Buck's bookshelf: all en-US Wed, 24 Nov 2021 18:05:21 -0800 60 Buck's bookshelf: all 144 41 /images/layout/goodreads_logo_144.jpg <![CDATA[The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire: Volumes 1-3]]> 672484 1952 Edward Gibbon 0679423087 Buck 0 to-read 4.34 1776 The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire: Volumes 1-3
author: Edward Gibbon
name: Buck
average rating: 4.34
book published: 1776
rating: 0
read at:
date added: 2021/11/24
shelves: to-read
review:

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U and I: A True Story 1113324 179 Nicholson Baker 0394589947 Buck 4 3.77 1991 U and I: A True Story
author: Nicholson Baker
name: Buck
average rating: 3.77
book published: 1991
rating: 4
read at:
date added: 2021/09/13
shelves:
review:

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<![CDATA[Boule de Suif et autres Histoires de Guerre]]> 209250
Boule de suif --
Mademoiselle Fifi --
Deux amis --
Le Père Milon --
La Moustache --
Le Duel --
Un Coup d'Etat --
La Mère sauvage --
L'Horrible --
Les Idées du colonel --
Le Lit 29 --
Les Prisonniers --
Les Rois --
'Բéܲ.ձ>
320 Guy de Maupassant 2080705849 Buck 4
(Je m'excuse d'avance pour mon style peu grammatical)

Julien Gracq a dit que Maupassant écrit ‘une sorte de basic-french littéraire, où manquent tous les éléments sutils�. Au contraire, j'y trouve une complication inattendue et une ironie tranchante. Les nouvelles sont plein d’images curiueses, comme les pigeons blancs, dans ‘Boule de Suif�, qui ‘cherchaient leur vie dans le crottin fumant�. Chaque histoire contient une petite universe revelèe par quelques details exacts et justes.

Neanmoins, c’est vrai que la morale des nouvelles est souvent prévisible, si bien que je me demande si tous les bourgeois francaises du 19e siècle ètaient de vrais cochons, et si, de plus, toutes les prostituées avaient des ‘hearts of gold�. Il me semble...improbable.

Donc, j’admire l’art de Maupassant, mais je préfère la vue plus incluse d’un Turgenev.
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3.72 Boule de Suif et autres Histoires de Guerre
author: Guy de Maupassant
name: Buck
average rating: 3.72
book published:
rating: 4
read at: 2008/12/26
date added: 2020/09/24
shelves: self-congratulatory-multilingual
review:
Just to be a pretentious dick, I'm going to write my review in French.

(Je m'excuse d'avance pour mon style peu grammatical)

Julien Gracq a dit que Maupassant écrit ‘une sorte de basic-french littéraire, où manquent tous les éléments sutils�. Au contraire, j'y trouve une complication inattendue et une ironie tranchante. Les nouvelles sont plein d’images curiueses, comme les pigeons blancs, dans ‘Boule de Suif�, qui ‘cherchaient leur vie dans le crottin fumant�. Chaque histoire contient une petite universe revelèe par quelques details exacts et justes.

Neanmoins, c’est vrai que la morale des nouvelles est souvent prévisible, si bien que je me demande si tous les bourgeois francaises du 19e siècle ètaient de vrais cochons, et si, de plus, toutes les prostituées avaient des ‘hearts of gold�. Il me semble...improbable.

Donc, j’admire l’art de Maupassant, mais je préfère la vue plus incluse d’un Turgenev.

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<![CDATA[Elementary Korean (Tuttle Language Library) (Book & CD) (English and Korean Edition)]]> 282808
This textbook offers a complete first year course for learning Korean. Loosely based on Beginning Korean by Martin and Lee, it includes updated dialogues, grammar notes, and transcription in the Han'gul character system.

The main objective of this book is competence in spoken Korean through a streamlined introduction to the fundamental patterns of the language. Based on the ACTFL Proficiency Guidelines, this book will provide students with an Intermediate-Low to Intermediate-Mid proficiency level. Reading passages enhance the lessons.]]>
409 Ross King 0804836140 Buck 0 to-read, korea casual.

On the other hand, there’s nothing crazy about the writing system. Koreans like to say that their alphabet, Hangul, is the most “scientific� in the world. I used to dismiss this as a bit of nationalistic cant, but there’s actually something to it. Unlike the the wild and wacky muddle of English spelling, Korean orthography is remarkably consistent and user-friendly (Korean: Hello, I’m a Mac. English (lamely): And I’m a PC.) The letters of Hangul are not just arbitrary squiggles, as in the Roman alphabet, but visual representations of their corresponding sounds. This fellow, for instance, is the Korean m:



It’s clearly meant to convey a labial suggestion (no, not that labia). In other words, the very shapes of the letters have a heuristic value, with the result that Korean kids typically learn to read well ahead of their English-speaking peers (though the fact that most Korean kids also have a scary-ass tiger mom screaming at them to do their homework probably doesn’t hurt, either).

On the phonological side, Korean doesn’t hold too many terrors, provided you can aspirate when called upon. By my count, there’s only one phoneme ٳ󲹳’s totally alien to English (eui, which sounds like the strangled curse of a mortally-wounded kung fu fighter). Compared to the horror show that is Chinese, Korean intonation is mercifully flat, except that teenage girls have an annoying habit of stretching out there terminal syllables into a cutesy little whine ('jagiyaaaa').

The curious way in which Korean has metabolized the English language takes some getting used to. Ever since the first American GIs arrived here in the 1950s, Koreans have been “borrowing� English words with larcenous zest. The thing is, they often give loanwords a little twist or wrench � either to domesticate or murder them, depending on your point of view. The resulting sublanguage, “Konglish�, is easy to make fun of, but has a certain poetry of its own. One portmanteau word they’ve invented is “skinship�, which basically means intimacy, sexual or otherwise. So, like, if you make a move on a Korean girl, she might push you away and say, “No skinship!� (though she probably won’t, if you’re tall and have “big eyes�). It’s a useful word, answering a felt need in the Korean psyche, but one for which there’s no exact equivalent in standard English, ironically enough.

Well, those are my preliminary thoughts on the Korean language. I should point out that, despite my authoritative tone above, I can barely order lunch in Korean, let alone finesse my way into some good old-fashioned skinship. I really need to track down a PDF of this book, so I can get back to work on Korean grammar and quit slopping around here in this barbarous Germanic pidgin we call English.
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3.68 1999 Elementary Korean (Tuttle Language Library) (Book & CD) (English and Korean Edition)
author: Ross King
name: Buck
average rating: 3.68
book published: 1999
rating: 0
read at:
date added: 2018/02/07
shelves: to-read, korea
review:
From an Indo-European standpoint, Korean is a pretty messed-up language. The syntax is all wrong, for one thing. It puts the verb at the end of the sentence and just omits the subject whenever it feels like it. It also seems to get by without the word ‘you� most of the time. And then, nobody’s even sure what language family it belongs to (some say Altaic, like Japanese and Turkish; others consider it an ‘isolate�, like Basque). But for Westerners, the really crazy part is how status-conscious the language is: in Korean, you always have to be aware of the other person’s relative social position, and especially their age. This is built right into the structure of the language, so that when you’re addressing a superior or elder, you need to change up the grammar. Usually this involves sticking a –yo ending onto every other word. Unfortunately, to an immature English speaker like me, yo just makes everything sound hilariously casual.

On the other hand, there’s nothing crazy about the writing system. Koreans like to say that their alphabet, Hangul, is the most “scientific� in the world. I used to dismiss this as a bit of nationalistic cant, but there’s actually something to it. Unlike the the wild and wacky muddle of English spelling, Korean orthography is remarkably consistent and user-friendly (Korean: Hello, I’m a Mac. English (lamely): And I’m a PC.) The letters of Hangul are not just arbitrary squiggles, as in the Roman alphabet, but visual representations of their corresponding sounds. This fellow, for instance, is the Korean m:



It’s clearly meant to convey a labial suggestion (no, not that labia). In other words, the very shapes of the letters have a heuristic value, with the result that Korean kids typically learn to read well ahead of their English-speaking peers (though the fact that most Korean kids also have a scary-ass tiger mom screaming at them to do their homework probably doesn’t hurt, either).

On the phonological side, Korean doesn’t hold too many terrors, provided you can aspirate when called upon. By my count, there’s only one phoneme ٳ󲹳’s totally alien to English (eui, which sounds like the strangled curse of a mortally-wounded kung fu fighter). Compared to the horror show that is Chinese, Korean intonation is mercifully flat, except that teenage girls have an annoying habit of stretching out there terminal syllables into a cutesy little whine ('jagiyaaaa').

The curious way in which Korean has metabolized the English language takes some getting used to. Ever since the first American GIs arrived here in the 1950s, Koreans have been “borrowing� English words with larcenous zest. The thing is, they often give loanwords a little twist or wrench � either to domesticate or murder them, depending on your point of view. The resulting sublanguage, “Konglish�, is easy to make fun of, but has a certain poetry of its own. One portmanteau word they’ve invented is “skinship�, which basically means intimacy, sexual or otherwise. So, like, if you make a move on a Korean girl, she might push you away and say, “No skinship!� (though she probably won’t, if you’re tall and have “big eyes�). It’s a useful word, answering a felt need in the Korean psyche, but one for which there’s no exact equivalent in standard English, ironically enough.

Well, those are my preliminary thoughts on the Korean language. I should point out that, despite my authoritative tone above, I can barely order lunch in Korean, let alone finesse my way into some good old-fashioned skinship. I really need to track down a PDF of this book, so I can get back to work on Korean grammar and quit slopping around here in this barbarous Germanic pidgin we call English.

]]>
Il Gattopardo 78708 Alternative cover for 9788807810282.

Don Fabrizio, principe di Salina, all'arrivo dei Garibaldini, sente inevitabile il declino e la rovina della sua classe. Approva il matrimonio del nipote Tancredi, senza più risorse economiche, con la figlia, che porta con sé una ricca dote, di Calogero Sedara, un astuto borghese. Don Fabrizio rifiuta però il seggio al Senato che gli viene offerto, ormai disincantato e pessimista sulla possibile sopravvivenza di una civiltà in decadenza e propone al suo posto proprio il borghese Calogero Sedara.]]>
254 Giuseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa Buck 0 3.97 1958 Il Gattopardo
author: Giuseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa
name: Buck
average rating: 3.97
book published: 1958
rating: 0
read at:
date added: 2017/11/02
shelves: self-congratulatory-multilingual
review:
Not actually finished yet. My tenuous grasp of Italian ensures that I'll be reading it for many months to come. Very appealing novel, though. Think of it as a nineteenth-century saga filtered through a modern sensibility.
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Fantômes et vivants 25589663 182 Léon Daudet Buck 0 Action Française, which left a broad, brown smear across French politics for decades. His journalism, churned out with horrifying fluency, is a mass of lies, libel, fantasy and invective. In his spare time, he was an incorrigible duelist, constantly goading better men into sword fights and often getting sliced open for his trouble. As I said, a total garbage clown.

So I really wish I didn’t love his writing quite so much. But what are you going to do? The heart wants what it wants, as Selena Gomez put it. And Emily Dickinson before her. And every irresponsible person ever.

Fantômes et vivants is a memoir, the first in a vast, six-volume sequence. Less a narrative than a series of acidic portraits—Proust called them ‘magnifiquement atroces�—the book provides what we might now call an alt-right perspective on cultural life under the Third Republic. The son of a famous writer, and once married to Hugo’s favourite granddaughter, Daudet was an established insider, with one foot in bohemia and another in the dingy back rooms of reactionary politics. He knew everybody, fell out with most of them, and wrote about them all: immortals of literature, party hacks, forgotten salonnards - dozens of these odd or incredible 19th-century figures float through the book, generally while being shat upon from the heights of Daudet’s contempt. The whole performance is bilious, intemperate and grossly unfair. It’s also great, just great. Whatever else he might have been, Daudet was a born writer, with a verbal gift out of all proportion to his humanity. He tosses the French language around with Rabelaisian gusto, mixing slang, archaisms and medical jargon into an inexhaustible slurry.

But even if punchy prose doesn’t turn you on, there’s another reason to read Daudet. He happened to be alive, and at the very centre of things, during one of the most dramatic periods in European history. The first few decades of his life saw: the painful birth of liberal democracy in France, the long agony of the Dreyfus Affair, a wave of anarchist terrorism, huge financial scandals and, just as a digestif, the invention of modern art and literature. And all of this leading, blindly and inexorably, to the hecatomb of Verdun and a million dead Frenchmen. Daudet was interested, involved or implicated in every one of these developments.

Unfortunately, aside from a few extracts, these memoirs have never been translated into English, and I doubt they ever will be. While ٳ󲹳’s not a huge tragedy as this world goes, it is a minor scandal. There’s a whole sub-basement of cultural history hidden away away inside this forgotten book, teeming with curios and grotesqueries. You just have to get past the sign on the door saying: �Entrée interdite.�
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0.0 2013 Fantômes et vivants
author: Léon Daudet
name: Buck
average rating: 0.0
book published: 2013
rating: 0
read at:
date added: 2017/08/05
shelves:
review:
A baseball blogger I follow has come up with a useful term for thuggish or morally obtuse players: ‘garbage clowns,� he calls them. Léon Daudet was a garbage clown, one of the all-time garbage clowns of French literature. A notorious anti-Semite even by the loosey-goosey standards of his day, he became a big wheel in the proto-fascist cult known as Action Française, which left a broad, brown smear across French politics for decades. His journalism, churned out with horrifying fluency, is a mass of lies, libel, fantasy and invective. In his spare time, he was an incorrigible duelist, constantly goading better men into sword fights and often getting sliced open for his trouble. As I said, a total garbage clown.

So I really wish I didn’t love his writing quite so much. But what are you going to do? The heart wants what it wants, as Selena Gomez put it. And Emily Dickinson before her. And every irresponsible person ever.

Fantômes et vivants is a memoir, the first in a vast, six-volume sequence. Less a narrative than a series of acidic portraits—Proust called them ‘magnifiquement atroces�—the book provides what we might now call an alt-right perspective on cultural life under the Third Republic. The son of a famous writer, and once married to Hugo’s favourite granddaughter, Daudet was an established insider, with one foot in bohemia and another in the dingy back rooms of reactionary politics. He knew everybody, fell out with most of them, and wrote about them all: immortals of literature, party hacks, forgotten salonnards - dozens of these odd or incredible 19th-century figures float through the book, generally while being shat upon from the heights of Daudet’s contempt. The whole performance is bilious, intemperate and grossly unfair. It’s also great, just great. Whatever else he might have been, Daudet was a born writer, with a verbal gift out of all proportion to his humanity. He tosses the French language around with Rabelaisian gusto, mixing slang, archaisms and medical jargon into an inexhaustible slurry.

But even if punchy prose doesn’t turn you on, there’s another reason to read Daudet. He happened to be alive, and at the very centre of things, during one of the most dramatic periods in European history. The first few decades of his life saw: the painful birth of liberal democracy in France, the long agony of the Dreyfus Affair, a wave of anarchist terrorism, huge financial scandals and, just as a digestif, the invention of modern art and literature. And all of this leading, blindly and inexorably, to the hecatomb of Verdun and a million dead Frenchmen. Daudet was interested, involved or implicated in every one of these developments.

Unfortunately, aside from a few extracts, these memoirs have never been translated into English, and I doubt they ever will be. While ٳ󲹳’s not a huge tragedy as this world goes, it is a minor scandal. There’s a whole sub-basement of cultural history hidden away away inside this forgotten book, teeming with curios and grotesqueries. You just have to get past the sign on the door saying: �Entrée interdite.�

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Phineas Redux (Palliser, #4) 374360 768 Anthony Trollope 0641563582 Buck 3
But lately my sunny, Whiggish outlook has soured into a shitty buzz. And yes, it’s partly the fact that the GOP has bodied forth the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man and sent him stomping his way across the American political landscape. But it’s also Orlando, Nice, Istanbul, Dallas, Dhaka…a decade’s worth of bad news packed into one tweaky summer. On top of everything else, they say the new Suicide Squad movie sucks balls, but then what were you expecting? Autumn Sonata?

So plunging into a Trollope novel at a time like this has to be seen as a more or less desperate evasion of reality. And I accept that. Millions of people are now using Pokemon Go for similar purposes; others have TM or rough sex or Magic: The Gathering to fall back on. No judgment here. We’re all guilty in the eyes of God. Spark one up.

Trollope’s books have always appealed to scared fuddy-duddies like me because they seem to project an ideal, unchanging universe of curates and duchesses and stately country houses. But this view depends on a slight misreading of Trollope and a massive misreading of the 19th century. If you think about it, Victorian England really isn’t the place for a nice, nostalgic wallow. That pose of unflappable sanity maintained by Trollope and his peers had to outface slums, dead babies, disenfranchisement, venereal disease and the stench of excrement pretty much everywhere. Trollope is too much of a gentleman to mention most of these horrors by name, but you can’t help sensing them at the back of things, and you sort of have to keep them in mind if you want to read him with any intelligence.

Even on its own terms, though, Phineas Redux is a total downer. True, the hero gets married off to a rich and sexy lady at the end, but along the way the meandering plot touches on madness, murder and shady politics. It also includes a sympathetic portrait of a woman stuck, hopelessly and tragically, in what we’d now call the friend zone, and this subplot has an almost unbearable emotional realism that affects the whole tone of the book. In general, Trollope is pretty smart about sex, even if he’s never explicit about it: his men and women are constantly circling each other, wary but fascinated, and when they finally pair off, the luckier couples find their way to a grim Clintonian accomodation. The rest are simply doomed. Which seems about right.

Phineas Redux isn’t a great novel. It isn’t even one of the better novels in the Palliser series. As usual with Trollope, there’s too much fox-hunting, too much sitting around in drawing rooms and too many damn letters. Maybe the most debilitating flaw is a dull and superfluous romance between two supporting characters, both of whom deserved to slip under the wheels of a hansom cab and die like the pretentious poodles they are. But I’ll save that for my fan fic.

Still, you go on reading somehow, getting caught up in this misshapen old triple-decker banged out by a long-dead postal worker. The gentle irony seeps into your soul, and for a while you can almost ignore the vast Gathering of the Juggalos that is going on out there, somewhere far away and mostly on Twitter.
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4.07 1874 Phineas Redux (Palliser, #4)
author: Anthony Trollope
name: Buck
average rating: 4.07
book published: 1874
rating: 3
read at:
date added: 2016/11/17
shelves:
review:
A guest on some podcast I was half-listening to the other day brought me up short with this arresting prophecy: “I feel like 2016 is that moment just before an earthquake when dogs are barking like crazy, rats are fleeing the cities and gerbils are eating their young.� I may be paraphrasing slightly, but that was the gist of it. As a rule, I’m morally allergic to such talk: unless you’re St John or Yeats—and even then—the apocalyptic mode comes off as overwrought. Worse, it’s almost always wrong. “It’s closing time in the gardens of the West,� Cyril Connolly famously said. “Bollocks,� said the West, less famously.

But lately my sunny, Whiggish outlook has soured into a shitty buzz. And yes, it’s partly the fact that the GOP has bodied forth the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man and sent him stomping his way across the American political landscape. But it’s also Orlando, Nice, Istanbul, Dallas, Dhaka…a decade’s worth of bad news packed into one tweaky summer. On top of everything else, they say the new Suicide Squad movie sucks balls, but then what were you expecting? Autumn Sonata?

So plunging into a Trollope novel at a time like this has to be seen as a more or less desperate evasion of reality. And I accept that. Millions of people are now using Pokemon Go for similar purposes; others have TM or rough sex or Magic: The Gathering to fall back on. No judgment here. We’re all guilty in the eyes of God. Spark one up.

Trollope’s books have always appealed to scared fuddy-duddies like me because they seem to project an ideal, unchanging universe of curates and duchesses and stately country houses. But this view depends on a slight misreading of Trollope and a massive misreading of the 19th century. If you think about it, Victorian England really isn’t the place for a nice, nostalgic wallow. That pose of unflappable sanity maintained by Trollope and his peers had to outface slums, dead babies, disenfranchisement, venereal disease and the stench of excrement pretty much everywhere. Trollope is too much of a gentleman to mention most of these horrors by name, but you can’t help sensing them at the back of things, and you sort of have to keep them in mind if you want to read him with any intelligence.

Even on its own terms, though, Phineas Redux is a total downer. True, the hero gets married off to a rich and sexy lady at the end, but along the way the meandering plot touches on madness, murder and shady politics. It also includes a sympathetic portrait of a woman stuck, hopelessly and tragically, in what we’d now call the friend zone, and this subplot has an almost unbearable emotional realism that affects the whole tone of the book. In general, Trollope is pretty smart about sex, even if he’s never explicit about it: his men and women are constantly circling each other, wary but fascinated, and when they finally pair off, the luckier couples find their way to a grim Clintonian accomodation. The rest are simply doomed. Which seems about right.

Phineas Redux isn’t a great novel. It isn’t even one of the better novels in the Palliser series. As usual with Trollope, there’s too much fox-hunting, too much sitting around in drawing rooms and too many damn letters. Maybe the most debilitating flaw is a dull and superfluous romance between two supporting characters, both of whom deserved to slip under the wheels of a hansom cab and die like the pretentious poodles they are. But I’ll save that for my fan fic.

