Catholic exploring his religious foundations and the very reasons religion can be abandoned with public school children. Separation of Church and State my foot!
As Screwtape, the primary narrator, instructed his nephew Wormwood on the various excellent ways of corrupting a patient (any one of us), I was surprised by how often my own excuses and reasons for abandoning a christian god came flowing from the mouths of devils. Suggested as the perfect methods of corruption over and again were distraction, a skewed perspective on reality, and an overconfidence in human intelligence and understanding.
Reading Cappy's reflection on The Unbearable Lightness of Being I am reminded of another of Screwtape's corrosive ways. The devil says that it is acceptable for us to read, even extensively, the thoughts of past philosophers, as long as we regard them as something to be classified, placed coldly in reference to their own time and place, but never regarded as a possible truth. Though in the case of Cappy's introduction, Screwtape would smile widely, even better than not viewing a reading a personally relevant is to view the works of the past or of the mind as an allergen, something to be given a wide berth.
Beyond the war against religion and religious thought, the subtext of the reading is that most dangerous (if you are a devil or a suspicious former Catholic) reality: god never gives up on us. No matter how far we may wander into darker territory, Lewis reminds us that all we need to do to throw off Screwtape and his treacherous ways is recognize the god who has been invisibly by our side all along and follow him home.
What it is in actuality, is a reverse indoctrination to Lewis' particular brand of Christianity. It was a book that had long sat neglected upon my shelf and was finally read as a stealthy addition to my British Literature curriculum. Ahh, the pleasure of a, in many ways, former Roman Catholic exploring his religious foundations and the very reasons religion can be abandoned with public school children. Separation of Church and State my foot!
As Screwtape, the primary narrator, instructed his nephew Wormwood on the various excellent ways of corrupting a patient (any one of us), I was surprised by how often my own excuses and reasons for abandoning a christian god came flowing from the mouths of devils. Suggested as the perfect methods of corruption over and again were distraction, a skewed perspective on reality, and an overconfidence in human intelligence and understanding.
Reading Cappy's reflection on The Unbearable Lightness of Being I am reminded of another of Screwtape's corrosive ways. The devil says that it is acceptable for us to read, even extensively, the thoughts of past philosophers, as long as we regard them as something to be classified, placed coldly in reference to their own time and place, but never regarded as a possible truth. Though in the case of Cappy's introduction, Screwtape would smile widely, even better than not viewing a reading a personally relevant is to view the works of the past or of the mind as an allergen, something to be given a wide berth.
Beyond the war against religion and religious thought, the subtext of the reading is that most dangerous (if you are a devil or a suspicious former Catholic) reality: god never gives up on us. No matter how far we may wander into darker territory, Lewis reminds us that all we need to do to throw off Screwtape and his treacherous ways is recognize the god who has been invisibly by our side all along and follow him home.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
The Unbearable Lightness of Being by Milan Kundera
My sister, Catherine, refuses to read even Book I of Plato's Republic - and this despite my frequent proddings and protestations. Though I have never asked why not, I suspect that she, like a great many of her generation and all other generations, considers herself allergic to Philosophy. It's as though she should not dare read it for fear of bursting into hives or her throat swelling up so much as to suffocate her. Such perceived maladies have sworn too many off of "the love of wisdom."
And so we leave it up to folks like Milan Kundera to trick people into studying Philosophy against their will - dressing the ages-old discipline up as a play, a short story, or, as in this case, as a novel.
Kundera's quarry is a question of reality. What is "the real?" Is it the moments we call "light," when responsibility and concern seem to melt away as we, freed from burdens, rise slowly above the troubled world below? Or is the real world "heavy?" Are we not our truest, best, most authentic selves when life puts the screws to us and we are almost literally pushed by our burdens closer to the world on which we stand? The Philosopher calls this line of questioning "Ontology," the study of a thing's nature or origins, and she could ponder it for hours at a clip - and be ecstatic doing so.
The Philosopher wouldn't move copy, though. To do that, you have to write a story, and it's best if the story is about love. That's essentially what Kundera has done. He's written a tale of couples - Tomas and Tereza along with Franz and Sabina - and tracks the arc of their affairs through countless miscommunications, messy crossings, and an exceedingly long litany of infidelities. The couples do love each other - the author almost pulls muscles to communicate this in the face of so much evidence to the contrary - but so often one lovers affection fails to match the needs and expectations of the other. Tomas, for example, loves Tereza as though she were a gift sent to him down the river in a basket, like Moses to Pharaoh's daughter. What he doesn't seem to understand, though, is that Tereza considers sex intrinsically linked to love and struggles with Tomas' sharing a bed with so many mistresses.
Due to so much wanton sex and crushed feelings, it would be easy for The Unbearable Lightness of Being to devolve into little more than a cheap romance novel. Lucky for Kundera that love also happens to be a tried and true method of investigating and weighing philosophical truths. (Even the staid Plato wrote Symposium.) His interest in these underlying themes of lightness and weight is what saves the book from being tawdry. And it begs the reader to wonder aloud about what it is that makes them real.
We are a sneaky bunch, we Philosopher Kings. And here you thought we never left our ivory towers.
And so we leave it up to folks like Milan Kundera to trick people into studying Philosophy against their will - dressing the ages-old discipline up as a play, a short story, or, as in this case, as a novel.
Kundera's quarry is a question of reality. What is "the real?" Is it the moments we call "light," when responsibility and concern seem to melt away as we, freed from burdens, rise slowly above the troubled world below? Or is the real world "heavy?" Are we not our truest, best, most authentic selves when life puts the screws to us and we are almost literally pushed by our burdens closer to the world on which we stand? The Philosopher calls this line of questioning "Ontology," the study of a thing's nature or origins, and she could ponder it for hours at a clip - and be ecstatic doing so.
The Philosopher wouldn't move copy, though. To do that, you have to write a story, and it's best if the story is about love. That's essentially what Kundera has done. He's written a tale of couples - Tomas and Tereza along with Franz and Sabina - and tracks the arc of their affairs through countless miscommunications, messy crossings, and an exceedingly long litany of infidelities. The couples do love each other - the author almost pulls muscles to communicate this in the face of so much evidence to the contrary - but so often one lovers affection fails to match the needs and expectations of the other. Tomas, for example, loves Tereza as though she were a gift sent to him down the river in a basket, like Moses to Pharaoh's daughter. What he doesn't seem to understand, though, is that Tereza considers sex intrinsically linked to love and struggles with Tomas' sharing a bed with so many mistresses.
Due to so much wanton sex and crushed feelings, it would be easy for The Unbearable Lightness of Being to devolve into little more than a cheap romance novel. Lucky for Kundera that love also happens to be a tried and true method of investigating and weighing philosophical truths. (Even the staid Plato wrote Symposium.) His interest in these underlying themes of lightness and weight is what saves the book from being tawdry. And it begs the reader to wonder aloud about what it is that makes them real.
We are a sneaky bunch, we Philosopher Kings. And here you thought we never left our ivory towers.
Monday, March 05, 2007
Sympathy Telepathy
"How often have I lain beneath rain on a strange roof, thinking of home."
I am just about 1/3 of the way through As I Lay Dying by William Faulkner. This is the second book on my list that is also a book I am teaching in class, and, just like the previous times I've read it, I have realized that if you read Faulkner for too long, you begin thinking like his characters. The book is told in 52 chapters, by 15 voices, with each chapter signaling a change in POV. Everytime it switches, you have to slightly rewire your brain to fit the character. Everytime you finish a chapter, you have to step out of that characters head.
I believe it is fitting then, that one of the main characters is apparently psychic (though some students proclaim he's probably just making it up). It seems so very appropriate that a character fits the same role that the reader does; to be inside the head of a boy who has watched his mother's dying breathe, but not have the words to explain, or even understand it; to see a girl watch her mother slip away, as she also, very recently find herself soon to be a mother herself. It has taken me a few times (I believe this is the fourth), but I believe i can now read this book for pleasure, with minimal extra work.
I was inspired by the quote at the beginning of this post though, and i feel it is best to be responded to. Darl is far from home, knows that is mother has passed on while he has been gone, and is laying down thinking big thoughts. Although he is one of the stranger characters (if that is even possible), I do not think it is an accident that he is the one character that audience has the most time to relate to. Inside all of us, I think there is a little crazy.
I am just about 1/3 of the way through As I Lay Dying by William Faulkner. This is the second book on my list that is also a book I am teaching in class, and, just like the previous times I've read it, I have realized that if you read Faulkner for too long, you begin thinking like his characters. The book is told in 52 chapters, by 15 voices, with each chapter signaling a change in POV. Everytime it switches, you have to slightly rewire your brain to fit the character. Everytime you finish a chapter, you have to step out of that characters head.