Still, you go on reading somehow, getting caught up in this misshapen old triple-decker banged out by a long-dead postal worker. The gentle irony seeps into your soul, and for a while you can almost ignore the vast Gathering of the Juggalos that is going on out there, somewhere far away and mostly on Twitter.

]]>
<![CDATA[Tales of Belkin (The Art of the Novella)]]> 6697972 Ivan Petrovich Belkin left behind a great number of manuscripts.... Most of them, as Ivan Petrovich told me, were true stories heard from various people.

First published anonymously in 1830, Alexander Pushkin’s Tales of Belkin contains his first prose works. It is comprised of an introductory note and five linked stories, ostensibly collected by the scholar Ivan Belkin. The stories center variously around military figures, the wealthy, and businessmen; this beautiful novella gives a vivid portrait of nineteenth century Russian life.

It has become, as well, one of the most beloved books in Russian literary history, and symbolic of the popularity of the novella form in Russia. In fact, it has become the namesake for Russia’s most prestigious annual literary prize, the Belkin Prize, given each year to a book voted by judges to be the best novella of the year.

It is presented here in a sparkling new translation by Josh Billings. Tales of Belkin also highlights the nature of our ongoing Art of the Novella Series—that is, that it specializes in important although albeit lesser-known works by major writers, often in new tranlsations.

The Art of The Novella Series

Too short to be a novel, too long to be a short story, the novella is generally unrecognized by academics and publishers. Nonetheless, it is a form beloved and practiced by literature's greatest writers. In the Art Of The Novella series, Melville House celebrates this renegade art form and its practitioners with titles that are, in many instances, presented in book form for the first time.]]>
112 Alexander Pushkin 1933633735 Buck 0 to-read 4.15 1831 Tales of Belkin (The Art of the Novella)
author: Alexander Pushkin
name: Buck
average rating: 4.15
book published: 1831
rating: 0
read at:
date added: 2016/04/21
shelves: to-read
review:

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Rossetti and His Circle 36379 79 Max Beerbohm 0300039867 Buck 5 sequential-art Sein und Zeit in German � or any other earthly language. I’ll probably never read another novel. I might not read this paragraph.

Which is why Rossetti and His Circle is perfect for me. It’s short, beautiful and practically wordless. It’s also amusing. How come nothing’s amusing anymore? The term itself has a slightly archaic ring, like ‘gallant� or ‘chaste�. I don’t think anyone’s even tried to be amusing since Dick Cavett went off the air. I watch something like the trailer for the new Mad Max movie and think, ‘Yes, yes, clearly awesome. But where’s the witty insouciance?� Then again, old George Miller didn’t exactly set out to remake His Girl Friday, did he? So I don’t know what I’m complaining about.

Rossetti and His Circle was first published in 1922. Although it could now almost pass for an avant-garde graphic novel, it must have struck its original audience as bizarrely quaint. In an England that was already reading Joyce and dancing to jazz, here was this dandified aesthete composing a series of cartoons about the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, an extinct bohemia as remote from Beerbohm’s contemporaries as the beatniks are from us. But instead of doing what most modern graphic novelists would do when presenting some dimly remembered historical period—i.e. dumbing it down—Beerbohm assumes, on the reader’s part, an impossibly granular knowledge of mid-Victorian culture. This, for instance, is a picture called ‘Blue China�:



Thanks to an editor’s note, I can tell you that the dignified old gentleman here represents Thomas Carlyle and the little guy Whistler, while the vases point back to an old quarrel between the Aesthetes and the Ruskinites. So, yeah, if you happen to be an art historian, this scene might be unspeakably hilarious. Otherwise, though, not so much. And yet it still works somehow: you sense a moral seriousness behind the levity, even if the satire is partially occluded. It may be an inside joke, but the delivery is so perfect that you take the brilliance of the punchline on faith.

Not that it really matters, but I’ve never had the slightest interest in Pre-Raphaelite art. All those ethereal maidens drowning in rivers and whatnot appeal to the same vague romanticism that helped install Klimt’s ‘The Kiss� in a million dorm rooms (right next to the obligatory Robert Doisneau photo). But Beerbohm, a man saturated with irony, manages to make these disreputable painters both interesting and sympathetic. He even gets at the strange nobility of the titular Rossetti, turning that BBW-loving slacker into some kind of hero, a proto-Lebowski � mute, impassive, often recumbent, but still abiding:



Believe it or not, that picture contains, among other virtues, a sly allusion to S&M. I won’t spoil it for you, though. Just read the book, preferably in a high-quality edition with intelligent endnotes.
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4.00 1972 Rossetti and His Circle
author: Max Beerbohm
name: Buck
average rating: 4.00
book published: 1972
rating: 5
read at:
date added: 2015/08/15
shelves: sequential-art
review:
Now that the Internet and chronic solvent abuse have cruelly abridged my attention span, I can’t seem to concentrate on anything more demanding than a businesslike text message (“Where u at bro?�) I’ve come to accept that I’ll never read Sein und Zeit in German � or any other earthly language. I’ll probably never read another novel. I might not read this paragraph.

Which is why Rossetti and His Circle is perfect for me. It’s short, beautiful and practically wordless. It’s also amusing. How come nothing’s amusing anymore? The term itself has a slightly archaic ring, like ‘gallant� or ‘chaste�. I don’t think anyone’s even tried to be amusing since Dick Cavett went off the air. I watch something like the trailer for the new Mad Max movie and think, ‘Yes, yes, clearly awesome. But where’s the witty insouciance?� Then again, old George Miller didn’t exactly set out to remake His Girl Friday, did he? So I don’t know what I’m complaining about.

Rossetti and His Circle was first published in 1922. Although it could now almost pass for an avant-garde graphic novel, it must have struck its original audience as bizarrely quaint. In an England that was already reading Joyce and dancing to jazz, here was this dandified aesthete composing a series of cartoons about the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, an extinct bohemia as remote from Beerbohm’s contemporaries as the beatniks are from us. But instead of doing what most modern graphic novelists would do when presenting some dimly remembered historical period—i.e. dumbing it down—Beerbohm assumes, on the reader’s part, an impossibly granular knowledge of mid-Victorian culture. This, for instance, is a picture called ‘Blue China�:



Thanks to an editor’s note, I can tell you that the dignified old gentleman here represents Thomas Carlyle and the little guy Whistler, while the vases point back to an old quarrel between the Aesthetes and the Ruskinites. So, yeah, if you happen to be an art historian, this scene might be unspeakably hilarious. Otherwise, though, not so much. And yet it still works somehow: you sense a moral seriousness behind the levity, even if the satire is partially occluded. It may be an inside joke, but the delivery is so perfect that you take the brilliance of the punchline on faith.

Not that it really matters, but I’ve never had the slightest interest in Pre-Raphaelite art. All those ethereal maidens drowning in rivers and whatnot appeal to the same vague romanticism that helped install Klimt’s ‘The Kiss� in a million dorm rooms (right next to the obligatory Robert Doisneau photo). But Beerbohm, a man saturated with irony, manages to make these disreputable painters both interesting and sympathetic. He even gets at the strange nobility of the titular Rossetti, turning that BBW-loving slacker into some kind of hero, a proto-Lebowski � mute, impassive, often recumbent, but still abiding:



Believe it or not, that picture contains, among other virtues, a sly allusion to S&M. I won’t spoil it for you, though. Just read the book, preferably in a high-quality edition with intelligent endnotes.

]]>
The Temptation to Exist 117565
"A sort of final philosopher of the Western world. His statements have the compression of poetry and the audacity of cosmic clowning."�Washington Post

"An intellectual bombshell that blasts away at all kinds of cant, sham and conventionality. . . . [Cioran's] language is so erotic, his handling of words so seductive, that the act of reading becomes an encounter in the erogenous zone."—Jonah Raskin, L.A. Weekly]]>
224 Emil M. Cioran 0226106756 Buck 0 exist? God, talk about your first-world problems. Outside the Latin Quarter, has anyone ever troubled their head about such a ridiculous pseudo-dilemma?

A lot of smart people around here seem to love Cioran, but I just don’t get the attraction. True, he’s a gifted stylist, but what’s the point of filling book after book with beautiful sentences if your only theme is the utter futility of everything, including beautiful sentences? And what enlightenment, if any, are we supposed to derive from windy aphorisms like this: “The only free mind is the one that, pure of all intimacy with beings or objects, plies its own vacuity.� Um, okay. But just FYI, Emil: we do that all the freaking time. It’s called television.

But why am I even bothering? George Orwell has already said everything that needed to be said about this strain of high-toned whining. Reviewing a book by Cyril Connolly, who happened to be an old friend of his, Orwell wrote:

Obviously, modern mechanised life becomes dreary if you let it. The awful thraldom of money is upon everyone and there are only three immediately obvious escapes. One is religion, another is unending work, the third is the kind of sluttish antinomianism - lying in bed till four in the afternoon, drinking Pernod - that Mr. Connolly seems to admire. The third is certainly the worst, but in any case the essential evil is to think in terms of escape. The fact to which we have got to cling, as to a lifebelt, is that it is possible to be a normal decent person and yet be fully alive.

Well, exactly. And for what it's worth, I'd say that last line contains more wisdom and nobility than the entire published output of Emil Cioran.]]>
4.21 1956 The Temptation to Exist
author: Emil M. Cioran
name: Buck
average rating: 4.21
book published: 1956
rating: 0
read at:
date added: 2015/07/24
shelves: more-than-i-could-chew, all-is-vanity
review:
Really, Emil? You’re tempted to exist? God, talk about your first-world problems. Outside the Latin Quarter, has anyone ever troubled their head about such a ridiculous pseudo-dilemma?

A lot of smart people around here seem to love Cioran, but I just don’t get the attraction. True, he’s a gifted stylist, but what’s the point of filling book after book with beautiful sentences if your only theme is the utter futility of everything, including beautiful sentences? And what enlightenment, if any, are we supposed to derive from windy aphorisms like this: “The only free mind is the one that, pure of all intimacy with beings or objects, plies its own vacuity.� Um, okay. But just FYI, Emil: we do that all the freaking time. It’s called television.

But why am I even bothering? George Orwell has already said everything that needed to be said about this strain of high-toned whining. Reviewing a book by Cyril Connolly, who happened to be an old friend of his, Orwell wrote:

Obviously, modern mechanised life becomes dreary if you let it. The awful thraldom of money is upon everyone and there are only three immediately obvious escapes. One is religion, another is unending work, the third is the kind of sluttish antinomianism - lying in bed till four in the afternoon, drinking Pernod - that Mr. Connolly seems to admire. The third is certainly the worst, but in any case the essential evil is to think in terms of escape. The fact to which we have got to cling, as to a lifebelt, is that it is possible to be a normal decent person and yet be fully alive.

Well, exactly. And for what it's worth, I'd say that last line contains more wisdom and nobility than the entire published output of Emil Cioran.
]]>
<![CDATA[My Little War (Belgian Literature)]]> 6758245 125 Louis Paul Boon 1564785580 Buck 0 to-read 3.93 1947 My Little War (Belgian Literature)
author: Louis Paul Boon
name: Buck
average rating: 3.93
book published: 1947
rating: 0
read at:
date added: 2015/03/26
shelves: to-read
review:

]]>
Dziennik 1953-1956 13338496 371 Witold Gombrowicz 8308010059 Buck 4 life-writing
Sorry, I just like saying his name, even though I have no idea what to do with that consonant cluster at the end. If I ever learn another language, it just might be Polish. This is somewhere between a whim and a resolution. It’s a whimsolution.

Anyway, Gombrowicz...This story is well known in certain circles, but it’s biographically inescapable. In the summer of 1939, Witold Gombrowicz, then a rising young Polish writer, goes on a cross-cultural junket to Argentina. He’s hardly off the boat when the Germans invade Poland, so he and his fellow countrymen get ready to sail back home and be patriotically slaughtered (in the best Polish traditions). Just as the ship is pulling away, Gombrowicz grabs his suitcase and jumps ashore. Thus, at the age of 35, with no money, no friends and no Spanish, he maroons himself in Argentina, where he will hang on, often penniless, for over two decades. He will never set foot in Poland again.

In a sense, though, Gombrowicz never really left his homeland. He carried the problem of Polishness with him into exile, scratching it like a persistent rash during his years in South America. It bored and infuriated him, but he kept going back to it.

As a Canadian, I’m no stranger to collective navel-gazing, but Polish self-consciousness seems to have a very different metaphysical heft to it. Whereas Gombrowicz experienced Polishness as this massive plenitude weighing down on him, Canadianness—and the very noun is awkward—tantalizes by its absence. Gombrowicz could spend decades interrogating his cultural identity, arguing with it, cursing it. A Canadian can only shrug, make a lame joke and change the subject.

‘Diary� is a misleading title for this collection of rants, essays and ruminations. Published serially in a Polish émigré paper, these pieces are more properly feuilletons, a word with zero cultural traction in English (though many blogs are essentially feuilletons). The great advantage of this form is its elasticity: it can hold anything from shopping lists to high-flown literary theory (Gombrowicz indulges in both, and everything in between). In my current state of disenchantment with the novel, I find this discursive, fragmentary approach more honest, more true to life, than the planed and chiseled contours of fiction. Gombrowicz, being a novelist, would no doubt disagree—at length, and with crushing eloquence. So I offer this thought in the timid spirit of FWIW.

Whatever you want to call it, this book provides yet more evidence that being a genius in a cultural backwater is a very dubious gift. Among other things, it means having nobody to talk to (just ask Kierkegaard, or one of his warring pseudonyms). But Gombrowicz suffered under a double obscurity: first as a major writer in a minor language, and then as an exile in a country even more peripheral than his own. Throw in the fact that, from his vantage point, communist Poland was little more than a giant sarcophagus, offering an unresponsive face to his cries and complaints, and you have all the conditions for an absolute, soul-destroying, career-killing solitude.

It would be too much to say that Gombrowicz triumphed over these circumstances—for one thing, triumph wasn’t his style—but the Diary represents a kind of artistic accommodation with disaster. He lost everything a writer can lose—country, language, audience—and he still turned it to account, making something beautiful and true out of the very marginality that should have silenced him.

Gombrowicz, Gombrowicz, Gombrowicz!
]]>
4.39 1970 Dziennik 1953-1956
author: Witold Gombrowicz
name: Buck
average rating: 4.39
book published: 1970
rating: 4
read at:
date added: 2015/02/28
shelves: life-writing
review:
Gombrowicz, Gombrowicz, Gombrowicz.

Sorry, I just like saying his name, even though I have no idea what to do with that consonant cluster at the end. If I ever learn another language, it just might be Polish. This is somewhere between a whim and a resolution. It’s a whimsolution.

Anyway, Gombrowicz...This story is well known in certain circles, but it’s biographically inescapable. In the summer of 1939, Witold Gombrowicz, then a rising young Polish writer, goes on a cross-cultural junket to Argentina. He’s hardly off the boat when the Germans invade Poland, so he and his fellow countrymen get ready to sail back home and be patriotically slaughtered (in the best Polish traditions). Just as the ship is pulling away, Gombrowicz grabs his suitcase and jumps ashore. Thus, at the age of 35, with no money, no friends and no Spanish, he maroons himself in Argentina, where he will hang on, often penniless, for over two decades. He will never set foot in Poland again.

In a sense, though, Gombrowicz never really left his homeland. He carried the problem of Polishness with him into exile, scratching it like a persistent rash during his years in South America. It bored and infuriated him, but he kept going back to it.

As a Canadian, I’m no stranger to collective navel-gazing, but Polish self-consciousness seems to have a very different metaphysical heft to it. Whereas Gombrowicz experienced Polishness as this massive plenitude weighing down on him, Canadianness—and the very noun is awkward—tantalizes by its absence. Gombrowicz could spend decades interrogating his cultural identity, arguing with it, cursing it. A Canadian can only shrug, make a lame joke and change the subject.

‘Diary� is a misleading title for this collection of rants, essays and ruminations. Published serially in a Polish émigré paper, these pieces are more properly feuilletons, a word with zero cultural traction in English (though many blogs are essentially feuilletons). The great advantage of this form is its elasticity: it can hold anything from shopping lists to high-flown literary theory (Gombrowicz indulges in both, and everything in between). In my current state of disenchantment with the novel, I find this discursive, fragmentary approach more honest, more true to life, than the planed and chiseled contours of fiction. Gombrowicz, being a novelist, would no doubt disagree—at length, and with crushing eloquence. So I offer this thought in the timid spirit of FWIW.

Whatever you want to call it, this book provides yet more evidence that being a genius in a cultural backwater is a very dubious gift. Among other things, it means having nobody to talk to (just ask Kierkegaard, or one of his warring pseudonyms). But Gombrowicz suffered under a double obscurity: first as a major writer in a minor language, and then as an exile in a country even more peripheral than his own. Throw in the fact that, from his vantage point, communist Poland was little more than a giant sarcophagus, offering an unresponsive face to his cries and complaints, and you have all the conditions for an absolute, soul-destroying, career-killing solitude.

It would be too much to say that Gombrowicz triumphed over these circumstances—for one thing, triumph wasn’t his style—but the Diary represents a kind of artistic accommodation with disaster. He lost everything a writer can lose—country, language, audience—and he still turned it to account, making something beautiful and true out of the very marginality that should have silenced him.

Gombrowicz, Gombrowicz, Gombrowicz!

]]>
The Metamorphoses, Book 1 80085 128 Apuleius 0865164843 Buck 4 The Golden Ass has already moved to the top of my personal canon of Roman literature, right up there with the Satyricon. Sure, Cicero and Virgil and those guys are just fine if you want the official, senatorial view of things, but they’re basically state writers; they always seem to be posing for their statues. To get a sense of how the Romans ate, talked and screwed � or better still, what they talked about when they screwed � you have to go to the novelists.

Unfortunately, Apuleius is the only one of these to have come down to us intact. Yet he’s such a polished stylist, his handling of narrative is so assured (check out the nested frame stories in Book One), that you get the impression he was working within an established novelistic tradition. You have to wonder, then, how much other great Roman fiction never made it out of the Middle Ages � wonder, and weep. It's as if some future civilization should know nothing of the English novel save Tom Jones and a few fragments of Ulysses.

One final point: the Penguin translation by Robert Graves gives a very misleading impression of Apuleius. The Latin original is written in a flashy, sophisticated idiolect. Parallels are silly, but try to imagine a Roman Nabokov. Graves puts this punning, euphonious prose into flat translator's English, arguing that 'the effect of oddness is best achieved in convulsed times like the present by writing in as easy and sedate an English as possible.' An ingenious rationalization, but I suspect Graves is making a virtue of his necessity here. I haven't looked into any other modern translations, but there must be more accurate ones available. ]]>
4.18 170 The Metamorphoses, Book 1
author: Apuleius
name: Buck
average rating: 4.18
book published: 170
rating: 4
read at:
date added: 2015/01/01
shelves: self-congratulatory-multilingual
review:
Okay, so I’ve only read book one (of twelve), and it took me a good six weeks just to get that far, but The Golden Ass has already moved to the top of my personal canon of Roman literature, right up there with the Satyricon. Sure, Cicero and Virgil and those guys are just fine if you want the official, senatorial view of things, but they’re basically state writers; they always seem to be posing for their statues. To get a sense of how the Romans ate, talked and screwed � or better still, what they talked about when they screwed � you have to go to the novelists.

Unfortunately, Apuleius is the only one of these to have come down to us intact. Yet he’s such a polished stylist, his handling of narrative is so assured (check out the nested frame stories in Book One), that you get the impression he was working within an established novelistic tradition. You have to wonder, then, how much other great Roman fiction never made it out of the Middle Ages � wonder, and weep. It's as if some future civilization should know nothing of the English novel save Tom Jones and a few fragments of Ulysses.

One final point: the Penguin translation by Robert Graves gives a very misleading impression of Apuleius. The Latin original is written in a flashy, sophisticated idiolect. Parallels are silly, but try to imagine a Roman Nabokov. Graves puts this punning, euphonious prose into flat translator's English, arguing that 'the effect of oddness is best achieved in convulsed times like the present by writing in as easy and sedate an English as possible.' An ingenious rationalization, but I suspect Graves is making a virtue of his necessity here. I haven't looked into any other modern translations, but there must be more accurate ones available.
]]>
<![CDATA[For the Soul of France: Culture Wars in the Age of Dreyfus]]> 7058535 The New Yorker) and Flaubert (“Splendid . . . Intellectually nuanced, exquisitely written”�The New Republic) now gives us an ambitious, far-reaching book—a perfect joining of subject and writer: a portrait of fin-de-siècle France.

He writes about the forces that led up to the twilight years of the nineteenth century when France, defeated by Prussia in the Franco-Prussian War of 1870�71, was forced to cede the border states of Alsace and Lorraine, and of the resulting civil war, waged without restraint, that toppled Napoléon III, crushed the Paris Commune, and provoked a dangerous nationalism that gripped the Republic.