I believe it is fitting then, that one of the main characters is apparently psychic (though some students proclaim he's probably just making it up). It seems so very appropriate that a character fits the same role that the reader does; to be inside the head of a boy who has watched his mother's dying breathe, but not have the words to explain, or even understand it; to see a girl watch her mother slip away, as she also, very recently find herself soon to be a mother herself. It has taken me a few times (I believe this is the fourth), but I believe i can now read this book for pleasure, with minimal extra work.
I was inspired by the quote at the beginning of this post though, and i feel it is best to be responded to. Darl is far from home, knows that is mother has passed on while he has been gone, and is laying down thinking big thoughts. Although he is one of the stranger characters (if that is even possible), I do not think it is an accident that he is the one character that audience has the most time to relate to. Inside all of us, I think there is a little crazy.
Thursday, March 01, 2007
1 Dead in Attic by Chris Rose
It's a story about transformation. And even if that story has been done a thousand times before, it's never been done like this. Because this time it's real and it's for keeps.
Chris Rose is a columnist for the New Orleans Times-Picayune. Yes, that New Orleans, the one which a year and a half ago was literally inundated by a pair of massive hurricanes, a few breached levees, and a dash of bureaucratic incompetence. 1 Dead in Attic is a collection of Rose's columns from the days immediately following Hurricane Katrina through the following Mardi Gras - a short six months that the author found long on stories.
Predictably, Rose's subject covers a broad spectrum. It's the surreal, like his description of the first time back on familiar streets not so familiar anymore. It's the sad tale of young lovers who move back into the devastated town, have trouble adapting, get blasted one night, and decide to commit suicide - only one actually goes for it. And then there's the miracle of one last surviving fridge from a downtown restaurant, stuffed to the gills with the finest and freshest surf and turf, and the feast for relief workers that followed.
While Rose sees New Orleans as all this and more, mostly his vision of the city is as a place which is just too damn resilient to quit anything short of resurrection. He himself gets in on the action, morphing almost overnight from a society pages gossip columnist to a self-proclaimed war correspondent.
There is a certain poetry in the author's style, because the concepts and realities with which Rose wrestles defy any "just the facts, ma'am" approach. It's as though he cannot help but to speak in images, to pour out emotion. The words themselves are easy to read. The ideas are a little harder to consume.
Because I was away and out of the country when Katrina hit and New Orleans turned back into a swamp, there is a sizable hole in my consciousness when it comes to really understanding the magnitude of the tragedy. Having my experience of Katrina filtered through the BBC left me only a vague and faceless impression. 1 Dead in Attic has changed that.
Chris Rose is a columnist for the New Orleans Times-Picayune. Yes, that New Orleans, the one which a year and a half ago was literally inundated by a pair of massive hurricanes, a few breached levees, and a dash of bureaucratic incompetence. 1 Dead in Attic is a collection of Rose's columns from the days immediately following Hurricane Katrina through the following Mardi Gras - a short six months that the author found long on stories.
Predictably, Rose's subject covers a broad spectrum. It's the surreal, like his description of the first time back on familiar streets not so familiar anymore. It's the sad tale of young lovers who move back into the devastated town, have trouble adapting, get blasted one night, and decide to commit suicide - only one actually goes for it. And then there's the miracle of one last surviving fridge from a downtown restaurant, stuffed to the gills with the finest and freshest surf and turf, and the feast for relief workers that followed.
While Rose sees New Orleans as all this and more, mostly his vision of the city is as a place which is just too damn resilient to quit anything short of resurrection. He himself gets in on the action, morphing almost overnight from a society pages gossip columnist to a self-proclaimed war correspondent.
There is a certain poetry in the author's style, because the concepts and realities with which Rose wrestles defy any "just the facts, ma'am" approach. It's as though he cannot help but to speak in images, to pour out emotion. The words themselves are easy to read. The ideas are a little harder to consume.
Because I was away and out of the country when Katrina hit and New Orleans turned back into a swamp, there is a sizable hole in my consciousness when it comes to really understanding the magnitude of the tragedy. Having my experience of Katrina filtered through the BBC left me only a vague and faceless impression. 1 Dead in Attic has changed that.
Friday, February 23, 2007
Palestine: Peace not Apartheid by President Jimmy Carter
Jimmy Carter is not an anti-Semite!
Now that may come as a shock to the chair of the Anti-Defamation League or the Israeli prime minister, but then it would also be quite shocking if either deigned to read Palestine: Peace not Apartheid before jumping to their conclusion.
Carter's latest, most controversial book is mostly history - with a touch of memoir - but it is decidedly not screed. If the critics must quibble, they'd be wise to do so with the facts of Carter's presentation. Indeed, he invites them to do just that with a collection of appendices, seven-strong, that trace the problematic Middle East peace process across a 35-year arc - from U.N. Resolution 242 (1967) through Ariel Sharon's response to the Roadmap for Peace (2003).
Attacking the former president's integrity, though, and applying a very technical term with all the grace reserved for wielding a sledge hammer will profit the critic very little.
What is of interest to many readers wading into Palestine: Peace not Apartheid as a crash course in Middle East affairs is a question of blame. "Who is responsible," they wonder, "for the mess over there?" A careful read of Carter's book would generate a laundry list of an answer. Owing to some of its more draconian policies, Israel would be included. But the author frequently notes the disastrous contributions of the Palestinians, other Arab countries, a wide variety of paramilitary factions, and, of course, the United States government. Everyone is responsible, and Jimmy Carter would be the first to acknowledge that.
Of course, responsibility is not the former president's interest. Peace is. Very little of the text is opinion - mostly delivered in the book's final two chapters and almost wholly concerned with how to work out a lasting peace between Israel, Palestine, and the Arab world. To Carter, a man who tasted it at Camp David in 1978, peace does not seem a faraway goal. And what's more, it would be a tragedy were peace not to prevail.
I worry that I, too, made up my mind about this book before I cracked the spine. Even if that were true, though, I would still say this much to recommend it: Jimmy Carter knows of what he speaks. His stories from the region - even the most dreadful - exactly coincide with my own.
Now that may come as a shock to the chair of the Anti-Defamation League or the Israeli prime minister, but then it would also be quite shocking if either deigned to read Palestine: Peace not Apartheid before jumping to their conclusion.
Carter's latest, most controversial book is mostly history - with a touch of memoir - but it is decidedly not screed. If the critics must quibble, they'd be wise to do so with the facts of Carter's presentation. Indeed, he invites them to do just that with a collection of appendices, seven-strong, that trace the problematic Middle East peace process across a 35-year arc - from U.N. Resolution 242 (1967) through Ariel Sharon's response to the Roadmap for Peace (2003).
Attacking the former president's integrity, though, and applying a very technical term with all the grace reserved for wielding a sledge hammer will profit the critic very little.
What is of interest to many readers wading into Palestine: Peace not Apartheid as a crash course in Middle East affairs is a question of blame. "Who is responsible," they wonder, "for the mess over there?" A careful read of Carter's book would generate a laundry list of an answer. Owing to some of its more draconian policies, Israel would be included. But the author frequently notes the disastrous contributions of the Palestinians, other Arab countries, a wide variety of paramilitary factions, and, of course, the United States government. Everyone is responsible, and Jimmy Carter would be the first to acknowledge that.
Of course, responsibility is not the former president's interest. Peace is. Very little of the text is opinion - mostly delivered in the book's final two chapters and almost wholly concerned with how to work out a lasting peace between Israel, Palestine, and the Arab world. To Carter, a man who tasted it at Camp David in 1978, peace does not seem a faraway goal. And what's more, it would be a tragedy were peace not to prevail.
I worry that I, too, made up my mind about this book before I cracked the spine. Even if that were true, though, I would still say this much to recommend it: Jimmy Carter knows of what he speaks. His stories from the region - even the most dreadful - exactly coincide with my own.