The author describes how postwar France, a nation splintered in the face of humiliation by the foreigner—Prussia—dissolved into two cultural factions: moderates, proponents of a secular state (“Clericalism, there is the enemy!�), and reactionaries, who saw their ideal nation—militant, Catholic, royalist—embodied by Joan of Arc, with their message, that France had suffered its defeat in 1871 for having betrayed its true faith. A bitter debate took hold of the heart and soul of the country, framed by the vision of “science� and “technological advancement� versus “supernatural intervention.�

Brown shows us how Paris’s most iconic monuments that rose up during those years bear witness to the passionate decades-long quarrel. At one end of Paris was Gustave Eiffel’s tower, built in iron and more than a thousand feet tall, the beacon of a forward-looking nation; at Paris� other end, at the highest point in the city, the basilica of the Sacré-Coeur, atonement for the country’s sins and moral laxity whose punishment was France’s defeat in the war . . .

Brown makes clear that the Dreyfus Affair—the cannonade of the 1890s—can only be understood in light of these converging forces. “The Affair� shaped the character of public debate and informed private life. At stake was the fate of a Republic born during the Franco-Prussian War and reared against bitter opposition.

The losses that abounded during this time—the financial loss suffered by thousands in the crash of the Union Génerale, a bank founded in 1875 to promote Catholic interests with Catholic capital outside the Rothschilds� sphere of influence, along with the failure of the Panama Canal Company—spurred the partisan press, which blamed both disasters on Jewry.

The author writes how the roiling conflicts that began thirty years before Dreyfus did not end with his exoneration in 1900. Instead they became the festering point that led to France’s surrender to Hitler’s armies in 1940, when the Third Republic fell and the Vichy government replaced it, with Marshal Pétain heralded as the latest incarnation of Joan of Arc, France’s savior . . .


From the Hardcover edition.]]>
304 Frederick Brown 0307266311 Buck 4 Salon interview, she bemoaned the atheistic impertinencies of Bill Maher and Sam Harris, comparing the two men to Nazis for their criticism of Islam. ‘It fills me with despair,� she said. ‘This is the sort of talk that led to the concentration camps.�

Now, you don’t have to be a fan of either Maher or Harris to see how insane that is. Never mind that a supposedly respectable writer has so airily breached Godwin’s Law. Never mind that both men in question—a Hollywood liberal and a neuroscientist—are Jewish. And never mind that, unlike real Nazis, they’re not inciting violence or threatening anyone. The question here is simple: are we allowed to mock and criticize religious dogma, or are we not? Are we allowed to say things like ‘Islam [or Wicca or Scientology] is the mother lode of bad ideas,� or are we not? Armstrong’s answer is a curt no. And if you do, you’re obviously a Nazi.

Armstrong’s potshot represents an inconsequential skirmish in the culture wars, but it shows how imperfectly the whole Enlightenment thing has been assimilated by certain minds. If even a writer as sweetly reasonable as Armstrong claims to be can say such things, it means we’ve still got a ways to go before we beat down the old Դâ. It’s still out there, snarling and slavering and pulling at its chain. It’s enough to fill you with despair, or some less melodramatic emotion.

But what the hell does any of this have to do with a book about 19th-century France? Quite a bit, actually. Many of our ideological squabbles today, like the one described above, are faint and distant echoes of a much nastier brawl that roiled French society from about 1870 onwards. Reading For the Soul of France, you see some familiar conflicts being rehearsed—left versus right, secularism versus religion and so on—but with way more drama, bomb-throwing and duels. Although the political groupings were shifting and complex, Frederick Brown maps out the frontline thus: on one side, you had liberals and socialists fighting for a democratic and above all secular republic; on the other side, you had a lot of reactionary assholes. (That’s a bit simplistic, obviously. To be more precise, the reactionary assholes included Catholics, royalists, and blood-and-soil nutjobs with a collective hard-on for Joan of Arc. Plus, of course, there were the inevitable drooling anti-Semites, but they didn’t make up a group so much as trail their slime over all the other ones � including those on the left.)

Summarized in this way, the book sounds like a bedtime story for liberals, with a Whiggish moral about the ultimate triumph of progressive ideas. And in fact, the narrative ends with the exoneration of Dreyfus and the official separation of church and state, lending a certain credibility to this reading. But as we know, history’s not that tidy. The crazed nationalists and Jew-haters never went away; they bided their time, churned out their pamphlets, and gradually swelled the muddy little tributaries that fed fascism, finally getting their revenge in 1940. But ٳ󲹳’s another story � and one that Brown himself has recently told in a sequel. And in case you’re feeling all Whiggish and bien pensant yourself, you should know that the French left also went completely insane for a few decades � but ٳ󲹳’s another story too, and I can only hope Brown is busy working on it. The blood feud that is French political history cries out for a trilogy, at the very least.
]]>
3.89 2010 For the Soul of France: Culture Wars in the Age of Dreyfus
author: Frederick Brown
name: Buck
average rating: 3.89
book published: 2010
rating: 4
read at:
date added: 2014/12/23
shelves:
review:
Karen Armstrong is a silly person who writes books about religion. She also appears to be a kindly soul, in a tea-and-crumpets sort of way, but she’s still, I repeat, a silly person. In a recent Salon interview, she bemoaned the atheistic impertinencies of Bill Maher and Sam Harris, comparing the two men to Nazis for their criticism of Islam. ‘It fills me with despair,� she said. ‘This is the sort of talk that led to the concentration camps.�

Now, you don’t have to be a fan of either Maher or Harris to see how insane that is. Never mind that a supposedly respectable writer has so airily breached Godwin’s Law. Never mind that both men in question—a Hollywood liberal and a neuroscientist—are Jewish. And never mind that, unlike real Nazis, they’re not inciting violence or threatening anyone. The question here is simple: are we allowed to mock and criticize religious dogma, or are we not? Are we allowed to say things like ‘Islam [or Wicca or Scientology] is the mother lode of bad ideas,� or are we not? Armstrong’s answer is a curt no. And if you do, you’re obviously a Nazi.

Armstrong’s potshot represents an inconsequential skirmish in the culture wars, but it shows how imperfectly the whole Enlightenment thing has been assimilated by certain minds. If even a writer as sweetly reasonable as Armstrong claims to be can say such things, it means we’ve still got a ways to go before we beat down the old Դâ. It’s still out there, snarling and slavering and pulling at its chain. It’s enough to fill you with despair, or some less melodramatic emotion.

But what the hell does any of this have to do with a book about 19th-century France? Quite a bit, actually. Many of our ideological squabbles today, like the one described above, are faint and distant echoes of a much nastier brawl that roiled French society from about 1870 onwards. Reading For the Soul of France, you see some familiar conflicts being rehearsed—left versus right, secularism versus religion and so on—but with way more drama, bomb-throwing and duels. Although the political groupings were shifting and complex, Frederick Brown maps out the frontline thus: on one side, you had liberals and socialists fighting for a democratic and above all secular republic; on the other side, you had a lot of reactionary assholes. (That’s a bit simplistic, obviously. To be more precise, the reactionary assholes included Catholics, royalists, and blood-and-soil nutjobs with a collective hard-on for Joan of Arc. Plus, of course, there were the inevitable drooling anti-Semites, but they didn’t make up a group so much as trail their slime over all the other ones � including those on the left.)

Summarized in this way, the book sounds like a bedtime story for liberals, with a Whiggish moral about the ultimate triumph of progressive ideas. And in fact, the narrative ends with the exoneration of Dreyfus and the official separation of church and state, lending a certain credibility to this reading. But as we know, history’s not that tidy. The crazed nationalists and Jew-haters never went away; they bided their time, churned out their pamphlets, and gradually swelled the muddy little tributaries that fed fascism, finally getting their revenge in 1940. But ٳ󲹳’s another story � and one that Brown himself has recently told in a sequel. And in case you’re feeling all Whiggish and bien pensant yourself, you should know that the French left also went completely insane for a few decades � but ٳ󲹳’s another story too, and I can only hope Brown is busy working on it. The blood feud that is French political history cries out for a trilogy, at the very least.

]]>
<![CDATA[Learning Teaching (Macmillan Books for Teachers)]]> 961956
This new edition has been fully revised and extended to cover new trends and theories in ELT.]]>
432 Jim Scrivener 1405013990 Buck 2 Learning Teaching on a daily basis in Korea, where I spent a couple of years instilling the finer points of EFL pedagogy into trainee teachers to whom the finer points of the English language were themselves a little murky. But Koreans always make up in enthusiasm what they lack in know-how, so I have no complaints there. As for Learning Teaching, it’s not a bad resource. I mean, it’ll still suck a little joy out of your soul every day, like most textbooks, but at least it won’t lead you into the arid wastes of Jeremy Harmer’s How to Teach English , where passion goes to die (in the withered arms of hope). Unfortunately, there are certain brute, existential facts about teaching that even the best training manual won’t address, because to do so would undermine both its own raison d’etre and the tacit assumptions behind the whole education racket.

In job interviews over the years, I’ve often been asked to outline my teaching philosophy. There are two basic approaches to this question: there’s the ‘correct� one, composed of whatever bland and reassuring jargon you’ve picked up from books like Learning Teaching, and then there’s the truth. Of course, you can never tell the truth in a job interview, but you can sometimes tell it on the Internet. I’m going to tell the truth here.

For me, teaching has always been a form of seduction. Now, just in case my boss ever stumbles onto ŷ, I’ll add that this seduction ought to remain purely (and non-actionably) metaphorical. There’s a real conquest involved—if you’re doing it right—but it’s mostly a moral conquest, even before it becomes an intellectual one. When you walk into a classroom and get your first look at the lumpish human material you’ve been fated to work with—mere swaying slabs of boredom, nervousness or hostility, as the case may be—your overriding concern is simply to win those people over, to get them on your side. To do this, you need to draw on the same inner resource used by salesmen, pickup artists, entertainers and similar lowlifes: i.e. charisma. Authority and expertise are nice too, but they only come into play later on, once you’ve sold them on whatever jerry-rigged classroom persona you’ve outfitted yourself with.

Jim Scrivener, the author of Learning Teaching, naturally avoids the word ‘seduction�, but he does acknowledge that good teaching boils down to a cluster of winning personality traits such as empathy, honesty, a sense of humour etc. Where he goes wrong—where he gets downright mendacious—is in suggesting that all these qualities can be learned and improved upon by the diligent trainee. I don’t have a lot of hard data to back me up here (any more than Scrivener does), but from what I’ve seen of humanity, things like empathy and honesty are, beyond the age of seven or so, pretty much innate. Either you empathize with others or you don’t; either you’re reasonably honest or you’re a lying sack of shit; either you’re naturally funny or you’re Sinbad. Even assuming that lifelong, incremental progress is possible in some of these areas, it certainly won’t come about by skimming Jim Scrivener’s little handbook, or taking a TESOL class on weekends.

Teacher-training programs, then, are governed by the same cruel law as MFA programs: the really gifted students don't need them, and the really bad ones won’t profit from them, but are nonetheless sent out into the world, shiny diplomas in hand, to sow boredom and confusion wherever they go. In my years of training teachers, I never saw a shitty one get good; all you can do is try to help them become a little less egregiously shitty. Now maybe that failure is down to my inadequacies as a trainer, but I sincerely doubt that an Albert Pujols, for instance, could teach the weak and uncoordinated how to crush a hanging breaking ball, or that Elizabeth Bishop could show the verbally inept how to spin out brilliant metaphors. A gift for teaching may not be as remunerative as the ability to hit a curveball or as exalted as the ability to write a beautiful sestina, but like those other talents, it has its source in some deep-seated mojo that can’t be explained or passed on.

Despite my weary tone, I actually don’t have a huge problem with mediocrity. Every profession is beset by mediocrity. It’s the statistical mean to which human enterprise always regresses. I just have a small problem with covering it up and wishing it away. But then, my hunch is that these textbooks are usually written by teachers who are themselves mediocre. Most good teachers wouldn’t bother, because they know that what makes them good is, ironically enough, the one thing they can’t teach.
]]>
4.27 1994 Learning Teaching (Macmillan Books for Teachers)
author: Jim Scrivener
name: Buck
average rating: 4.27
book published: 1994
rating: 2
read at:
date added: 2014/11/23
shelves:
review:
Sad to say, but I’ve lived more intimately with this book than just about any other in my life. I used Learning Teaching on a daily basis in Korea, where I spent a couple of years instilling the finer points of EFL pedagogy into trainee teachers to whom the finer points of the English language were themselves a little murky. But Koreans always make up in enthusiasm what they lack in know-how, so I have no complaints there. As for Learning Teaching, it’s not a bad resource. I mean, it’ll still suck a little joy out of your soul every day, like most textbooks, but at least it won’t lead you into the arid wastes of Jeremy Harmer’s How to Teach English , where passion goes to die (in the withered arms of hope). Unfortunately, there are certain brute, existential facts about teaching that even the best training manual won’t address, because to do so would undermine both its own raison d’etre and the tacit assumptions behind the whole education racket.

In job interviews over the years, I’ve often been asked to outline my teaching philosophy. There are two basic approaches to this question: there’s the ‘correct� one, composed of whatever bland and reassuring jargon you’ve picked up from books like Learning Teaching, and then there’s the truth. Of course, you can never tell the truth in a job interview, but you can sometimes tell it on the Internet. I’m going to tell the truth here.

For me, teaching has always been a form of seduction. Now, just in case my boss ever stumbles onto ŷ, I’ll add that this seduction ought to remain purely (and non-actionably) metaphorical. There’s a real conquest involved—if you’re doing it right—but it’s mostly a moral conquest, even before it becomes an intellectual one. When you walk into a classroom and get your first look at the lumpish human material you’ve been fated to work with—mere swaying slabs of boredom, nervousness or hostility, as the case may be—your overriding concern is simply to win those people over, to get them on your side. To do this, you need to draw on the same inner resource used by salesmen, pickup artists, entertainers and similar lowlifes: i.e. charisma. Authority and expertise are nice too, but they only come into play later on, once you’ve sold them on whatever jerry-rigged classroom persona you’ve outfitted yourself with.

Jim Scrivener, the author of Learning Teaching, naturally avoids the word ‘seduction�, but he does acknowledge that good teaching boils down to a cluster of winning personality traits such as empathy, honesty, a sense of humour etc. Where he goes wrong—where he gets downright mendacious—is in suggesting that all these qualities can be learned and improved upon by the diligent trainee. I don’t have a lot of hard data to back me up here (any more than Scrivener does), but from what I’ve seen of humanity, things like empathy and honesty are, beyond the age of seven or so, pretty much innate. Either you empathize with others or you don’t; either you’re reasonably honest or you’re a lying sack of shit; either you’re naturally funny or you’re Sinbad. Even assuming that lifelong, incremental progress is possible in some of these areas, it certainly won’t come about by skimming Jim Scrivener’s little handbook, or taking a TESOL class on weekends.

Teacher-training programs, then, are governed by the same cruel law as MFA programs: the really gifted students don't need them, and the really bad ones won’t profit from them, but are nonetheless sent out into the world, shiny diplomas in hand, to sow boredom and confusion wherever they go. In my years of training teachers, I never saw a shitty one get good; all you can do is try to help them become a little less egregiously shitty. Now maybe that failure is down to my inadequacies as a trainer, but I sincerely doubt that an Albert Pujols, for instance, could teach the weak and uncoordinated how to crush a hanging breaking ball, or that Elizabeth Bishop could show the verbally inept how to spin out brilliant metaphors. A gift for teaching may not be as remunerative as the ability to hit a curveball or as exalted as the ability to write a beautiful sestina, but like those other talents, it has its source in some deep-seated mojo that can’t be explained or passed on.

Despite my weary tone, I actually don’t have a huge problem with mediocrity. Every profession is beset by mediocrity. It’s the statistical mean to which human enterprise always regresses. I just have a small problem with covering it up and wishing it away. But then, my hunch is that these textbooks are usually written by teachers who are themselves mediocre. Most good teachers wouldn’t bother, because they know that what makes them good is, ironically enough, the one thing they can’t teach.

]]>
<![CDATA[The Gulag Archipelago: An Experiment in Literary Investigation, Volume 1]]> 246421 660 Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn 0061253715 Buck 4 in-captivity, russians
Is my itinerary of any conceivable interest to anyone? Hardly. But listen now: in the first volume of The Gulag Archipelago, it’s recorded that a certain Cheka interrogator used to line up naked prisoners, make them bend over, and then deliver flying ‘football kicks� to their exposed testicles. Solzhenitsyn says the men usually passed out from the pain.

I don’t know if there’s a lesson here, other than the usual one about the everlasting shittiness of our species. But I choose to take a very simple message away from this story: any day on which your testicles are not being used for soccer practice is probably, on the whole, a pretty good one. That may sound horribly flippant, but Solzhenitsyn himself makes a similar point elsewhere in the book, claiming that it was precisely his years in the camps that gave him access to the miracle of normalcy, of mundanity.

So coming back to my blah, unblogworthy day: this quotidian bullshit—wandering around, drinking coffee, downloading sitcoms from iTunes—this is what it’s supposed to be like. This is fucking felicity. That vague, low-level dread you feel is just the background hum of a healthy, contented existence.

Hmm. The phrase ‘count your blessings� seems to hover here. Have I just taken the scenic route to a cliché? Looks that way. I need to read more Kierkegaard.
]]>
4.43 1973 The Gulag Archipelago: An Experiment in Literary Investigation, Volume 1
author: Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn
name: Buck
average rating: 4.43
book published: 1973
rating: 4
read at:
date added: 2014/08/12
shelves: in-captivity, russians
review:
I went for a walk this afternoon, strolling around the unfamiliar student district near Chosun University. It was pleasant just to be out and about, looking at stuff, breathing in air lightly spiced with the peculiar sewage-and-market smells of urban Korea. As I often do, I stopped off at a café, where I sat and dicked around on my iPad for an hour. Then I came home and put on a load of laundry. And that was about it.

Is my itinerary of any conceivable interest to anyone? Hardly. But listen now: in the first volume of The Gulag Archipelago, it’s recorded that a certain Cheka interrogator used to line up naked prisoners, make them bend over, and then deliver flying ‘football kicks� to their exposed testicles. Solzhenitsyn says the men usually passed out from the pain.

I don’t know if there’s a lesson here, other than the usual one about the everlasting shittiness of our species. But I choose to take a very simple message away from this story: any day on which your testicles are not being used for soccer practice is probably, on the whole, a pretty good one. That may sound horribly flippant, but Solzhenitsyn himself makes a similar point elsewhere in the book, claiming that it was precisely his years in the camps that gave him access to the miracle of normalcy, of mundanity.

So coming back to my blah, unblogworthy day: this quotidian bullshit—wandering around, drinking coffee, downloading sitcoms from iTunes—this is what it’s supposed to be like. This is fucking felicity. That vague, low-level dread you feel is just the background hum of a healthy, contented existence.

Hmm. The phrase ‘count your blessings� seems to hover here. Have I just taken the scenic route to a cliché? Looks that way. I need to read more Kierkegaard.

]]>
<![CDATA[Portrait of My Body: A Memoir in Essays]]> 170449


In thirteen essays, Lopate explores theresources and limits of the self, its many disguises,excuses, and unmaskings, with his characteristicwry humor and insight. From the title essay, ahilarious physical self-exam, to the hauntingportrait of his ex-colleague Donald Barthelme, to thebittersweet account of his long-delayed surrenderto marriage, "On Leaving Bachelorhood,"Lopate wrestles with finding the proper balancebetween detachment and empathy, doubt andconviction. In other essays, he celebrates his love offilm and city life, and reflects on his religiousidentity as a Jew. A wrenchingly vivid,unforgettable portrait of the author's eccentric,solipsistic, aged father, a self-proclaimed failure, isthe centerpiece of a suite of essays aboutfather-figures and resisted mentors. The book ends withthe author's own introduction to fatherhood, aswitness to the birth of his daughter.



A book that will engage readers with itsconversational eloquence, skeptical intelligence,candor, and mischief, Portrait of MyBody is a captivating work of literarynonfiction.]]>
336 Phillip Lopate 0385483775 Buck 1 more-than-i-could-chew
Didn't some French guy named Montaigne already do this, like, 500 years ago? And do it much better? Course, he never told us what his penis looked like. A merciful omission.]]>
4.20 1996 Portrait of My Body: A Memoir in Essays
author: Phillip Lopate
name: Buck
average rating: 4.20
book published: 1996
rating: 1
read at:
date added: 2014/07/20
shelves: more-than-i-could-chew
review:
I must have been coming off one of my gas-huffing binges when I bought this book. Because I can't otherwise explain why the idea of a middle-aged Jewish writer rhapsodizing about his penis -- 'it has a brown stem and a pink mushroom head' -- would have appealed to me. Lopate doesn't merely gaze at his navel - he sticks his finger in and takes a good long, contented sniff ('a very ripe, underground smell', in case you were wondering).