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
"Mr. Pirzada Comes to Dinner" and "Interpreter of Maladies"
I'm thinking that i need to read this story again as I have been unable to follow all of it. I think back to Poe's idea that a short story should be read in one sitting and Lahiri has benefited from that so far (I can easily sit and read her stories at one time, generally). The mystery of "A Temporary Matter" is not present here but her voice is enchanting. The story looks at Mr. Pirzada who is from Pakistan, while the narrator's family is from India, and it takes place during the fighting in the area of the early 80s (maybe 70s, my Indian subcontinent history is crap). He plays a weird sort of father figure to the narrator, but sadly it left little impression on me. I was reading this story in class during our independent reading time, and then, when the students write about their books, i do the same with mine. I wrote the first paragraph here and now that I look back on it, it brings little to mind. The next story, "Interpreter of Maladies", does not fail me though. This could be a matter of it being the second time I have read the story as well, which only goes to show that "Mr. Pirzada..." could still hold a place in my heart. I love this story for the hopeless romantic elements of the main character and his infatuation with the wife in the story. The views of a grossly americanized version of this Indian family is unobtrusively sad, and I fear it is too close to depiction of what the American family looks like to others. However, when Mrs. Das, the main character from the story who is unhappy in her marriage, confesses to the tour guide (whose name fails me), it becomes clear her attitude is born in selfish pity. She has wanted him to translate her anguish, to prescribe a remedy but he merely changes words; he does not offer solutions. She has wanted someone to help so much she is unable to choose the appropriate person to help her. The ultimate irony is that while she has wanted help, he has wanted her (as he too is in a passionless, arranged marriage). He gives Mrs. Das exactly what she asks for then realizes it is not what she wants, as any good penance should. The story ends with the epiphany that the tour guide/interpreter of maladies has about his own relationship with his wife, the relationship Mr. and Mrs. Das have, and the relationship he imagines between himself and Mrs. Das. The first is only a formality, the second is the same but louder, and the last is fictional. While it seems sad, there is something that should be reassuring in it, as the reality of anyone's situation should be comparable to the imaginary lives we sometimes lead in happiness. When that is out of whack too much, something needs to be done, even if it is just an acknowledgment of it. It ends well though; there are monkeys.
Sunday, February 18, 2007
"I've become an unnatural self."
I think I've always been a fan of science fiction. Star Wars was as ingrained at an early age as was Catholic Doctrine; there are three aspects of God that are the holy trinity, and Darth Vader is Luke and Leia's father. Because of this fandom, on my part, I've recently wanted to read some of the more modern classics of science fiction, and when my mother-in-law gave us gift certificates for Amazon, I went SF-crazy.
I picked up Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? by Philip K. Dick. This was the inspiration for Blade Runner (starring none other than Han Solo) and, though i think I've seen the movie, I don't remember half of what was in the book. Once again, I had to pick a book that made me question my own humanity, and what that word even means.
Allow me to digress. I also got a copy of The Canticle for Leibowitz which has a foreword that talks about the difference between literature and fiction. I, being a reading snob, have often wondered about the difference between these two things as well; the definition it gave was that literature changes you. Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?, I am happy to say, does just that.
The book is about Rick Deckard, a bounty hunter who works for the San Francisco police, tracking down rogue androids, which are now illegal on the planet Earth (there are a lot of details I'm leaving out; just read the book if you need them). As much as I felt distant from him at first, I related to the almost manic changes he seems to go through in the course of his day. He is introduced to a new type of android that is even harder to tell apart from normal humans; he is introduced to a man whom he thinks, for a moment, is an android; he breaks a "retiring" record by "killing" six androids; He sleeps with an android. Throughout the whole thing he thinks about what it is he's doing, and, although I paid little attention to it the first time, his wife's words, as the beginning of the story, resonate with him throughout the day: "just those poor andy's."
Do we feel bad for robots when they are destroyed? Now imagine that robot had feelings. What about if you got super attached to your computer, then it (and we use this term) dies. I always hated finishing books, because I had to leave them then. Those characters would go away, a reason, I believe, why I love monthly comic books. In the novel, Deckard has an electric sheep, because in the post-apocalyptic world, caring for animals is considered a duty and privilege (though also a status symbol). How much is our awareness really play a role in what we feel and experience? If you had a pet dog and it died, you'd feel sad. if you had a pet dog that was an electric dog, would you still? Now imagine not knowing whether it was or not.
That's how I feel after reading this book. There is a weird ambivalence, but at the same time I'm quite happy to realize that it is the choices that I make that allow me to feel the things I feel. It is my interest in reading books like Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? that will guarantee I may change my mind about that with the next book; only for it to evolve again with the next, and so on.
At the end of the book, to spoil part of it, Rick Deckard goes to sleep. I'm going to go do the same.
I picked up Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? by Philip K. Dick. This was the inspiration for Blade Runner (starring none other than Han Solo) and, though i think I've seen the movie, I don't remember half of what was in the book. Once again, I had to pick a book that made me question my own humanity, and what that word even means.
Allow me to digress. I also got a copy of The Canticle for Leibowitz which has a foreword that talks about the difference between literature and fiction. I, being a reading snob, have often wondered about the difference between these two things as well; the definition it gave was that literature changes you. Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?, I am happy to say, does just that.