Didn't some French guy named Montaigne already do this, like, 500 years ago? And do it much better? Course, he never told us what his penis looked like. A merciful omission.
]]>
<![CDATA[Complete Plays, Lenz, and Other Writings]]> 255689 The life of Georg Buchner was short, intense, and tragic—and extremely significant for the development of modern drama. His three plays, Danton’s Death, Leonce and Lena, and Woyzeck, were greatly ahead of their time in their penetrating dramatic and psychological treatment. They served as an impetus for contemporary schools of drama as different as the Theatre of the Absurd of Ionesco and the Epic Theatre of Brecht.

lso presented in this only complete volume of Buchner in English are his two powerful prose pieces, The Hessian Courier and his short story, Lenz.
]]>
306 Georg Büchner Buck 4 histrionics 4.46 1837 Complete Plays, Lenz, and Other Writings
author: Georg Büchner
name: Buck
average rating: 4.46
book published: 1837
rating: 4
read at:
date added: 2014/04/26
shelves: histrionics
review:

]]>
Black Lamb and Grey Falcon 12880 Black Lamb and Grey Falcon probes the troubled history of the Balkans, and the uneasy relationships amongst its ethnic groups. The landscape and the people of Yugoslavia are brilliantly observed as West untangles the tensions that rule the country's history as well as its daily life.]]> 1181 Rebecca West 014310490X Buck 4
See, ٳ󲹳’s just crazy enough to work. Not that I’ve ever tried the experiment myself, but in my better moments, I can almost understand the logic. I’m not even talking about marriage per se, really � just a certain philosophy of life. Sometimes I have this dim suspicion that the only way to get a handle on the universe is to scrutinize a tiny corner of it with passionate intensity. Then I get sucked into the MILF portal on Youporn again and the whole vexed question evaporates into a metaphysical mist.

Rebecca West, as far as I know, faced no such distractions. She found her particular corner of the universe in that doomed federation formerly known as Yugoslavia. Already a successful, middle-aged writer when she first visited the Balkans, she discovered a place where the innards of history were just kind of hanging out, painfully exposed. “Take the lid off of life, let me look at the works,� goes a line in an old Mekons song. For West, Yugoslavia is where the lid came off.

At 1100 pages, Black Lamb and Grey Falcon is a very big book � a vast, teeming, magnum-opussy thingamajig combining history, travelogue, political theory and ethnographic fantastication. So, yeah, not for everybody. I happen to think it’s a work of genius, but even so, it took me well over a year to get through. A genius can be a huge pain in the ass, you know? Their whims and prejudices are so much more extravagant than other people’s. Sometimes I almost prefer a nice, interesting minor talent.

But in order to explain why this huge, maddening book is worth reading, I’m going to tell a trivial anecdote dressed up as an allegory.

One of my co-workers recently competed in the World Jujitsu Championships in California. When he came back to work, we asked him how he did. “I got destroyed,� he answered cheerfully. “But you know, you always learn something. After you come to, you think: huh, I’ve never seen that before.�

On a purely intellectual level, ٳ󲹳’s what great writing can do � knock you on your ass and make you think: huh, I’ve never seen that before. Whatever else she is, West is a great writer. Just as a putter-together of interesting sentences, she’s got some serious flair. Sometimes she’ll come at you with a whimsical simile:

[She] was fat in the curious way of beautiful middle-aged Turkish women. She did not look like one fat woman, she looked like a cluster of beautiful women loosely attached to a common centre.

Or she'll take some historical figure and efficiently condense him, like so much evaporated milk:

Prince Montenuovo was one of the strangest figures in Europe of our time; a character that Shakespeare decided at the last moment not to use in King Lear or Othello, and laid by so carelessly that it fell out of art into life.

A bizarre—and bizarrely beautiful—passage finds West hallucinating in what is apparently the Balkans� worst toilet:

The lavatory was of the old Turkish kind…The whole floor was wet. Everybody who used the place must go out with shoes stained with urine…The dark hole in the floor, and something hieratic in the proportions of the place, made it seem as if dung, having been expelled by man, had set itself up as a new and magically powerful element that could cover the whole earth with dark ooze and sickly humidity.

As in that last example, West's prose gives off occasional whiffs of something infernal, almost apocalyptic. This isn't surprising given that she was writing in the spooky dusk of the late 1930s, and that by the time she added an epilogue in 1941, London was in flames ("Often, when I have thought of invasion, or a bomb has dropped near by, I have prayed, "Let me behave like a Serb."�). This gives the book a terrible urgency, as if West felt she might be writing an extended obituary for her civilization. And in a way, it is a funeral oration � for Yugoslavia, for a certain idea of Europe, for everything beautiful that ends up getting defaced or beaten down by history.

All of which is to say that Black Lamb and Grey Falcon isn’t really a book for the iPhone age. It’s just too big and dense and idiosyncratic. But ٳ󲹳’s alright: it’ll still be here when we get tired of Angry Birds, or the bombs start falling again, whichever comes first.
]]>
4.21 1941 Black Lamb and Grey Falcon
author: Rebecca West
name: Buck
average rating: 4.21
book published: 1941
rating: 4
read at:
date added: 2014/01/11
shelves:
review:
Google keeps blanking out on the title, but there’s a Ford Madox Ford novel where the main character hears about a friend’s engagement and asks himself why any man would choose to get married. Then he comes up with a generous explanation: well, he thinks, maybe the careful study of one woman gives you a sort of map of all the rest.

See, ٳ󲹳’s just crazy enough to work. Not that I’ve ever tried the experiment myself, but in my better moments, I can almost understand the logic. I’m not even talking about marriage per se, really � just a certain philosophy of life. Sometimes I have this dim suspicion that the only way to get a handle on the universe is to scrutinize a tiny corner of it with passionate intensity. Then I get sucked into the MILF portal on Youporn again and the whole vexed question evaporates into a metaphysical mist.

Rebecca West, as far as I know, faced no such distractions. She found her particular corner of the universe in that doomed federation formerly known as Yugoslavia. Already a successful, middle-aged writer when she first visited the Balkans, she discovered a place where the innards of history were just kind of hanging out, painfully exposed. “Take the lid off of life, let me look at the works,� goes a line in an old Mekons song. For West, Yugoslavia is where the lid came off.

At 1100 pages, Black Lamb and Grey Falcon is a very big book � a vast, teeming, magnum-opussy thingamajig combining history, travelogue, political theory and ethnographic fantastication. So, yeah, not for everybody. I happen to think it’s a work of genius, but even so, it took me well over a year to get through. A genius can be a huge pain in the ass, you know? Their whims and prejudices are so much more extravagant than other people’s. Sometimes I almost prefer a nice, interesting minor talent.

But in order to explain why this huge, maddening book is worth reading, I’m going to tell a trivial anecdote dressed up as an allegory.

One of my co-workers recently competed in the World Jujitsu Championships in California. When he came back to work, we asked him how he did. “I got destroyed,� he answered cheerfully. “But you know, you always learn something. After you come to, you think: huh, I’ve never seen that before.�

On a purely intellectual level, ٳ󲹳’s what great writing can do � knock you on your ass and make you think: huh, I’ve never seen that before. Whatever else she is, West is a great writer. Just as a putter-together of interesting sentences, she’s got some serious flair. Sometimes she’ll come at you with a whimsical simile:

[She] was fat in the curious way of beautiful middle-aged Turkish women. She did not look like one fat woman, she looked like a cluster of beautiful women loosely attached to a common centre.

Or she'll take some historical figure and efficiently condense him, like so much evaporated milk:

Prince Montenuovo was one of the strangest figures in Europe of our time; a character that Shakespeare decided at the last moment not to use in King Lear or Othello, and laid by so carelessly that it fell out of art into life.

A bizarre—and bizarrely beautiful—passage finds West hallucinating in what is apparently the Balkans� worst toilet:

The lavatory was of the old Turkish kind…The whole floor was wet. Everybody who used the place must go out with shoes stained with urine…The dark hole in the floor, and something hieratic in the proportions of the place, made it seem as if dung, having been expelled by man, had set itself up as a new and magically powerful element that could cover the whole earth with dark ooze and sickly humidity.

As in that last example, West's prose gives off occasional whiffs of something infernal, almost apocalyptic. This isn't surprising given that she was writing in the spooky dusk of the late 1930s, and that by the time she added an epilogue in 1941, London was in flames ("Often, when I have thought of invasion, or a bomb has dropped near by, I have prayed, "Let me behave like a Serb."�). This gives the book a terrible urgency, as if West felt she might be writing an extended obituary for her civilization. And in a way, it is a funeral oration � for Yugoslavia, for a certain idea of Europe, for everything beautiful that ends up getting defaced or beaten down by history.

All of which is to say that Black Lamb and Grey Falcon isn’t really a book for the iPhone age. It’s just too big and dense and idiosyncratic. But ٳ󲹳’s alright: it’ll still be here when we get tired of Angry Birds, or the bombs start falling again, whichever comes first.

]]>
San Camilo 1936 61741 467 Camilo José Cela 2020159120 Buck 4
If anything, Cela is the more experimental of the two. Thus, in San Camillo, 1936, he dispenses with paragraph breaks, quotation marks and other typographical frills. Then he pours out these immense, riverine sentences that are not so much grammatical units as rhythmical ones, and that switch without warning from one scene, speaker or register to another. Try to imagine an Iberian Thomas Bernhard with a bad case of coprolalia (and if that comparison makes any sense at all to you, you’re like the biggest geek ever).

Given that there are � oh, I don’t know � two hundred or so characters in the novel, things soon get rather murky: half the time you’re not sure who the hell’s talking and, once you figure that out, you have to flip to the list of characters to remind yourself that Cesareo Murciego, say, is a ‘monarchist, wearer of a green hat� or that Chelo is a ‘whore who committed suicide drinking lye�. Oh, yeah. That whore.

And, believe me, it really is easy to lose track of all the whores. Cela introduces the reader to a vast number of them, peeking into seemingly every brothel and house of assignation in the Madrid of 1936, with detours into the lives of various johns and johns� families. You can practically smell the stale semen wafting off the page (or is that just my library copy?) For all the sex, though, this has got to be one of the least erotic novels I’ve ever read, perhaps because Cela keeps insisting � fervently, Catholically insisting -- on the connection between sex and death (one prostitute, for instance -- repeatedly described as smelling like death and rancid bacon -- is the subject of the narrator’s homicidal fantasies and then, before he can act on them, gets run over by a subway train.)

What else do you need to know about San Camilo, aside from the by now obvious fact that it’s a light-hearted Wodehousian romp? Well, just as a literary curiosity, it employs that rarest of novelistic devices, a second-person narrator (who is somehow omniscient into the bargain); plus, it gives an unforgettable picture of the deep-seated, preternatural fucked-upedness of Spain on the eve of the Civil War.

So, is it better than Bolano? Could be, on technical points, though I get the sense that Cela doesn’t care for people with the same sympathetic interest that Bolano does. Oh, he’s interested in events, all right; he’s interested in sex and violence and ideas. But people? Not so much. I admit I’m just sentimental enough to rather like people � fictional people, anyway -- so I noticed the deficiency. Still, it’s a big, dirty, difficult novel ٳ󲹳’s almost equal to the ambitions of its author, and more than equal to the balls or ovaries of any living novelist I can think of.


ADDENDUM

The day after posting this review, I came upon an interview with Cela, conducted not long after he won the Nobel, in which he says (and I'm quoting from memory here): 'Since I'm part Anglo-Saxon, I find it easier to feel sympathy for a dog than I do for the human race.'

Huh. So why didn't you write novels about dogs, shithead? I'd dock him a star just for that bit of nihilisic posturing if I thought it would do any good. But, after all, it is a fine novel, whatever reservations I may have about the author's, er, wholesomeness.
]]>
3.83 1969 San Camilo 1936
author: Camilo José Cela
name: Buck
average rating: 3.83
book published: 1969
rating: 4
read at:
date added: 2014/01/11
shelves:
review:
This is pure speculation on my part, but I’d bet you a venti latte that Roberto Bolano � the golden boy all the smart kids are reading now � is a direct literary descendant of Camilo Jose Cela. It’s not just the circumstantial fact that they both wrote in Spanish. It’s that they both show a predisposition to big, polyphonic works in which an ungodly hubbub of competing narratives eventually resolves itself into, um, a slightly more orderly hubbub. Which, geez, makes them sound like the Sun Ra Arkestra or something.

If anything, Cela is the more experimental of the two. Thus, in San Camillo, 1936, he dispenses with paragraph breaks, quotation marks and other typographical frills. Then he pours out these immense, riverine sentences that are not so much grammatical units as rhythmical ones, and that switch without warning from one scene, speaker or register to another. Try to imagine an Iberian Thomas Bernhard with a bad case of coprolalia (and if that comparison makes any sense at all to you, you’re like the biggest geek ever).

Given that there are � oh, I don’t know � two hundred or so characters in the novel, things soon get rather murky: half the time you’re not sure who the hell’s talking and, once you figure that out, you have to flip to the list of characters to remind yourself that Cesareo Murciego, say, is a ‘monarchist, wearer of a green hat� or that Chelo is a ‘whore who committed suicide drinking lye�. Oh, yeah. That whore.

And, believe me, it really is easy to lose track of all the whores. Cela introduces the reader to a vast number of them, peeking into seemingly every brothel and house of assignation in the Madrid of 1936, with detours into the lives of various johns and johns� families. You can practically smell the stale semen wafting off the page (or is that just my library copy?) For all the sex, though, this has got to be one of the least erotic novels I’ve ever read, perhaps because Cela keeps insisting � fervently, Catholically insisting -- on the connection between sex and death (one prostitute, for instance -- repeatedly described as smelling like death and rancid bacon -- is the subject of the narrator’s homicidal fantasies and then, before he can act on them, gets run over by a subway train.)

What else do you need to know about San Camilo, aside from the by now obvious fact that it’s a light-hearted Wodehousian romp? Well, just as a literary curiosity, it employs that rarest of novelistic devices, a second-person narrator (who is somehow omniscient into the bargain); plus, it gives an unforgettable picture of the deep-seated, preternatural fucked-upedness of Spain on the eve of the Civil War.

So, is it better than Bolano? Could be, on technical points, though I get the sense that Cela doesn’t care for people with the same sympathetic interest that Bolano does. Oh, he’s interested in events, all right; he’s interested in sex and violence and ideas. But people? Not so much. I admit I’m just sentimental enough to rather like people � fictional people, anyway -- so I noticed the deficiency. Still, it’s a big, dirty, difficult novel ٳ󲹳’s almost equal to the ambitions of its author, and more than equal to the balls or ovaries of any living novelist I can think of.


ADDENDUM

The day after posting this review, I came upon an interview with Cela, conducted not long after he won the Nobel, in which he says (and I'm quoting from memory here): 'Since I'm part Anglo-Saxon, I find it easier to feel sympathy for a dog than I do for the human race.'

Huh. So why didn't you write novels about dogs, shithead? I'd dock him a star just for that bit of nihilisic posturing if I thought it would do any good. But, after all, it is a fine novel, whatever reservations I may have about the author's, er, wholesomeness.

]]>
<![CDATA[In a German Pension (Hesperus Classics)]]> 2189954 112 Katherine Mansfield 1843910411 Buck 3 chicks-dig-it Family Guy on mute—yes, this is relevant—and the closed captions described a character’s unintelligible yammering as “pretentious babble.� Exactly. Pretentious babble is what I hear in my head when I read Woolf. I know what you’re thinking: “But, but—the beauty, the lyricism, the subtle nuances, the, the-" Yeah, fine, whatever. Pretentious babble. It’s just me, alright? I readily admit my mind is neither subtle nor nuanced enough to appreciate the delicate English rose that is Virginia Woolf. (Okay, if you want the truth, I had mildly positive feelings about Woolf until a girlfriend dragged me to see The Hours and I spent the whole time swallowing my own sick).

Why this apparently random and senseless attack on the grande dame of the English novel? Because I always had a preconception that Katherine Mansfield was in the same tradition of gauzy, water-coloured impressionism. But she’s not like that at all. She doesn’t do lyrical. Her prose is so astringent and vinegary you could pickle a fetus in it (or, you know, something inoffensive). And her irony: just withering—the kind of irony that shrivels everything it touches: men, women, children, and Germans. Especially Germans.

According to impeccable scholarly sources (Wikipedia), In a German Pension is largely autobiographical. As a very young woman, Mansfield found herself scandalously pregnant and was packed off to a Bavarian spa by her mother for a ‘rest cure� (i.e. childbirth on the hush-hush). In that light, the book reads like a clever girl’s literary revenge on her circumstances. I’ll show these stupid Germans. And fuck you, mom.

Most of the pieces here are not really stories; they’re more like tart little sketches that capture a moment or a character while avoiding easy drama and cheap epiphanies. Some readers will be frustrated by the studied uneventfulness, but I’m okay with it. In my experience, a good 90% of life is just a bunch of nondescript stuff that won’t fit into a slick narrative, that isn’t even worthy of an anecdote. But clearly I need to get out more.

If the book lacks finish—Mansfield later dismissed it as “immature”—you have to remember this is the work of a twenty-two year old woman writing in 1910. The date is startling because there’s hardly a line here that couldn’t have been written yesterday. Somehow this rebellious, messed-up Kiwi chick turned herself into a modernist before there was any modernism to write home about. Just goes to show you how far a little talent and a shitload of anger can carry a person.
]]>
3.63 1911 In a German Pension (Hesperus Classics)
author: Katherine Mansfield
name: Buck
average rating: 3.63
book published: 1911
rating: 3
read at:
date added: 2014/01/09
shelves: chicks-dig-it
review:
I realize I’m about to piss off some lovely people around here, but it can’t be helped: I dislike Virginia Woolf. A lot. The other day at the gym I was watching Family Guy on mute—yes, this is relevant—and the closed captions described a character’s unintelligible yammering as “pretentious babble.� Exactly. Pretentious babble is what I hear in my head when I read Woolf. I know what you’re thinking: “But, but—the beauty, the lyricism, the subtle nuances, the, the-" Yeah, fine, whatever. Pretentious babble. It’s just me, alright? I readily admit my mind is neither subtle nor nuanced enough to appreciate the delicate English rose that is Virginia Woolf. (Okay, if you want the truth, I had mildly positive feelings about Woolf until a girlfriend dragged me to see The Hours and I spent the whole time swallowing my own sick).

Why this apparently random and senseless attack on the grande dame of the English novel? Because I always had a preconception that Katherine Mansfield was in the same tradition of gauzy, water-coloured impressionism. But she’s not like that at all. She doesn’t do lyrical. Her prose is so astringent and vinegary you could pickle a fetus in it (or, you know, something inoffensive). And her irony: just withering—the kind of irony that shrivels everything it touches: men, women, children, and Germans. Especially Germans.

According to impeccable scholarly sources (Wikipedia), In a German Pension is largely autobiographical. As a very young woman, Mansfield found herself scandalously pregnant and was packed off to a Bavarian spa by her mother for a ‘rest cure� (i.e. childbirth on the hush-hush). In that light, the book reads like a clever girl’s literary revenge on her circumstances. I’ll show these stupid Germans. And fuck you, mom.

Most of the pieces here are not really stories; they’re more like tart little sketches that capture a moment or a character while avoiding easy drama and cheap epiphanies. Some readers will be frustrated by the studied uneventfulness, but I’m okay with it. In my experience, a good 90% of life is just a bunch of nondescript stuff that won’t fit into a slick narrative, that isn’t even worthy of an anecdote. But clearly I need to get out more.

If the book lacks finish—Mansfield later dismissed it as “immature”—you have to remember this is the work of a twenty-two year old woman writing in 1910. The date is startling because there’s hardly a line here that couldn’t have been written yesterday. Somehow this rebellious, messed-up Kiwi chick turned herself into a modernist before there was any modernism to write home about. Just goes to show you how far a little talent and a shitload of anger can carry a person.

]]>
<![CDATA[Pragmatism: A New Name for Some Old Ways of Thinking]]> 681508 James propounded his theories of pragmatism in this book, one of the most important in American philosophy. In a sense, he wished to test competing systems of thought in the "marketplace of actual experience" to determine their validity, i.e. whether adopting a particular philosophical theory or way of looking at the world makes an actual difference in individual conduct or in how we perceive and react to the varieties of experience. In these pages, James not only makes a strong case for his own ideas, but mounts a powerful attack against the transcendental and rationalist tradition.
For anyone interested in William James or the history of American philosophical thought, Pragmatism is an essential and thought provoking reference. In this handy, inexpensive edition, it will challenge and stimulate any thinking person.]]>
116 William James 0486282708 Buck 3
Well, I’ve decided that pragmatism is a philosophy for people in their Carlsberg years. It has a sort of adult-contemporary vibe to it. By design, it’s very middle of the road. This sounds like a dig, but it’s really not. The fact is, I kinda like Wilco � and I kinda like William James. Warmed-over Nietzscheanism, a rakish dash of critical theory, a bit of Bataille when you’re feeling frisky: ٳ󲹳’s all very well for your twenties, but sooner or later you settle down, buy a Suzuki Swift and start wondering how you’re going to get rid of that tribal tattoo on your arm. Nothing tragic about that.

I won’t bore you with a detailed summary of pragmatism—ٳ󲹳’s what Wikipedia’s for—but I’d just suggest that, if you’re reading this, you’re most likely, in some corner of your harried soul, a pragmatist already. Pragmatism—of the unofficial, half-assed variety—has become the default mode for most (secular) Westerners. This isn’t James� doing, exactly. He just gave a local habitation and a name to something that was floating around in the zeitgeist.

If you’re interested in pragmatism itself, you should probably just go straight to Richard Rorty for the modern-dress version. The only reason to read James is for the beauty of his prose—and for the particular tang of his humour and sanity. Even when he’s discussing the most dry-as-dust concepts, he can’t help being earthy and vivid:

Matter is indeed infinitely and incredibly refined. To any one who has ever looked on the face of a dead child or parent the mere fact that matter could have taken for a time that precious from, ought to make matter sacred ever after...That beloved incarnation was among matter’s possibilities.

When you remember that James himself lost a child, you start to realize just how much passion and seriousness went into the man’s writing. Already in the 19th century, there was a joke going around that William James was a novelist disguised as a psychologist, while his brother Henry was a psychologist trying to write novels. At this point in my life, William suddenly seems a lot more interesting and relevant than Henry, but ٳ󲹳’s probably just another sign that I’ve entered my Carlsberg years.
]]>
3.93 1907 Pragmatism: A New Name for Some Old Ways of Thinking
author: William James
name: Buck
average rating: 3.93
book published: 1907
rating: 3
read at: 2011/12/18
date added: 2014/01/09
shelves:
review:
Canadians of a certain age may recall a brilliant series of commercials put out by Carlsberg years ago. Aimed at thirty-something men, they cleverly extolled the joys of adulthood. A typical spot showed a horny couple sharing a pre-coital embrace in a motel room. The voiceover narrator explains: “A friend of mine once tried to tell me that the best sex I’d ever have would be with my wife.� Pause. “He was right.� And then the slogan: “Welcome to your Carlsberg years.� (Youtube is pretending not to know what commercial I’m talking about, and keeps recommending instead this cruelly hilarious clip of � at once the saddest and funniest thing ever.)

Well, I’ve decided that pragmatism is a philosophy for people in their Carlsberg years. It has a sort of adult-contemporary vibe to it. By design, it’s very middle of the road. This sounds like a dig, but it’s really not. The fact is, I kinda like Wilco � and I kinda like William James. Warmed-over Nietzscheanism, a rakish dash of critical theory, a bit of Bataille when you’re feeling frisky: ٳ󲹳’s all very well for your twenties, but sooner or later you settle down, buy a Suzuki Swift and start wondering how you’re going to get rid of that tribal tattoo on your arm. Nothing tragic about that.

I won’t bore you with a detailed summary of pragmatism—ٳ󲹳’s what Wikipedia’s for—but I’d just suggest that, if you’re reading this, you’re most likely, in some corner of your harried soul, a pragmatist already. Pragmatism—of the unofficial, half-assed variety—has become the default mode for most (secular) Westerners. This isn’t James� doing, exactly. He just gave a local habitation and a name to something that was floating around in the zeitgeist.

If you’re interested in pragmatism itself, you should probably just go straight to Richard Rorty for the modern-dress version. The only reason to read James is for the beauty of his prose—and for the particular tang of his humour and sanity. Even when he’s discussing the most dry-as-dust concepts, he can’t help being earthy and vivid:

Matter is indeed infinitely and incredibly refined. To any one who has ever looked on the face of a dead child or parent the mere fact that matter could have taken for a time that precious from, ought to make matter sacred ever after...That beloved incarnation was among matter’s possibilities.

When you remember that James himself lost a child, you start to realize just how much passion and seriousness went into the man’s writing. Already in the 19th century, there was a joke going around that William James was a novelist disguised as a psychologist, while his brother Henry was a psychologist trying to write novels. At this point in my life, William suddenly seems a lot more interesting and relevant than Henry, but ٳ󲹳’s probably just another sign that I’ve entered my Carlsberg years.

]]>
<![CDATA[Speak, Memory: An Autobiography Revisited]]> 8242549 here.

From one of the 20th century's great writers comes one of the finest autobiographies of our time. Speak, Memory, first published in 1951 as Conclusive Evidence and then assiduously revised in 1966, is an elegant and rich evocation of Nabokov’s life and times, even as it offers incisive insights into his major works, including Lolita, Pnin, Despair, The Gift, The Real Life of Sebastian Knight, and The Luhzin Defense.

One of the 20th century’s master prose stylists, Vladimir Nabokov was born in St. Petersburg in 1899. He studied French and Russian literature at Trinity College, Cambridge, then lived in Berlin and Paris, where he launched a brilliant literary career. In 1940 he moved to the United States, and achieved renown as a novelist, poet, critic, and translator. He taught literature at Wellesley, Stanford, Cornell, and Harvard. In 1961 he moved to Montreux, Switzerland, where he died in 1977.]]>
316 Vladimir Nabokov 0679723390 Buck 4 life-writing, russians has that? And what kind of douche decides that sleep is too plebeian? Would it have been so hard to come down with herpes and depression like everyone else?

Needless to say, Speak, Memory is one of the most brilliant autobiographies ever written, and I’m just delaying the moment when I throw my panties on the stage along with every other reviewer here. But first I need to make fun of Nabokov a bit more. Six pages into his foreword, he tosses off this gag-inducing little metaphor:

I hope to write some day a “Speak on, Memory,� covering the years 1940-1960 spent in America: the evaporation of certain volatiles and the melting of certain metals are still going on in my coils and crucibles.

That’s a fairly standard trope, I guess: the artist as alchemist. What irritates me about it is the self-complacency it implies: this is the uptown equivalent of hanging a “Genius at Work� sign on your cubicle wall. It’s tacky, not to mention unbearably precious. Also, wasn’t alchemy discredited centuries ago as a bogus pseudo-science?

In one sense, though, the metaphor is well-chosen, because Nabokov really did view art as some kind of occult jiggery-pokery:

I discovered in nature the non-utilitarian delights that I sought in art. Both were a form of magic, both were a game of intricate enchantment and deception.

I dunno. It’s not that I expect every artist to justify the ways of God to man, or forge the conscience of his race in the smithy of his soul (blech), or help me free my mind so that my ass may follow, but that strikes me as a depressingly sterile notion of art. Games, magic, deception: it all sounds like an elaborate Easter egg hunt. Or a Dungeons & Dragons marathon. Either way, it’s something I grew out of a long time ago. And if you point out that Nabokov wrote Lolita, whereas I’ve written a bunch of book reports for a stupid website, I won’t have much of a comeback for you. Except shut up.

I clearly have huge problems with some of the assumptions behind Speak, Memory, but the book itself is just so damn beautiful that I can’t stay mad at it for long. People talk about Nabokov’s style as if it were some glittering, rococo gush, but his elaborations are never merely ornamental: they’re in the service of an almost preposterous precision. He wants to get it exactly right, and if that means ransacking the OED and piling up his clauses into syntactical Jenga towers � well, you’ll just have to sit there and take it. Or go play Wii. The fact is, the world is so immeasurably complex, and our perceptions are so deliriously rich that even the most exhaustive representation of one tiny patch of reality can only be a gross simplification � a thing of sticks and squiggles, daubed by a gifted chimpanzee. Nabokov’s prose is a bit less of a simplification than anyone else’s, ٳ󲹳’s all. Meaning, he comes as close to honouring the riotous profusion of experience as any human being is likely to get.

There. I told you the panties would come off.
]]>
4.09 1966 Speak, Memory: An Autobiography Revisited
author: Vladimir Nabokov
name: Buck
average rating: 4.09
book published: 1966
rating: 4
read at:
date added: 2014/01/08
shelves: life-writing, russians
review:
Vladimir Nabokov was the Niles Crane of 20th-century literature: snooty, fastidious, and comically inept at being a normal guy. (And it’s part of his fastidiousness that he would have despised my handy, pop-culture analogy). Even his ailments had something snobbish about them. I mean, synesthesia? Who has that? And what kind of douche decides that sleep is too plebeian? Would it have been so hard to come down with herpes and depression like everyone else?

Needless to say, Speak, Memory is one of the most brilliant autobiographies ever written, and I’m just delaying the moment when I throw my panties on the stage along with every other reviewer here. But first I need to make fun of Nabokov a bit more. Six pages into his foreword, he tosses off this gag-inducing little metaphor:

I hope to write some day a “Speak on, Memory,� covering the years 1940-1960 spent in America: the evaporation of certain volatiles and the melting of certain metals are still going on in my coils and crucibles.

That’s a fairly standard trope, I guess: the artist as alchemist. What irritates me about it is the self-complacency it implies: this is the uptown equivalent of hanging a “Genius at Work� sign on your cubicle wall. It’s tacky, not to mention unbearably precious. Also, wasn’t alchemy discredited centuries ago as a bogus pseudo-science?

In one sense, though, the metaphor is well-chosen, because Nabokov really did view art as some kind of occult jiggery-pokery:

I discovered in nature the non-utilitarian delights that I sought in art. Both were a form of magic, both were a game of intricate enchantment and deception.

I dunno. It’s not that I expect every artist to justify the ways of God to man, or forge the conscience of his race in the smithy of his soul (blech), or help me free my mind so that my ass may follow, but that strikes me as a depressingly sterile notion of art. Games, magic, deception: it all sounds like an elaborate Easter egg hunt. Or a Dungeons & Dragons marathon. Either way, it’s something I grew out of a long time ago. And if you point out that Nabokov wrote Lolita, whereas I’ve written a bunch of book reports for a stupid website, I won’t have much of a comeback for you. Except shut up.

I clearly have huge problems with some of the assumptions behind Speak, Memory, but the book itself is just so damn beautiful that I can’t stay mad at it for long. People talk about Nabokov’s style as if it were some glittering, rococo gush, but his elaborations are never merely ornamental: they’re in the service of an almost preposterous precision. He wants to get it exactly right, and if that means ransacking the OED and piling up his clauses into syntactical Jenga towers � well, you’ll just have to sit there and take it. Or go play Wii. The fact is, the world is so immeasurably complex, and our perceptions are so deliriously rich that even the most exhaustive representation of one tiny patch of reality can only be a gross simplification � a thing of sticks and squiggles, daubed by a gifted chimpanzee. Nabokov’s prose is a bit less of a simplification than anyone else’s, ٳ󲹳’s all. Meaning, he comes as close to honouring the riotous profusion of experience as any human being is likely to get.

There. I told you the panties would come off.

]]>
<![CDATA[The Path to Power (The Years of Lyndon Johnson, #1)]]> 86524
The Path to Power, Book One, reveals in extraordinary detail the genesis of the almost superhuman drive, energy, and urge to power that set LBJ apart. Chronicling the startling early emergence of Johnson’s political genius, it follows him from his Texas boyhood through the years of the Depression in the Texas hill Country to the triumph of his congressional debut in New Deal Washington, to his heartbreaking defeat in his first race for the Senate, and his attainment, nonetheless, of the national power for which he hungered.

We see in him, from earliest childhood, a fierce, unquenchable necessity to be first, to win, to dominate—coupled with a limitless capacity for hard, unceasing labor in the service of his own ambition. Caro shows us the big, gangling, awkward young Lyndon—raised in one of the country’s most desperately poor and isolated areas, his education mediocre at best, his pride stung by his father’s slide into failure and financial ruin—lunging for success, moving inexorably toward that ultimate “impossible� goal that he sets for himself years before any friend or enemy suspects what it may be.

We watch him, while still at college, instinctively (and ruthlessly) creating the beginnings of the political machine that was to serve him for three decades. We see him employing his extraordinary ability to mesmerize and manipulate powerful older men, to mesmerize (and sometimes almost enslave) useful subordinates. We see him carrying out, before his thirtieth year, his first great political inspiration: tapping-and becoming the political conduit for-the money and influence of the new oil men and contractors who were to grow with him to immense power. We follow, close up, the radical fluctuations of his relationships with the formidable “Mr. Sam� Rayburn (who loved him like a son and whom he betrayed) and with FDR himself. And we follow the dramas of his emotional life-the intensities and complications of his relationships with his family, his contemporaries, his girls; his wooing and winning of the shy Lady Bird; his secret love affair, over many years, with the mistress of one of his most ardent and generous supporters . . .

Johnson driving his people to the point of exhausted tears, equally merciless with himself . . . Johnson bullying, cajoling, lying, yet inspiring an amazing loyalty . . . Johnson maneuvering to dethrone the unassailable old Jack Garner (then Vice President of the United States) as the New Deal’s “connection� in Texas, and seize the power himself . . . Johnson raging . . . Johnson hugging . . . Johnson bringing light and, indeed, life to the worn Hill Country farmers and their old-at-thirty wives via the district’s first electric lines.

We see him at once unscrupulous, admirable, treacherous, devoted. And we see the country that bred him: the harshness and “nauseating loneliness� of the rural life; the tragic panorama of the Depression; the sudden glow of hope at the dawn of the Age of Roosevelt. And always, in the foreground, on the move, LBJ.

Here is Lyndon Johnson—his Texas, his Washington, his America—in a book that brings us as close as we have ever been to a true perception of political genius and the American political process.]]>
882 Robert A. Caro 0679729453 Buck 5 life-writing
This book, though. This book is something else. ‘Political biography� is too pissant a term for this Ahab-like undertaking. I’d call it a biographie-fleuve, but I don’t think ٳ󲹳’s a real word even in French. Let’s just call it a great big fucking book, in every sense of the various adjectives.

It’s somehow fitting that, in the same week that The Path to Power was keeping me up till 3 or 4 a.m. every night, I was also working my way through the first two seasons of Breaking Bad. Seen side by side like this, LBJ the wheeler-dealer and Walter White the meth dealer share a certain resemblance; they inhabit the same moral penumbra. Both men get caught up in a dangerous game that they turn out to be really, really good at, and both have, shall we say, an open-door policy vis-à-vis the dark side. Of course, LBJ never strangled anyone with a bike lock (as far as we know) but he still had enough blood on his hands to incarnadine the multitudinous seas, or at least turn them a ghastly pink.

People are going to be arguing about Robert Caro’s portrayal of Lyndon Johnson for decades to come, but even on the most generous interpretation of the facts, it seems pretty clear that the 36th POTUS was at once a crook, a liar, a shameless toady, a serial adulterer and a complete physical coward. Just for starters. He was also, and equally clearly, a political genius who did more to liberate and enfranchise his fellow citizens than any president since Lincoln. So there’s that too.

Still, for all Johnson’s Shakespearean complexities, this wouldn’t be the great big fucking book it is if Robert Caro had stuck to his safe, biographical bailiwick. Almost more fascinating than its central figure are the rich little digressions and sidelights it contains. To use an unfashionable word, it’s an edifying book: it teaches you stuff you didn’t even know you wanted to know, stuff like the history of the Texas Hill Country, or the domestic chores of farmers' wives, or the rococo politics of dam-building under the New Deal, or the grotesque career of Pappy O’Daniel. And then there’s the plain old gossip, such as the astonishing fact that the young LBJ had a passionate and very illicit affair with one of the most beautiful women of the day, who, decades later, would end up burning all his love letters out of mortification over the Vietnam War. See? Who wouldn’t want to know that?

Bring on volume two! And season three! I'm starting to get a taste for all this skeevy ambivalence and moral murk.]]>
4.39 1982 The Path to Power (The Years of Lyndon Johnson, #1)
author: Robert A. Caro
name: Buck
average rating: 4.39
book published: 1982
rating: 5
read at:
date added: 2014/01/08
shelves: life-writing
review:
Not being American myself, I have no particular interest in US presidential history, unless that history can be shoehorned into an entertaining biopic, preferably with a British actor in the lead role. (I wonder who they’ll get to play Obama when the time comes. Liam Neeson?)

This book, though. This book is something else. ‘Political biography� is too pissant a term for this Ahab-like undertaking. I’d call it a biographie-fleuve, but I don’t think ٳ󲹳’s a real word even in French. Let’s just call it a great big fucking book, in every sense of the various adjectives.

It’s somehow fitting that, in the same week that The Path to Power was keeping me up till 3 or 4 a.m. every night, I was also working my way through the first two seasons of Breaking Bad. Seen side by side like this, LBJ the wheeler-dealer and Walter White the meth dealer share a certain resemblance; they inhabit the same moral penumbra. Both men get caught up in a dangerous game that they turn out to be really, really good at, and both have, shall we say, an open-door policy vis-à-vis the dark side. Of course, LBJ never strangled anyone with a bike lock (as far as we know) but he still had enough blood on his hands to incarnadine the multitudinous seas, or at least turn them a ghastly pink.

People are going to be arguing about Robert Caro’s portrayal of Lyndon Johnson for decades to come, but even on the most generous interpretation of the facts, it seems pretty clear that the 36th POTUS was at once a crook, a liar, a shameless toady, a serial adulterer and a complete physical coward. Just for starters. He was also, and equally clearly, a political genius who did more to liberate and enfranchise his fellow citizens than any president since Lincoln. So there’s that too.

Still, for all Johnson’s Shakespearean complexities, this wouldn’t be the great big fucking book it is if Robert Caro had stuck to his safe, biographical bailiwick. Almost more fascinating than its central figure are the rich little digressions and sidelights it contains. To use an unfashionable word, it’s an edifying book: it teaches you stuff you didn’t even know you wanted to know, stuff like the history of the Texas Hill Country, or the domestic chores of farmers' wives, or the rococo politics of dam-building under the New Deal, or the grotesque career of Pappy O’Daniel. And then there’s the plain old gossip, such as the astonishing fact that the young LBJ had a passionate and very illicit affair with one of the most beautiful women of the day, who, decades later, would end up burning all his love letters out of mortification over the Vietnam War. See? Who wouldn’t want to know that?

Bring on volume two! And season three! I'm starting to get a taste for all this skeevy ambivalence and moral murk.
]]>
<![CDATA[This Is Running for Your Life: Essays]]> 13538839

In This Is Running for Your Life , Michelle Orange takes us from Beirut to Hawaii to her grandmother's retirement home in Canada in her quest to understand how people behave in a world increasingly mediated―for better and for worse―by images and interactivity. Orange's essays range from the critical to the journalistic to the deeply personal; she seamlessly combines stories from her own life with incisive analysis as she explores everything from the intimacies we develop with celebrities and movie characters to the troubled creation of the most recent edition of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders .
With the insight of a young Joan Didion and the empathy of a John Jeremiah Sullivan, Orange dives into popular culture and the status quo and emerges with a persuasive and provocative book about how we live now. Her singular voice will resonate for years to come.]]>
352 Michelle Orange 0374533326 Buck 3 life-writing curriculum vitae, which mirrors mine in uncanny ways. We both grew up in London, Ontario, where we both rode the Gravitron at the Western Fair (though I wonder if she ever puked over the gunwale of the nearby Pirate Ship, as I once did). Then, in the 90s, we both moved to Toronto, studied English and became insufferable. Finally there’s the fact that both of us spent time on the West Coast, trying to find ourselves or whatever, but ٳ󲹳’s almost obligatory for Canadians of our generation, so maybe it doesn’t count.

Still, I don’t want to make too much of our similarities, especially since Orange bristles, in one of her essays, at the very idea of having a doppelganger. In any case, our paths eventually diverged when she left for New York to pursue a writing career, while I...did not. Plus, on the evidence of this book, her youthful metaphysical crises were a bit more interesting than mine: in her twenties, she took up extreme jogging out of spiritual angst, whereas I, less original, took up recreational jogging because I was a fat-ass. So, yeah, different people.

There’s a certain dickish way in which I could imagine myself dismissing This Is Running for Your Life: 'Basically, it’s the sort of thing that smart women in New York tend to write: you know, personal essays about Facebook and movies and, like, the special problems of being a smart woman in New York. Joan Didion’s skirt must’ve rustled a bit when Orange fell out and hit Katie Roiphe on the way down.� That’s the dickish response, as I say, and there’s something to it. Orange is certainly clever, but it’s a manic, brittle cleverness that sometimes falls into bathos, as in this line: ‘Puberty can go off like an IED in the Iraqi desert: one morning you wake up in a German hospital and spend the next six years learning to walk and talk.� Not to commit the same solecism here, but ٳ󲹳’s the kind of mesmerizing awkwardness I associate with Jennifer Lawrence at an awards ceremony.

But for the most part, I read this collection with real pleasure, complicated and distorted by real envy. As with the above-named Lawrence (sorry, but like every other loser on the planet, I can't stop thinking about her lately), Orange’s charm and talent cover any number of lapses. She takes some fairly unpromising subjects—a visit to her grandmother’s nursing home, Ethan Hawke’s face—and works out from there, ruminating, making connections, showing off her syntax and, in short, doing good, honest, essayistic-type stuff. I get the feeling Orange (like a certain young actress) has a brilliant career ahead of her. Which, I guess, is something else that sets her apart from me. But we’ll always have that stupid Gravitron.

]]>
3.73 2012 This Is Running for Your Life: Essays
author: Michelle Orange
name: Buck
average rating: 3.73
book published: 2012
rating: 3
read at:
date added: 2014/01/07
shelves: life-writing
review:
So this is weird, but it turns out Michelle Orange is my female doppelganger, at least in terms of her curriculum vitae, which mirrors mine in uncanny ways. We both grew up in London, Ontario, where we both rode the Gravitron at the Western Fair (though I wonder if she ever puked over the gunwale of the nearby Pirate Ship, as I once did). Then, in the 90s, we both moved to Toronto, studied English and became insufferable. Finally there’s the fact that both of us spent time on the West Coast, trying to find ourselves or whatever, but ٳ󲹳’s almost obligatory for Canadians of our generation, so maybe it doesn’t count.