The book is about Rick Deckard, a bounty hunter who works for the San Francisco police, tracking down rogue androids, which are now illegal on the planet Earth (there are a lot of details I'm leaving out; just read the book if you need them). As much as I felt distant from him at first, I related to the almost manic changes he seems to go through in the course of his day. He is introduced to a new type of android that is even harder to tell apart from normal humans; he is introduced to a man whom he thinks, for a moment, is an android; he breaks a "retiring" record by "killing" six androids; He sleeps with an android. Throughout the whole thing he thinks about what it is he's doing, and, although I paid little attention to it the first time, his wife's words, as the beginning of the story, resonate with him throughout the day: "just those poor andy's."
Do we feel bad for robots when they are destroyed? Now imagine that robot had feelings. What about if you got super attached to your computer, then it (and we use this term) dies. I always hated finishing books, because I had to leave them then. Those characters would go away, a reason, I believe, why I love monthly comic books. In the novel, Deckard has an electric sheep, because in the post-apocalyptic world, caring for animals is considered a duty and privilege (though also a status symbol). How much is our awareness really play a role in what we feel and experience? If you had a pet dog and it died, you'd feel sad. if you had a pet dog that was an electric dog, would you still? Now imagine not knowing whether it was or not.
That's how I feel after reading this book. There is a weird ambivalence, but at the same time I'm quite happy to realize that it is the choices that I make that allow me to feel the things I feel. It is my interest in reading books like Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? that will guarantee I may change my mind about that with the next book; only for it to evolve again with the next, and so on.
At the end of the book, to spoil part of it, Rick Deckard goes to sleep. I'm going to go do the same.
Blindness by Jose Saramago
Whither human nature - are we naturally good or do we lean toward evil - is a question as old as asking. All people ponder it and most who pick up the pen will, at some point, address it more deliberately. Enter Nobel laureate Jose Saramago and his book, Blindness.
Saramago's enterprise is to wonder aloud about who we really are, and so he follows the old proverbial wisdom and plunges his characters into the honesty of crisis: a pandemic of unexplainable and incurable white blindness. Are we the government, motivated by expediency to quarantine the stricken, even if to do so requires that we also dehumanize them? Are we a certain segment of the quarantined, drunk enough on the "will to power" to become murderous and marauding, wolves to our fellow men and women? Or are we the optometrist's wife, whose vision never fades and whose desire to shepherd the afflicted produces innumerable tiny acts of heroism? It is not at all clear precisely whom Saramago thinks we are, but it is easy to guess who he wants us to be.
Of course, to so clearly distinguish characters and groups would be to do the author a disservice. Saramago's writing is light on things like quotation marks and names that would make identification easy. His style is almost deliberately vague, and even the characters themselves acknowledge how superfluous names are in a world full of the blind. And even as anonymity makes possible all sorts of things - not all of them atrocities - enough constants remain to separate the heroes from the villains.
There is much scattered wisdom in Blindness, and as one so oft seduced by ideas I found myself sometimes just bouncing from one concept to the next. If all one could pull out of this book were some of those quotable pockets of thought, it would still be worth reading.
Saramago's enterprise is to wonder aloud about who we really are, and so he follows the old proverbial wisdom and plunges his characters into the honesty of crisis: a pandemic of unexplainable and incurable white blindness. Are we the government, motivated by expediency to quarantine the stricken, even if to do so requires that we also dehumanize them? Are we a certain segment of the quarantined, drunk enough on the "will to power" to become murderous and marauding, wolves to our fellow men and women? Or are we the optometrist's wife, whose vision never fades and whose desire to shepherd the afflicted produces innumerable tiny acts of heroism? It is not at all clear precisely whom Saramago thinks we are, but it is easy to guess who he wants us to be.
Of course, to so clearly distinguish characters and groups would be to do the author a disservice. Saramago's writing is light on things like quotation marks and names that would make identification easy. His style is almost deliberately vague, and even the characters themselves acknowledge how superfluous names are in a world full of the blind. And even as anonymity makes possible all sorts of things - not all of them atrocities - enough constants remain to separate the heroes from the villains.
There is much scattered wisdom in Blindness, and as one so oft seduced by ideas I found myself sometimes just bouncing from one concept to the next. If all one could pull out of this book were some of those quotable pockets of thought, it would still be worth reading.
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