Still, I don’t want to make too much of our similarities, especially since Orange bristles, in one of her essays, at the very idea of having a doppelganger. In any case, our paths eventually diverged when she left for New York to pursue a writing career, while I...did not. Plus, on the evidence of this book, her youthful metaphysical crises were a bit more interesting than mine: in her twenties, she took up extreme jogging out of spiritual angst, whereas I, less original, took up recreational jogging because I was a fat-ass. So, yeah, different people.

There’s a certain dickish way in which I could imagine myself dismissing This Is Running for Your Life: 'Basically, it’s the sort of thing that smart women in New York tend to write: you know, personal essays about Facebook and movies and, like, the special problems of being a smart woman in New York. Joan Didion’s skirt must’ve rustled a bit when Orange fell out and hit Katie Roiphe on the way down.� That’s the dickish response, as I say, and there’s something to it. Orange is certainly clever, but it’s a manic, brittle cleverness that sometimes falls into bathos, as in this line: ‘Puberty can go off like an IED in the Iraqi desert: one morning you wake up in a German hospital and spend the next six years learning to walk and talk.� Not to commit the same solecism here, but ٳ󲹳’s the kind of mesmerizing awkwardness I associate with Jennifer Lawrence at an awards ceremony.

But for the most part, I read this collection with real pleasure, complicated and distorted by real envy. As with the above-named Lawrence (sorry, but like every other loser on the planet, I can't stop thinking about her lately), Orange’s charm and talent cover any number of lapses. She takes some fairly unpromising subjects—a visit to her grandmother’s nursing home, Ethan Hawke’s face—and works out from there, ruminating, making connections, showing off her syntax and, in short, doing good, honest, essayistic-type stuff. I get the feeling Orange (like a certain young actress) has a brilliant career ahead of her. Which, I guess, is something else that sets her apart from me. But we’ll always have that stupid Gravitron.


]]>
<![CDATA[Can You Forgive Her? (Palliser #1)]]> 374371 847 Anthony Trollope 0140430865 Buck 4 chicks-dig-it Can You Forgive Her? Pushed willy-nilly onto the marriage market, these wealthy Victorian ladies are faced with that eternal dilemma: how come all the hot, interesting guys are total dicks, and all the nice, bankable ones are kind of…blah? I’m vulgarizing shamelessly, but in fact each of these characters has to choose between a sexy bad-boy type and a dependable doofus. More to the point, maybe: each has to work out for herself a solution to another familiar dilemma, summed up by the novel’s heroine: ‘What should a woman do with her life?�

Trollope, needless to say, was no feminist. He tried hard to disguise himself as a typical Victorian gentleman, and his official views on the ‘woman question� are an unappealing mishmash of genial male chauvinism and courtly condescension. But here’s the thing: Trollope was so far from being a misogynist that, on some fundamental level, he completely got women, sympathizing with them in ways he never did with men. That may be why, in Can You Forgive Her? , it’s the female characters who are fully developed moral agents, and the men who are stock figures out of Victorian central casting. (In this respect, Trollope is the inverse of Dickens, whose women are all Protestant Madonnas full of mercy and tears; personally, the only one I could believe for a second was Esther Summerson, and ٳ󲹳’s because she was human enough to get smallpox).

But apart from this rough-and-ready philogyny, what knocks me out about Trollope is his wisdom, which breathes through his books with something of the same quasi-divine calm that you sense in Tolstoy (who was a big fan of Trollope’s, by the way). Whatever they were like as individuals � and I know Tolstoy, at least, could be a prize idiot at times � as novelists, their default mode is wry omniscience. Both have the rare and generous capacity to honour a character’s singularity, to stay true to it even when their own moral or philosophical principles are all engaged on the opposite side. Lady Glencora, one of Trollope’s most fascinating creations, is a good example of this. In Can You Forgive Her?, he shows her seriously contemplating adultery, a crime for which the Victorians had a special horror. We see her lusting after a beautiful cad who - she is well aware - would probably end up gambling away her fortune and tossing her aside. She openly admits that she’d rather be beaten by such a man than endure a respectable life with her perfectly decent husband. All this is, of course, very, very bad. Trollope feels it to be bad. He disapproves. And yet he loves Glencora more than a little; he understands her right down to her smallest whim � and he wants us to love and understand her, too.

God, there’s just so much life here, clumps of the stuff. Who would have thought that an 800-page triple decker about the endlessly prolonged romantic vacillations of a frigid, upper-class maiden would be not only great fun, but moving and profound? I’m not overlooking its flaws, either, the most obvious being that it’s morbidly, spectacularly obese. I repeat: Eight. Hundred. Freaking. Pages. If this book were a person, it would be a blubbery shut-in lolling in its own feces, waiting for the work crew to knock down the wall and bring in the special Sea World harness.

More damaging than the sheer bulk, however, is the generic inconsistency: you have the almost Jamesian melodrama of the twinned central plot, which is then parodically duplicated in scenes of provincial clownishness involving an amorous widow. To my mind, this last subplot owes something to the older, 18th century comic novelists, while a few of the disreputable urban characters seem to have strolled over from a Dickens novel for a cameo (they even come with Dickensian names like Grimes, Tombe and Pinkle). Yet by some mysterious insufflation, Trollope manages to keep this immense, wayward monster alive and (fitfully) kicking.

For all my enthusiasm, I don’t know anyone I would recommend the book to unreservedly. I can see how even the most willing reader might be turned off by the novel’s flab and by the slight gaminess of the prose (which might grow on you, though, as it did on me). Then too, I think you need a certain amount of ‘life experience� to really appreciate Trollope’s shrewdness. I first read him at twenty or so and decided he was nothing special. Now, like Twain with his old man, I’m amazed at how smart he’s gotten all of a sudden.
]]>
3.97 1865 Can You Forgive Her? (Palliser #1)
author: Anthony Trollope
name: Buck
average rating: 3.97
book published: 1865
rating: 4
read at:
date added: 2014/01/07
shelves: chicks-dig-it
review:
George Costanza excepted, I know less about women than anyone in the world, but I’d imagine that even liberated, post-feminist women could relate to the three feisty chicks at the centre of Can You Forgive Her? Pushed willy-nilly onto the marriage market, these wealthy Victorian ladies are faced with that eternal dilemma: how come all the hot, interesting guys are total dicks, and all the nice, bankable ones are kind of…blah? I’m vulgarizing shamelessly, but in fact each of these characters has to choose between a sexy bad-boy type and a dependable doofus. More to the point, maybe: each has to work out for herself a solution to another familiar dilemma, summed up by the novel’s heroine: ‘What should a woman do with her life?�

Trollope, needless to say, was no feminist. He tried hard to disguise himself as a typical Victorian gentleman, and his official views on the ‘woman question� are an unappealing mishmash of genial male chauvinism and courtly condescension. But here’s the thing: Trollope was so far from being a misogynist that, on some fundamental level, he completely got women, sympathizing with them in ways he never did with men. That may be why, in Can You Forgive Her? , it’s the female characters who are fully developed moral agents, and the men who are stock figures out of Victorian central casting. (In this respect, Trollope is the inverse of Dickens, whose women are all Protestant Madonnas full of mercy and tears; personally, the only one I could believe for a second was Esther Summerson, and ٳ󲹳’s because she was human enough to get smallpox).

But apart from this rough-and-ready philogyny, what knocks me out about Trollope is his wisdom, which breathes through his books with something of the same quasi-divine calm that you sense in Tolstoy (who was a big fan of Trollope’s, by the way). Whatever they were like as individuals � and I know Tolstoy, at least, could be a prize idiot at times � as novelists, their default mode is wry omniscience. Both have the rare and generous capacity to honour a character’s singularity, to stay true to it even when their own moral or philosophical principles are all engaged on the opposite side. Lady Glencora, one of Trollope’s most fascinating creations, is a good example of this. In Can You Forgive Her?, he shows her seriously contemplating adultery, a crime for which the Victorians had a special horror. We see her lusting after a beautiful cad who - she is well aware - would probably end up gambling away her fortune and tossing her aside. She openly admits that she’d rather be beaten by such a man than endure a respectable life with her perfectly decent husband. All this is, of course, very, very bad. Trollope feels it to be bad. He disapproves. And yet he loves Glencora more than a little; he understands her right down to her smallest whim � and he wants us to love and understand her, too.

God, there’s just so much life here, clumps of the stuff. Who would have thought that an 800-page triple decker about the endlessly prolonged romantic vacillations of a frigid, upper-class maiden would be not only great fun, but moving and profound? I’m not overlooking its flaws, either, the most obvious being that it’s morbidly, spectacularly obese. I repeat: Eight. Hundred. Freaking. Pages. If this book were a person, it would be a blubbery shut-in lolling in its own feces, waiting for the work crew to knock down the wall and bring in the special Sea World harness.

More damaging than the sheer bulk, however, is the generic inconsistency: you have the almost Jamesian melodrama of the twinned central plot, which is then parodically duplicated in scenes of provincial clownishness involving an amorous widow. To my mind, this last subplot owes something to the older, 18th century comic novelists, while a few of the disreputable urban characters seem to have strolled over from a Dickens novel for a cameo (they even come with Dickensian names like Grimes, Tombe and Pinkle). Yet by some mysterious insufflation, Trollope manages to keep this immense, wayward monster alive and (fitfully) kicking.

For all my enthusiasm, I don’t know anyone I would recommend the book to unreservedly. I can see how even the most willing reader might be turned off by the novel’s flab and by the slight gaminess of the prose (which might grow on you, though, as it did on me). Then too, I think you need a certain amount of ‘life experience� to really appreciate Trollope’s shrewdness. I first read him at twenty or so and decided he was nothing special. Now, like Twain with his old man, I’m amazed at how smart he’s gotten all of a sudden.

]]>
<![CDATA[Chasing the Sea: Lost Among the Ghosts of Empire in Central Asia]]> 233072
In Chasing the Sea, Bissell combines the story of his travels with a beguiling chronicle of Uzbekistan’s striking culture and long history of violent subjugation by despots from Jenghiz Khan to Joseph Stalin. Alternately amusing and sobering, this is a gripping portrait of a fascinating place, and the debut of a singularly gifted young writer.]]>
388 Tom Bissell 037572754X Buck 3
At any rate, Chasing the Sea struck me as just the sort of book I might have written if I’d spent a few months bumming around Uzbekistan—and if I were, you know, a little brighter and more enterprising. As a person, Tom Bissell is probably nothing like me, but various little signs and shibboleths give away his age. He’s definitely one of us.

Take his sense of humour. I’m not sure how to categorize it exactly, but I know it when I hear it, if only because of the Pavlovian regularity with which it cracks me up. Much of the comedy in the book is provided by Rustam, the MILF-chasing Uzbek slacker who serves as Bissell’s interpreter. The exchanges between the two, full of comic misunderstandings and crude affection, have this loopy, laid-back, THC-infused quality:

“We need to go somewhere soon, bro, because my pee bubble is full.�
“Your pee bubble?�
“This is the bubble which holds my pee.�
“Your bladder, you mean. Bladder. B-l-a-d-d-e-r.�
“In English you don’t call it the pee bubble?�
“I will from now on, probably.�


And later:

“Ferghana is safe, bro. I don’t want you to worry.�
“I’m not worried.�
“The only thing you have to worry about is the Wahhabi rebels in the mountains. And then only during Rebel Season.�
“Rebel Season.�
“Yeah. When the snow melts. They move around.�
“When exactly is Rebel Season?�
“Well, I guess now.�



For me—and maybe only for me—the interesting thing about travel writing is that, while technically non-fiction, it’s hedged with as many codes and conventions as the novel. Among other challenges, the writer is faced with the delicate task of creating a narratorial voice, of constructing a persona. The trick is to be sympathetic without appearing to curry favour with the reader. The classic British travel writers—whom Bissell has obviously read with care—solved this problem in classic British fashion: through irony, understatement, self-depreciation. Bissell adopts an up-to-date, American version of this strategy, presenting himself as a bumbling but well-meaning doofus whose courage keeps deserting him at critical moments (thus, having agreed to smuggle some cash to the wife of an imprisoned Uzbek journalist, he gets so freaked out by the superintendent of the woman’s apartment building that he falls all over himself trying to run away—something it’s very hard to imagine Sir Wilfred Thesiger ever doing.)

Even if it is just a conventional pose, Bissell’s innocent-abroad routine seems very credible to me, mostly because I can relate all too well to his habit of losing his shit in spectacular ways. All the same, it’s kind of a sad commentary on 21st century manhood that we’ve gone from aristocratic sangfroid (“Being tortured by Papuan cannibals is rather a bore�) to our present state of gushy enfeeblement (Bissell has a recurring joke about how his decision to quit the Peace Corps back in the 90s was ‘emotional and complicated’—basically he missed his girlfriend and went crazy). What the fuck has happened to us?

Structurally, Chasing the Sea is—excuse the pun—a little choppy. Every time Bissell gets to a new town, he calls a halt to the narrative and piles on the scholarly in-fill, giving you a potted history of the place from medieval times to the present. And he can’t so much as glance at a minaret without writing two pages of expert commentary on its lovely neo-Byzantine ribbing or whatever. Unless you have a truly perverse passion for Central Asian history and architecture, you’re going to find all this expository stuffing very lumpy.

But read it anyway. Even if you’re not lucky enough to belong to my fabulous cohort—heck, even if you’re one of those insufferable baby boomers—you’re bound to get something out of it. It’s a sad, funny, (extremely) informative book. Just skim the minaret parts, is my advice.
]]>
3.85 2003 Chasing the Sea: Lost Among the Ghosts of Empire in Central Asia
author: Tom Bissell
name: Buck
average rating: 3.85
book published: 2003
rating: 3
read at:
date added: 2014/01/03
shelves:
review:
Now that more and more writers in my age bracket are getting published, I’ve noticed something unsettling: reading their books is a bit like listening to my own voice on tape and has the same cringe-inducing effect. I realize every generation has its own jargon, its in-jokes and iPod playlists, but experiencing it from the inside is different. And demoralizing. It makes you appreciate how hard it is to rise above the idle chatter and say something halfway original.

At any rate, Chasing the Sea struck me as just the sort of book I might have written if I’d spent a few months bumming around Uzbekistan—and if I were, you know, a little brighter and more enterprising. As a person, Tom Bissell is probably nothing like me, but various little signs and shibboleths give away his age. He’s definitely one of us.

Take his sense of humour. I’m not sure how to categorize it exactly, but I know it when I hear it, if only because of the Pavlovian regularity with which it cracks me up. Much of the comedy in the book is provided by Rustam, the MILF-chasing Uzbek slacker who serves as Bissell’s interpreter. The exchanges between the two, full of comic misunderstandings and crude affection, have this loopy, laid-back, THC-infused quality:

“We need to go somewhere soon, bro, because my pee bubble is full.�
“Your pee bubble?�
“This is the bubble which holds my pee.�
“Your bladder, you mean. Bladder. B-l-a-d-d-e-r.�
“In English you don’t call it the pee bubble?�
“I will from now on, probably.�


And later:

“Ferghana is safe, bro. I don’t want you to worry.�
“I’m not worried.�
“The only thing you have to worry about is the Wahhabi rebels in the mountains. And then only during Rebel Season.�
“Rebel Season.�
“Yeah. When the snow melts. They move around.�
“When exactly is Rebel Season?�
“Well, I guess now.�



For me—and maybe only for me—the interesting thing about travel writing is that, while technically non-fiction, it’s hedged with as many codes and conventions as the novel. Among other challenges, the writer is faced with the delicate task of creating a narratorial voice, of constructing a persona. The trick is to be sympathetic without appearing to curry favour with the reader. The classic British travel writers—whom Bissell has obviously read with care—solved this problem in classic British fashion: through irony, understatement, self-depreciation. Bissell adopts an up-to-date, American version of this strategy, presenting himself as a bumbling but well-meaning doofus whose courage keeps deserting him at critical moments (thus, having agreed to smuggle some cash to the wife of an imprisoned Uzbek journalist, he gets so freaked out by the superintendent of the woman’s apartment building that he falls all over himself trying to run away—something it’s very hard to imagine Sir Wilfred Thesiger ever doing.)

Even if it is just a conventional pose, Bissell’s innocent-abroad routine seems very credible to me, mostly because I can relate all too well to his habit of losing his shit in spectacular ways. All the same, it’s kind of a sad commentary on 21st century manhood that we’ve gone from aristocratic sangfroid (“Being tortured by Papuan cannibals is rather a bore�) to our present state of gushy enfeeblement (Bissell has a recurring joke about how his decision to quit the Peace Corps back in the 90s was ‘emotional and complicated’—basically he missed his girlfriend and went crazy). What the fuck has happened to us?

Structurally, Chasing the Sea is—excuse the pun—a little choppy. Every time Bissell gets to a new town, he calls a halt to the narrative and piles on the scholarly in-fill, giving you a potted history of the place from medieval times to the present. And he can’t so much as glance at a minaret without writing two pages of expert commentary on its lovely neo-Byzantine ribbing or whatever. Unless you have a truly perverse passion for Central Asian history and architecture, you’re going to find all this expository stuffing very lumpy.

But read it anyway. Even if you’re not lucky enough to belong to my fabulous cohort—heck, even if you’re one of those insufferable baby boomers—you’re bound to get something out of it. It’s a sad, funny, (extremely) informative book. Just skim the minaret parts, is my advice.

]]>
<![CDATA[The Worst Journey in the World]]> 48503 The Worst Journey in the World recounts Robert Falcon Scott's ill-fated expedition to the South Pole. Apsley Cherry-Garrard, the youngest member of Scott's team and one of three men to make and survive the notorious Winter Journey, draws on his firsthand experiences as well as the diaries of his compatriots to create a stirring and detailed account of Scott's legendary expedition. Cherry himself would be among the search party that discovered the corpses of Scott and his men, who had long since perished from starvation and brutal cold. It is through Cherry's insightful narrative and keen descriptions that Scott and the other members of the expedition are fully memorialized.

First published in 1922.]]>
693 Apsley Cherry-Garrard 0143039385 Buck 4 life-writing
Apsley Cherry-Gerrard �- and let me say now what a wonderfully plummy name that is, worthy of some mad squire in a Waugh novel -� was, at twenty-four, the baby of the expedition. Passed over for the doomed ‘Southern Journey� to the pole, he survived and made it back to England. Years later, at the suggestion of his neighbour, George Bernard Shaw, he put together an account of his experiences, calling it, with good reason, The Worst Journey in the World.

Actually, the titular journey is not the famous ‘dash� to the pole, but rather an earlier sub-expedition Cherry took part in: a hellish five-week slog through the permanent darkness of an Antarctic winter. This has got to be, without question, one of the most whacked, ape-shit schemes in the history of exploration. A few random details: temperatures so low that sweat would freeze the instant it emerged from the pores; frostbitten flesh that would break out in horrid, suppurating blisters, the very pus of which would itself freeze in turn; agonizing eight hour marches that would cover barely a mile, at the end of which Cherry and his two companions would spend an hour thawing out their sleeping bags so they could burrow into them, only to shake and thrash uncontrollably for the rest of the night. Oh, and here’s a nice touch: Cherry’s teeth spontaneously shattered in the -75 degree air. After a few days of this, it occurred to them that they were all going to die in that howling void. Cherry, at least, welcomed the idea:

I for one had come to that point of suffering at which I did not really care if only I could die without much pain. They talk of the heroism of the dying � they little know � it would be so easy to die, a dose of morphia, a friendly crevasse, and blissful sleep. The trouble is to go on�

But I haven’t even told you the truly ape-shit part yet. The ape-shit part is why they did it, the goal of the journey. What, then, could have prompted three otherwise sane men to VOLUNTEER for five weeks of continuous torture? Penguin eggs. That’s right � they were looking for penguin eggs.

The narrative of the ‘Winter Journey� takes up only about 70 pages � or slightly more than a tenth of the book’s total length � but it’s clearly the emotional core of the story. Whereas much of the other material is slapdash and filled out with excerpts from other members� letters and diaries, here Cherry is speaking in propria persona the whole time. Not a professional writer himself, and repeatedly cautioning that the horrors he endured are indescribable, he nevertheless gets across some of the � for lack of a better word - existential brutality of the journey:

We were very silent, it was not easy to talk: but sledging is always a silent business. I remember a long discussion which began just now about cold snaps…what constituted a cold snap? The discussion lasted about a week. Do things slowly, always slowly, was the burden of Wilson’s leadership: and every now and then the question, Shall we go on? and the answer Yes.

It almost sounds like Beckett, doesn’t it?

A funny thing about The Worst Journey� For the longest time as I read, I had the nagging sense that something was missing; some hovering absence dogged the text, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. Then it hit me: irony. There’s no irony here. Cherry may have died only twenty years or so before I was born, but the world he represents is as different from my own as feudal Japan. He belonged to the last western generation capable of living unironically. Maybe that was his tragedy (his later life was rather sad and haunted) and the tragedy of the whole expedition.

Our tragedy is � irony won’t get you to the Pole.

]]>
4.17 1922 The Worst Journey in the World
author: Apsley Cherry-Garrard
name: Buck
average rating: 4.17
book published: 1922
rating: 4
read at:
date added: 2014/01/01
shelves: life-writing
review:
Never again. Never again will I complain. About anything. The sufferings heaped on the members of Scott’s second polar expedition make the ordinary misfortunes of modern life �- the fender-benders, hangovers and breakups �- seem like pleasant diversions. There are passages in this amazing memoir where the reader, appalled, begins to suspect that these men were collaborating on a metaphysically refined form of self-destruction.

Apsley Cherry-Gerrard �- and let me say now what a wonderfully plummy name that is, worthy of some mad squire in a Waugh novel -� was, at twenty-four, the baby of the expedition. Passed over for the doomed ‘Southern Journey� to the pole, he survived and made it back to England. Years later, at the suggestion of his neighbour, George Bernard Shaw, he put together an account of his experiences, calling it, with good reason, The Worst Journey in the World.

Actually, the titular journey is not the famous ‘dash� to the pole, but rather an earlier sub-expedition Cherry took part in: a hellish five-week slog through the permanent darkness of an Antarctic winter. This has got to be, without question, one of the most whacked, ape-shit schemes in the history of exploration. A few random details: temperatures so low that sweat would freeze the instant it emerged from the pores; frostbitten flesh that would break out in horrid, suppurating blisters, the very pus of which would itself freeze in turn; agonizing eight hour marches that would cover barely a mile, at the end of which Cherry and his two companions would spend an hour thawing out their sleeping bags so they could burrow into them, only to shake and thrash uncontrollably for the rest of the night. Oh, and here’s a nice touch: Cherry’s teeth spontaneously shattered in the -75 degree air. After a few days of this, it occurred to them that they were all going to die in that howling void. Cherry, at least, welcomed the idea:

I for one had come to that point of suffering at which I did not really care if only I could die without much pain. They talk of the heroism of the dying � they little know � it would be so easy to die, a dose of morphia, a friendly crevasse, and blissful sleep. The trouble is to go on�

But I haven’t even told you the truly ape-shit part yet. The ape-shit part is why they did it, the goal of the journey. What, then, could have prompted three otherwise sane men to VOLUNTEER for five weeks of continuous torture? Penguin eggs. That’s right � they were looking for penguin eggs.

The narrative of the ‘Winter Journey� takes up only about 70 pages � or slightly more than a tenth of the book’s total length � but it’s clearly the emotional core of the story. Whereas much of the other material is slapdash and filled out with excerpts from other members� letters and diaries, here Cherry is speaking in propria persona the whole time. Not a professional writer himself, and repeatedly cautioning that the horrors he endured are indescribable, he nevertheless gets across some of the � for lack of a better word - existential brutality of the journey:

We were very silent, it was not easy to talk: but sledging is always a silent business. I remember a long discussion which began just now about cold snaps…what constituted a cold snap? The discussion lasted about a week. Do things slowly, always slowly, was the burden of Wilson’s leadership: and every now and then the question, Shall we go on? and the answer Yes.

It almost sounds like Beckett, doesn’t it?

A funny thing about The Worst Journey� For the longest time as I read, I had the nagging sense that something was missing; some hovering absence dogged the text, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. Then it hit me: irony. There’s no irony here. Cherry may have died only twenty years or so before I was born, but the world he represents is as different from my own as feudal Japan. He belonged to the last western generation capable of living unironically. Maybe that was his tragedy (his later life was rather sad and haunted) and the tragedy of the whole expedition.

Our tragedy is � irony won’t get you to the Pole.


]]>
<![CDATA[What Do Women Want?: Adventures in the Science of Female Desire]]> 16065700 What Do Women Want? Adventures in the Science of Female Desire, critically acclaimed journalist Daniel Bergne disseminates the latest scientific research and paints an unprecedented portrait of female lust: the triggers, the fantasies, the mind-body connection (and disconnection), the reasons behind the loss of libido, and, most revelatory, that this loss is not inevitable.

Bergner asks: Are women actually the less monogamous gender? Do women really crave intimacy and emotional connection? Are women more disposed to sex with strangers and multiple pairings than either science or society have ever let on? And is “the fairer sex� actually more sexually aggressive and anarchic than men?

While debunking the myths popularized by evolutionary psychology, Bergner also looks at the future of female sexuality. Pharmaceutical companies are pouring billions of dollars to develop a “Viagra� for women. But will it ever be released? Or are we not yet ready for a world in which women can become aroused at the simple popping of a pill?

Insightful and illuminating, What Do Women Want? is a deeper exploration of Daniel Bergner's provocative New York Times Magazine cover story; it will spark dynamic debates and discussions for years to come.]]>
224 Daniel Bergner 0062249088 Buck 4 pop-science
It was an eye-opening moment for me (granted, I was a pretty clueless 19-year old.) On one level, it was liberating to realize that women could be driven by the same imperious desires as men. On another level, it was kind of terrifying. And I think most men, if they’re honest, would admit to some ambivalence about female sexuality. We’re uneasily aware that there’s this powerful force out there that affects our lives in all sorts of ways, for good and ill, but we can’t even begin to understand it.

If there’s one consolation here, it’s that women themselves don’t understand it either. Or so says Daniel Bergner in this poppy but fascinating little book. In one of the more prurient experiments he summarizes, female subjects were shown a range of porn—gay, straight, animal, whatever—while hooked up to vaginal sensors that measured their state of arousal. When the women were asked which scenes turned them on, their answers wildly diverged from what the sensors were indicating (‘Nope, sorry, that bit with the monkeys didn’t do anything for me.�) Whereas, when men were shown the same clips, their reported reactions closely matched the sensor readings. So what’s going on here? Why do women apparently misconstrue what their own bodies are telling them? The sexologists don’t rightly know. It could be an effect of sociocultural repression. It could be some kind of psychosomatic disconnect between loins and brains. Or maybe women just don’t like having scientists mucking around in their lady bits.

My guess is that this book will make a lot of female readers feel a little better about themselves, a little less weird and ashamed. On the other hand, it’s going to freak out some male readers, especially those in long-term relationships. There’s emerging evidence that, contrary to popular belief, monogamy may be even harder on women than it is on men. Not that monogamy is necessarily wrong � just that its costs are very high and, for many women, simply intolerable. In that respect, What Do Women Want? is a surprisingly melancholy book. There are threads of sadness and desperation running through it. It’s a vivid reminder, in case you needed it, that life is tough, even for the luckiest among us.

Here’s my own two-bit theory, cobbled together out of Freud and failure: you’re never going to be satisfied � not for long, and probably only in retrospect. A Korean proverb goes: get married and you’ll regret it, stay single and you’ll regret it. Sounds about right. What Plato called ‘the pursuit of the whole� takes place down here, in the realm of the incomplete, among the half-assed. Frustration is the norm.

As I see it, this isn’t an invitation to cynicism. It’s an invitation to acceptance. In the ordinary course of things, there’s no mingling of souls. There’s Chinese takeout and perfunctory sex. And ٳ󲹳’s still pretty good, isn’t it?
]]>
3.62 2013 What Do Women Want?: Adventures in the Science of Female Desire
author: Daniel Bergner
name: Buck
average rating: 3.62
book published: 2013
rating: 4
read at:
date added: 2013/12/31
shelves: pop-science
review:
In university, I once overheard a couple of female friends talking about guys. One was trying to get the other to set her up with somebody. There was the usual question: ‘Well, what kind of guy are you looking for?� My one friend hemmed and hawed for a minute, and then said, ‘Oh, who am I kidding? I just need to get fucked.�

It was an eye-opening moment for me (granted, I was a pretty clueless 19-year old.) On one level, it was liberating to realize that women could be driven by the same imperious desires as men. On another level, it was kind of terrifying. And I think most men, if they’re honest, would admit to some ambivalence about female sexuality. We’re uneasily aware that there’s this powerful force out there that affects our lives in all sorts of ways, for good and ill, but we can’t even begin to understand it.

If there’s one consolation here, it’s that women themselves don’t understand it either. Or so says Daniel Bergner in this poppy but fascinating little book. In one of the more prurient experiments he summarizes, female subjects were shown a range of porn—gay, straight, animal, whatever—while hooked up to vaginal sensors that measured their state of arousal. When the women were asked which scenes turned them on, their answers wildly diverged from what the sensors were indicating (‘Nope, sorry, that bit with the monkeys didn’t do anything for me.�) Whereas, when men were shown the same clips, their reported reactions closely matched the sensor readings. So what’s going on here? Why do women apparently misconstrue what their own bodies are telling them? The sexologists don’t rightly know. It could be an effect of sociocultural repression. It could be some kind of psychosomatic disconnect between loins and brains. Or maybe women just don’t like having scientists mucking around in their lady bits.

My guess is that this book will make a lot of female readers feel a little better about themselves, a little less weird and ashamed. On the other hand, it’s going to freak out some male readers, especially those in long-term relationships. There’s emerging evidence that, contrary to popular belief, monogamy may be even harder on women than it is on men. Not that monogamy is necessarily wrong � just that its costs are very high and, for many women, simply intolerable. In that respect, What Do Women Want? is a surprisingly melancholy book. There are threads of sadness and desperation running through it. It’s a vivid reminder, in case you needed it, that life is tough, even for the luckiest among us.

Here’s my own two-bit theory, cobbled together out of Freud and failure: you’re never going to be satisfied � not for long, and probably only in retrospect. A Korean proverb goes: get married and you’ll regret it, stay single and you’ll regret it. Sounds about right. What Plato called ‘the pursuit of the whole� takes place down here, in the realm of the incomplete, among the half-assed. Frustration is the norm.

As I see it, this isn’t an invitation to cynicism. It’s an invitation to acceptance. In the ordinary course of things, there’s no mingling of souls. There’s Chinese takeout and perfunctory sex. And ٳ󲹳’s still pretty good, isn’t it?

]]>
Parents and Children 624984 285 Ivy Compton-Burnett 0140030905 Buck 3 chicks-dig-it
Yes, yes, Buck. But is it any good?

Well, it’s good in the same way and to the same extent that Wes Anderson movies are “good,� if you happen to like Wes Anderson movies (and I did, last time I checked). But if you happen not to like Wes Anderson movies, and would prefer to see him and his whole menagerie of maundering eccentrics drowned in burlap sacks like so many superfluous kittens, then, no, not so much.
]]>
3.87 1941 Parents and Children
author: Ivy Compton-Burnett
name: Buck
average rating: 3.87
book published: 1941
rating: 3
read at:
date added: 2013/12/27
shelves: chicks-dig-it
review:
If you were a girl raised in a ramshackle Victorian family, growing up in a manor with servants� quarters and a nursery and unreliable plumbing, and if you had a dozen siblings and half-siblings, two of whom killed themselves in a suicide pact on Christmas day, another of whom was killed in the Battle of the Somme, and a fourth, your favourite brother, who died of pneumonia; and if you never had sex in your life, at least not with a man, and quite possibly not with a woman, either; and if you were clever and cynical and thoroughly disabused about people and God and things in general; if all that was the case, then this is the sort of novel you’d write, over and over again, compulsively reconstructing that same Victorian household and filling it with weird, precocious children and awful grownups, and afflicting them all with a form of civilized insanity, and making them talk, talk, talk, endlessly and wittily, because there was nothing else to do in that big, sprawling house, and nothing would ever change, except for the worse, and even then, there would always be more talk, a running commentary on the scandal called life and one’s place in it.

Yes, yes, Buck. But is it any good?

Well, it’s good in the same way and to the same extent that Wes Anderson movies are “good,� if you happen to like Wes Anderson movies (and I did, last time I checked). But if you happen not to like Wes Anderson movies, and would prefer to see him and his whole menagerie of maundering eccentrics drowned in burlap sacks like so many superfluous kittens, then, no, not so much.

]]>
Troilus and Cressida 187518 343 William Shakespeare 0671669168 Buck 3 histrionics
If you think my synopsis sounds crude, all I can say is, don’t read Troilus and Cressida, because it gets a whole lot cruder than that. For sheer nastiness, it’s right up there with that other Shakespearean shocker, Titus Andronicus (though without the multiple amputations and cannibalism). Taking over the creaking narrative machinery of the Trojan epic, Shakespeare reengineers it for a cynical contemporary audience (scholars think the play was first performed at the Inns of Court, and there’s no reason to believe that the legal profession back then was any more distinguished for its warm and fuzzy idealism than it is now). As part of his programmatic revisionism, he gives us, in place of Chaucer’s ‘flower of chivalry�, an ugly collection of losers, liars and mad-dogs. Thus, in Shakespeare’s hands, Troilus becomes a romantic idiot, Cressida a whore, Achilles a mincing prima donna, Ajax a dumb jock eaten up with vanity, and on and on. The only character not affected by the deflationary pressure of Shakespeare’s irony is poor, doomed Hector, who fights bravely and honourably in a lost cause, and ends up getting his carcass dragged around the walls of Troy by a gloating Achilles (who, in the play’s most flagrant departure from the original, had sicked his Myrmidons on the unarmed Trojan).

You could argue that this sceptical ‘reading� of the case is already implicit in Homer, but it’s astonishing how far Shakespeare takes it, how complete the satirical inversion is. It’s as if he chose his source material only for the pleasure of hurling excrement at it, which he does with all the unseemly gusto of a troubled child flinging poo-poo around the sandbox.

And it’s not only the characters who get taken down a peg or two; Shakespeare’s satire goes much deeper than a mere lampooning of types. In Troilus and Cressida, perennial human values like love, justice and honour are shown to be grotesque shams � the smiling PR flunkies of the superego, employed to cover up appalling violence and sexual misconduct. ‘Lechery, lechery!� says Thersites, the licensed cynic of the play: ‘Still wars and lechery! Nothing else holds fashion.�

When I first read Troilus and Cressida years ago, this vein of exuberant nihilism appealed to my teenage misanthropy. Naïve and inexperienced though I was, I nevertheless cherished a second-hand (and thoroughly ridiculous) self-image as a disillusioned man of the world, and I suspect that works like Troilus and Cressida helped me maintain this pose well beyond the stage of late adolescence to which it properly belonged.

But it’s weird: now that I’m a little older, and have actually been deprived of a few illusions, the bitter, ranting tone of Troilus and Cressida � while still amusing in its way � makes me slightly uneasy. Maybe it’s a defensive reaction on my part, but I feel that such pessimism offers only a partial, occluded view of things. The whole ‘the world is shit so please excuse me while I drink myself to death� philosophy of life is so seductive because it’s obviously justified by the evidence. But just because it’s true doesn’t mean it’s correct, if you get the distinction.

Returning to the play, though, I’d suggest that the failure of Troilus and Cressida � both as drama and as philosophy � is ‘inscribed� within the tragicomic mode itself. By rights, tragicomedy � of which Waiting for Godot would be a modern example � ought to be the most complete, the most realistic form of drama, because it’s able to accommodate things that pure tragedy and comedy have to keep out. In practice, however, it tends to be curiously sterile and negative, incapable of affirming anything beyond its own grandiloquent world-weariness. Tragedy says: ‘The good man is destroyed by an indifferent universe� (true). Comedy says: ‘The good man gets married� (also true). Tragicomedy just says, with cheerful bad faith: ‘Let’s hang ourselves immediately� � and goes on telling jokes.
]]>
3.40 1601 Troilus and Cressida
author: William Shakespeare
name: Buck
average rating: 3.40
book published: 1601
rating: 3
read at:
date added: 2013/12/26
shelves: histrionics
review:
It’s a timeless story, really: sensitive young guy gets carried away by the noble delirium of first love and goes all mushy over the dirty ho who punched his v-card. Complications ensue.

If you think my synopsis sounds crude, all I can say is, don’t read Troilus and Cressida, because it gets a whole lot cruder than that. For sheer nastiness, it’s right up there with that other Shakespearean shocker, Titus Andronicus (though without the multiple amputations and cannibalism). Taking over the creaking narrative machinery of the Trojan epic, Shakespeare reengineers it for a cynical contemporary audience (scholars think the play was first performed at the Inns of Court, and there’s no reason to believe that the legal profession back then was any more distinguished for its warm and fuzzy idealism than it is now). As part of his programmatic revisionism, he gives us, in place of Chaucer’s ‘flower of chivalry�, an ugly collection of losers, liars and mad-dogs. Thus, in Shakespeare’s hands, Troilus becomes a romantic idiot, Cressida a whore, Achilles a mincing prima donna, Ajax a dumb jock eaten up with vanity, and on and on. The only character not affected by the deflationary pressure of Shakespeare’s irony is poor, doomed Hector, who fights bravely and honourably in a lost cause, and ends up getting his carcass dragged around the walls of Troy by a gloating Achilles (who, in the play’s most flagrant departure from the original, had sicked his Myrmidons on the unarmed Trojan).

You could argue that this sceptical ‘reading� of the case is already implicit in Homer, but it’s astonishing how far Shakespeare takes it, how complete the satirical inversion is. It’s as if he chose his source material only for the pleasure of hurling excrement at it, which he does with all the unseemly gusto of a troubled child flinging poo-poo around the sandbox.

And it’s not only the characters who get taken down a peg or two; Shakespeare’s satire goes much deeper than a mere lampooning of types. In Troilus and Cressida, perennial human values like love, justice and honour are shown to be grotesque shams � the smiling PR flunkies of the superego, employed to cover up appalling violence and sexual misconduct. ‘Lechery, lechery!� says Thersites, the licensed cynic of the play: ‘Still wars and lechery! Nothing else holds fashion.�

When I first read Troilus and Cressida years ago, this vein of exuberant nihilism appealed to my teenage misanthropy. Naïve and inexperienced though I was, I nevertheless cherished a second-hand (and thoroughly ridiculous) self-image as a disillusioned man of the world, and I suspect that works like Troilus and Cressida helped me maintain this pose well beyond the stage of late adolescence to which it properly belonged.

But it’s weird: now that I’m a little older, and have actually been deprived of a few illusions, the bitter, ranting tone of Troilus and Cressida � while still amusing in its way � makes me slightly uneasy. Maybe it’s a defensive reaction on my part, but I feel that such pessimism offers only a partial, occluded view of things. The whole ‘the world is shit so please excuse me while I drink myself to death� philosophy of life is so seductive because it’s obviously justified by the evidence. But just because it’s true doesn’t mean it’s correct, if you get the distinction.

Returning to the play, though, I’d suggest that the failure of Troilus and Cressida � both as drama and as philosophy � is ‘inscribed� within the tragicomic mode itself. By rights, tragicomedy � of which Waiting for Godot would be a modern example � ought to be the most complete, the most realistic form of drama, because it’s able to accommodate things that pure tragedy and comedy have to keep out. In practice, however, it tends to be curiously sterile and negative, incapable of affirming anything beyond its own grandiloquent world-weariness. Tragedy says: ‘The good man is destroyed by an indifferent universe� (true). Comedy says: ‘The good man gets married� (also true). Tragicomedy just says, with cheerful bad faith: ‘Let’s hang ourselves immediately� � and goes on telling jokes.

]]>
Good Morning, Midnight 144073 176 Jean Rhys Buck 4 chicks-dig-it Tropic of Cancer.

A disaffected, thirty-something woman, after being abandoned by her husband, goes to Paris and almost sleeps with a gigolo. Her name is Jean Rhys and the book is called Good Morning, Midnight.

As near as I can figure, Miller and Rhys were in Paris at the same time. Maybe they even hung out in the same cafés and bought each other rounds of Pernod. Beyond that, you’d be hard-pressed to find two people more different. Miller looks at the world, sees himself everywhere and shouts, “Fuck, yeah.� Rhys peeks out her window, sees herself everywhere and mutters, “Meh.� Then she crawls back into bed with a bottle of gin and stares at the bugs on the wall.

I’m not convinced Henry Miller is a good role model for the thousands of middle-class boys who read him in late adolescence and are given this incredibly seductive picture of life as an endless bachelor party, with wall-to-wall pussy and intermissions of boozy philosophical chatter. It’s like learning all about girls from that disreputable uncle who used to keep back issues of Penthouse lying out in plain view and who spoke vaguely yet appealingly about Zen Buddhism. You know, the same uncle who was always hitting your parents up for “short-term loans.�

Rhys, then, is the anti-Miller. She’s a gigantic but necessary buzzkill. Where Miller is all about acquisition—of books, women, experiences—Rhys is all about loss. Her fictional alter ego is slowly losing everything: her looks, her faith in humanity, her will to live. There’s no self-pity; just the bitter resignation of someone who, out of pure disgust, has decided to drink herself to death.

Okay, so maybe Rhys isn’t such a great role model either. I could see how her world-view might have the same warping effect on a certain type of girl as Miller’s does on a certain type of boy. But I still say Good Morning, Midnight is a more grown-up book than Tropic of Cancer, just as Rhys’s Paris—glum, bitchy, lower middle-class—is less romanticized than Miller’s Brassai-esque version.

Wisdom would probably consist in finding some middle path between these two poles of egotism, but if I had to choose, I guess I’d take Rhys’s route. I mean, I have no desire to end up a depressive alcoholic in a rented room—though ٳ󲹳’s a definite possibility at this point—but that does seem a marginally better fate than becoming a priapic fifty-year-old pontificating about Nietzsche to his cronies.

Or I could get married, move to the suburbs and avoid the whole sordid dilemma. Yeah, like ٳ󲹳’s going to happen.
]]>
3.92 1939 Good Morning, Midnight
author: Jean Rhys
name: Buck
average rating: 3.92
book published: 1939
rating: 4
read at:
date added: 2013/12/23
shelves: chicks-dig-it
review:
A disaffected, thirty-something guy abandons his wife, moves to Paris and sleeps with some prostitutes. His name is Henry Miller and the book is called Tropic of Cancer.

A disaffected, thirty-something woman, after being abandoned by her husband, goes to Paris and almost sleeps with a gigolo. Her name is Jean Rhys and the book is called Good Morning, Midnight.

As near as I can figure, Miller and Rhys were in Paris at the same time. Maybe they even hung out in the same cafés and bought each other rounds of Pernod. Beyond that, you’d be hard-pressed to find two people more different. Miller looks at the world, sees himself everywhere and shouts, “Fuck, yeah.� Rhys peeks out her window, sees herself everywhere and mutters, “Meh.� Then she crawls back into bed with a bottle of gin and stares at the bugs on the wall.

I’m not convinced Henry Miller is a good role model for the thousands of middle-class boys who read him in late adolescence and are given this incredibly seductive picture of life as an endless bachelor party, with wall-to-wall pussy and intermissions of boozy philosophical chatter. It’s like learning all about girls from that disreputable uncle who used to keep back issues of Penthouse lying out in plain view and who spoke vaguely yet appealingly about Zen Buddhism. You know, the same uncle who was always hitting your parents up for “short-term loans.�

Rhys, then, is the anti-Miller. She’s a gigantic but necessary buzzkill. Where Miller is all about acquisition—of books, women, experiences—Rhys is all about loss. Her fictional alter ego is slowly losing everything: her looks, her faith in humanity, her will to live. There’s no self-pity; just the bitter resignation of someone who, out of pure disgust, has decided to drink herself to death.

Okay, so maybe Rhys isn’t such a great role model either. I could see how her world-view might have the same warping effect on a certain type of girl as Miller’s does on a certain type of boy. But I still say Good Morning, Midnight is a more grown-up book than Tropic of Cancer, just as Rhys’s Paris—glum, bitchy, lower middle-class—is less romanticized than Miller’s Brassai-esque version.

Wisdom would probably consist in finding some middle path between these two poles of egotism, but if I had to choose, I guess I’d take Rhys’s route. I mean, I have no desire to end up a depressive alcoholic in a rented room—though ٳ󲹳’s a definite possibility at this point—but that does seem a marginally better fate than becoming a priapic fifty-year-old pontificating about Nietzsche to his cronies.

Or I could get married, move to the suburbs and avoid the whole sordid dilemma. Yeah, like ٳ󲹳’s going to happen.

]]>
Letters to Milena 88340 Letters to Milena, which begin essentially as a business correspondence but soon develop into a passionate "letter love." Milena Jesenská was a gifted and charismatic woman of twenty-three. Kafka's Czech translator, she was uniquely able to recognize his complex genius and his even more complex character. For the thirty-six-year-old Kafka, she was "a living fire, such as I have never seen." It was to her that he revealed his most intimate self. It was to her that, after the end of the affair, he entrusted the safekeeping of his diaries.

Newly translated, revised, and expanded, this edition contains material previously omitted because of its extreme sensitivity. Also included for the first time are letters and essays by Milena Jesenská, herself a talented writer as well as the recipient of these documents of Kafka's love, anxiety, and despair.]]>
298 Franz Kafka 0805208852 Buck 0 to-read
Anyway, it’s probably not a good idea to read about a twisted, anguished, tragically thwarted love affair when one’s own romantic life is…unsatisfactory. Still, skimming through Kafka’s weird, eloquent Letters to Milena got me thinking: how come nobody writes love letters anymore? Flirty emails, yes; bitter, rambling post-breakup letters—sure, who hasn’t written a few? But an honest-to-goodness, balls-out, you-complete-me sort of love letter: who does that?

I’m not the most romantic guy in the world, but I find it a little sad to think that we’ll probably never see another book like this, because if there’s a modern-day Kafka out there somewhere, he’s busy jabbing ‘r u horny 2?� into his keypad. There’s something to be said for concision, I guess.
]]>
4.10 1952 Letters to Milena
author: Franz Kafka
name: Buck
average rating: 4.10
book published: 1952
rating: 0
read at:
date added: 2013/12/23
shelves: to-read
review:
Truth be told, I’m not ‘currently reading� anything except hockey boxscores and those breezy MSN articles with titles like “Eight Signs She’s Into You� (what can I say? I eat that shit up.)

Anyway, it’s probably not a good idea to read about a twisted, anguished, tragically thwarted love affair when one’s own romantic life is…unsatisfactory. Still, skimming through Kafka’s weird, eloquent Letters to Milena got me thinking: how come nobody writes love letters anymore? Flirty emails, yes; bitter, rambling post-breakup letters—sure, who hasn’t written a few? But an honest-to-goodness, balls-out, you-complete-me sort of love letter: who does that?

I’m not the most romantic guy in the world, but I find it a little sad to think that we’ll probably never see another book like this, because if there’s a modern-day Kafka out there somewhere, he’s busy jabbing ‘r u horny 2?� into his keypad. There’s something to be said for concision, I guess.

]]>
The Niagara River 130093
Salon compared the poems in Ryan's last collection to "Fabergé eggs, tiny, ingenious devices that inevitably conceal some hidden wonder." The exquisite poems in The Niagara River provide similarly hidden gems. Bafflingly effective, they seem too brief and blithe to pack so much wallop. Intense and relaxed at once, both buoyant and rueful, their singular music appeals to many people. Her poems, products of an immaculately off-kilter mind, have been featured everywhere from the Sunday funnies to New York subways to plaques at the zoo to the pages of The New Yorker.]]>
72 Kay Ryan 0802142222 Buck 4 poetry
But once you take the (minimal) trouble to actually read her stuff, you discover that, under the girlish cuteness, there’s a very tough, very grown-up intelligence at work:

Tenderness and rot
share a border.
And rot is an
aggressive neighbor
whose iridescence
keeps creeping over.

No lessons
can be drawn
from this however.

One is not
two countries.
One is not meat
corrupting.

It is important
to stay sweet
and loving.



Now, I’d never noticed the secret propinquity between tenderness and rot (had you?), but Ryan’s argument is oddly convincing. The clincher for me is that one bejewelled word, 'iridescence'. Yes, rot is iridescent, it suddenly occurs to you, as you visualize the greenish-blue scales on spoiled beef. And now she’s got you: if you accept her premise, however eccentric or metaphorical, you’ll stick around for her conclusion, as inevitable as the collection plate. She’s like Marianne Moore in that respect: you think, hey, ٳ󲹳’s a weird flower, look at all the pretty, spiky things - and ٳ󲹳’s when the trap closes over you with a sententious whack.

Because her poems constantly recycle the same basic ploy, she risks sounding like the brilliant stand-up comic whose set is nothing but a series of disconnected one-liners, all equally funny and all equally heartless. The phrase ‘one trick pony� hovers irresistibly (though ٳ󲹳’s precisely the sort of cliché she loves to ‘rehabilitate�). And despite her cleverness, she does come surprisingly close to platitude in a few places. Her least successful poems, with their high-class uplift, act as if they’re auditioning for a spot on the side of a Starbucks cup. But then, maybe cleverness and platitude share a border, too.

]]>
4.05 2005 The Niagara River
author: Kay Ryan
name: Buck
average rating: 4.05
book published: 2005
rating: 4
read at: 2009/03/03
date added: 2013/12/22
shelves: poetry
review:
I know, I know. Kay Ryan is the current U.S. poet laureate, which, in terms of street cred, is equivalent to your favourite little indie band winning a Grammy and licensing their songs to Volkswagen. It also doesn't help that she writes these itsy-bitsy poems that look, on the page, like W.C. Williams' discarded Post-it notes.

But once you take the (minimal) trouble to actually read her stuff, you discover that, under the girlish cuteness, there’s a very tough, very grown-up intelligence at work:

Tenderness and rot
share a border.
And rot is an
aggressive neighbor
whose iridescence
keeps creeping over.

No lessons
can be drawn
from this however.

One is not
two countries.
One is not meat
corrupting.

It is important
to stay sweet
and loving.



Now, I’d never noticed the secret propinquity between tenderness and rot (had you?), but Ryan’s argument is oddly convincing. The clincher for me is that one bejewelled word, 'iridescence'. Yes, rot is iridescent, it suddenly occurs to you, as you visualize the greenish-blue scales on spoiled beef. And now she’s got you: if you accept her premise, however eccentric or metaphorical, you’ll stick around for her conclusion, as inevitable as the collection plate. She’s like Marianne Moore in that respect: you think, hey, ٳ󲹳’s a weird flower, look at all the pretty, spiky things - and ٳ󲹳’s when the trap closes over you with a sententious whack.

Because her poems constantly recycle the same basic ploy, she risks sounding like the brilliant stand-up comic whose set is nothing but a series of disconnected one-liners, all equally funny and all equally heartless. The phrase ‘one trick pony� hovers irresistibly (though ٳ󲹳’s precisely the sort of cliché she loves to ‘rehabilitate�). And despite her cleverness, she does come surprisingly close to platitude in a few places. Her least successful poems, with their high-class uplift, act as if they’re auditioning for a spot on the side of a Starbucks cup. But then, maybe cleverness and platitude share a border, too.


]]>
<![CDATA[Batman: The Dark Knight Returns]]> 59960
Crime runs rampant in the streets, and the man who was Batman is still tortured by the memories of his parents' murders. As civil society crumbles around him, Bruce Wayne's long-suppressed vigilante side finally breaks free of its self-imposed shackles.

The Dark Knight returns in a blaze of fury, taking on a whole new generation of criminals and matching their level of violence. He is soon joined by this generation's Robin—a girl named Carrie Kelley, who proves to be just as invaluable as her predecessors.

But can Batman and Robin deal with the threat posed by their deadliest enemies, after years of incarceration have made them into perfect psychopaths? And more important, can anyone survive the coming fallout of an undeclared war between the superpowers—or a clash of what were once the world's greatest superheroes?

Over fifteen years after its debut, Batman: The Dark Knight Returns remains an undisputed classic and one of the most influential stories ever told in the comics medium.

Collecting Batman: The Dark Knight Returns #1-4]]>
197 Frank Miller 156389341X Buck 2 sequential-art
But really, I’m just mad at myself for giving four stars to Batman: Year One the other day, apparently during a manic episode. So I’m downgrading this bad boy. Year One has the stronger artwork anyway, and its ectomorphic Batman is drawn on a more human scale, with some of the ludicrous pathos of a young Adam West still clinging to him:



Whereas Frank Miller’s Batman looks like an elderly bodybuilder in a permanent state of roid rage:



Finally, I’m still trying to get my head around the psychosexual dynamics of the DC universe. What was Batman thinking when he installed an androgynous 13-year-old pixy as his sidekick—then led her into hand-to-hand combat against a mob of slavering lowlifes? And what’s going on here, hmmm?



Uh, that's not my utility belt, Robin.]]>
4.26 1986 Batman: The Dark Knight Returns
author: Frank Miller
name: Buck
average rating: 4.26
book published: 1986
rating: 2
read at: 2010/10/15
date added: 2013/12/21
shelves: sequential-art
review:
Call it art if you want to, but at the end of the day it’s still a dopey comic book about a guy in a form-fitting outfit who runs around beating people up. Am I missing something?

But really, I’m just mad at myself for giving four stars to Batman: Year One the other day, apparently during a manic episode. So I’m downgrading this bad boy. Year One has the stronger artwork anyway, and its ectomorphic Batman is drawn on a more human scale, with some of the ludicrous pathos of a young Adam West still clinging to him:



Whereas Frank Miller’s Batman looks like an elderly bodybuilder in a permanent state of roid rage:



Finally, I’m still trying to get my head around the psychosexual dynamics of the DC universe. What was Batman thinking when he installed an androgynous 13-year-old pixy as his sidekick—then led her into hand-to-hand combat against a mob of slavering lowlifes? And what’s going on here, hmmm?



Uh, that's not my utility belt, Robin.
]]>
A Visit to Don Otavio 71686 370 Sybille Bedford 158243171X Buck 5 Two and a Half Men dubbed into Portuguese. And what do you get out of all this? A gnawing sense of disappointment and the realization that there’s just no escaping yourself, that your sagging spirit is tied to your weary flesh, like a deflated tetherball to a rusty pole, forever. Oh, and maybe some knickknacks. Caelum non animum mutant qui trans mare currunt.

As with so many things in life, then, travel is best enjoyed vicariously, through books. A book won’t steal your passport or kidnap you or give you a drug-resistant strain of gonorrhea (unless it’s a library book and you rub it against your privates, but why would you do that?)

Actually, A Visit to Don Otavio is almost worth risking gonorrhea for. It’s not only the best book I’ve ever read about Mexico; it may be the best travel book I’ve ever read, period. An odd, clever woman collides with a big, baroque country, and the result is a minor classic ٳ󲹳’s better than a lot of major classics. In it, tequila is described as ‘raw alcohol with an underwhiff of festering sweetness as though chrysanthemums had rotted in gin.� (Unfair, I think, but possibly true of the 1940s vintage.) A man has ‘one of those inherited handsome faces of Goya’s minor courtiers, where the acumen, pride and will of an earlier mould have run to fatuity and craft.� (She adds: ‘He turned out one of the kindest men I ever met.�) A derelict hotel has ‘a thick smell of dead-town, faded splendours and present bankruptcy.�

Sybille Bedford is the author’s name. She died a few years back, in her 90s. The wiki version of her biography hints at the sheer fabulousness of her life. She loved Mexico, by the way, the land that has swallowed so many foreign writers. She saw it whole, the beauty and brutality of it, and came away composed, and wrote this quirky, gorgeous thing about it. I don’t encourage you to travel—ٳ󲹳’s your business—but you should probably read the book.
]]>
3.93 1953 A Visit to Don Otavio
author: Sybille Bedford
name: Buck
average rating: 3.93
book published: 1953
rating: 5
read at:
date added: 2013/12/16
shelves:
review:
After açaí berries and recycling, travel’s one of the most overrated things around. It’s just one long pain in the ass. There’s the expense, the indignities of airport security, the further indignities of economy class, crowds, sand in your crotch, very large people with very small fanny packs, and Two and a Half Men dubbed into Portuguese. And what do you get out of all this? A gnawing sense of disappointment and the realization that there’s just no escaping yourself, that your sagging spirit is tied to your weary flesh, like a deflated tetherball to a rusty pole, forever. Oh, and maybe some knickknacks. Caelum non animum mutant qui trans mare currunt.

As with so many things in life, then, travel is best enjoyed vicariously, through books. A book won’t steal your passport or kidnap you or give you a drug-resistant strain of gonorrhea (unless it’s a library book and you rub it against your privates, but why would you do that?)

Actually, A Visit to Don Otavio is almost worth risking gonorrhea for. It’s not only the best book I’ve ever read about Mexico; it may be the best travel book I’ve ever read, period. An odd, clever woman collides with a big, baroque country, and the result is a minor classic ٳ󲹳’s better than a lot of major classics. In it, tequila is described as ‘raw alcohol with an underwhiff of festering sweetness as though chrysanthemums had rotted in gin.� (Unfair, I think, but possibly true of the 1940s vintage.) A man has ‘one of those inherited handsome faces of Goya’s minor courtiers, where the acumen, pride and will of an earlier mould have run to fatuity and craft.� (She adds: ‘He turned out one of the kindest men I ever met.�) A derelict hotel has ‘a thick smell of dead-town, faded splendours and present bankruptcy.�

Sybille Bedford is the author’s name. She died a few years back, in her 90s. The wiki version of her biography hints at the sheer fabulousness of her life. She loved Mexico, by the way, the land that has swallowed so many foreign writers. She saw it whole, the beauty and brutality of it, and came away composed, and wrote this quirky, gorgeous thing about it. I don’t encourage you to travel—ٳ󲹳’s your business—but you should probably read the book.

]]>
<![CDATA[Against Thrift: Why Consumer Culture Is Good for the Economy, the Environment, and Your Soul]]> 12488663 288 James Livingston 0465021867 Buck 5 dismal-science
In Against Thrift, James Livingston has attempted something truly ballsy—or rather, two ballsy things: a complete revision of modern economic history, followed by a passionate defense of consumerism from a socialist perspective. The book duly blew my mind, but that could just be a function of my profound ignorance. I’d dearly like to lock up, say, Paul Krugman and Alan Greenspan in a room together, force them to read Against Thrift, and not let them out until they issued a joint book report in plain English. But I know I’d be mopping blood off the floor before they ever got that far, so I guess I’m on my own here.

Crudely compressed, Livingston’s argument goes something like this: basic economic theory, as enshrined in textbooks and party platforms, tells you that lowering taxes on corporate profits will free up capital for productive uses (building new factories, for example), thereby stimulating the economy and creating jobs. It’s a seductively simple theory that was probably true enough back in the days of the Industrial Revolution, and if reality had any manners at all, it would just keep playing along. But according to Livingston, this classical model has been obsolete since about 1919, when technological and managerial innovations started pushing productivity toward its effective limits. In concrete terms, by the 1920's American industry was already pumping out Model Ts and Dapper Dan pomade just about as efficiently as it could. There were no more big scores to be had in that direction.

Successful modern corporations are therefore faced with a delightful problem: they have all this cash on hand, but nowhere productive to reinvest it. So they park it in the banks, which hatch all sorts of sophisticated ‘instruments�, such as credit cards and hedge funds, to put it to work. The problem is that there simply aren’t enough safe outlets for this tide of lucre, so it starts flowing into ever sketchier areas and inflating huge speculative bubbles along the way (think subprime mortgages). On this reading, the banking clusterfuck of 2008—like that of 1929—was merely a symptom of disorder, not the cause. Fraud and incompetence aside, the banks did their rational best in a situation of morbid superfluity. There was just too much damn money in the system, and it got all bunged up.

So when governments, in thrall to conventional economists, cut corporate taxes, they only compound the problem. Instead of creating more jobs, they just send more surplus capital sloshing through the banks, distorting values everywhere, until the whole thing finally bursts. Idle profits are the devil’s playthings, would be the moral here.

What’s the solution then? This is where Livingston’s argument is going to get him into all sorts of trouble with all sorts of people. He claims that, since saving and investment are part of the problem, the only logical alternative is more consumption: i.e., more plasma screens, more Land Rovers, more Wal-Mart-bought gewgaws. Look, he says: instead of channeling surplus capital back into an already dropsical financial sector, why not redistribute it to the working and middle classes, who will take it and go buy more shit—which will have a ripple effect on the whole economy. This is essentially what FDR did it back in the 30's. When the New Deal kicked in and workers went on a spending spree, the American economy enjoyed some of its fastest growth rates in history (and kept on growing for 40 years).

As Livingston well knows, the biggest objections to this proposal are moral rather than economic, and will come from both sides of the political divide. The Right, which has always extolled the virtues of individualism and free enterprise, would hardly be thrilled at the prospect of a ‘socialization of investment�, while the Left, with its instinctive aversion to consumerism, would be equally appalled, albeit for different reasons. Leftists want to see workers prosper, of course; they just don’t want to see them actually spending money (least of all at Wal-Mart).

But another GR reviewer has already raised the most obvious objection to Livingston’s thesis. In a burst of passionate indignation against the author, he writes:

You honestly don’t see the destructive narcissism and apathy and self-centeredness that a consumerist culture breeds? Hasn’t it occurred to you that the people who are following your advice in earnest � glued to their TV for the latest utopian idiom and doing their weekend mall pilgrimage � won’t buy and read your book with its lofty ideas because � how else should I put this � they are too dumbed-down by the consumerist culture?

I don’t quote this as an example of abject stupidity. It isn’t. I’ve often had the same thought myself. So have most sentient people. But I’d suggest that this is precisely the sort of conventional thinking that Livingston is trying to argue us out of. As I read it, the book is a call to something more generous than mere snobbery and contempt.

I don’t know the man, but I’m guessing that the reviewer quoted above is a consumer himself (of books, if nothing else). And yet, I notice that he implicitly excludes himself from the zombie-eyed consumerist hordes of his caricature. And ٳ󲹳’s okay. I’d prefer to exclude myself too. The question is, how do we make those Other People—and I take it he’s talking, more or less, about fat white people who love Jesus and NASCAR with equal fervor—how do we make Them more like Us? That is, how do we make Them as hip and enlightened and environmentally-conscious as We fondly imagine Ourselves to be? Is it by nagging them to death, tut-tutting over their fat intake, TV-viewing habits and unfortunate fashion choices? Well, ٳ󲹳’s been tried already. (And how’s that working out?) Or is it—and this is Livingston’s gamble—by giving them more of everything: more money, first of all, but also more leisure, more education, and ultimately more opportunities to read the sorts of books and watch the sorts of movies that We would approve of?

I can’t speak to Livingston’s economics, or to the unfathomable deviations by which he’s arrived at his heretical, post-Marxist brand of socialism. His position may be, and probably is, a political dead end, but it feels like a more expansive and optimistic place than anything the orthodox Left or Right has dared to imagine lately.
]]>
3.39 2011 Against Thrift: Why Consumer Culture Is Good for the Economy, the Environment, and Your Soul
author: James Livingston
name: Buck
average rating: 3.39
book published: 2011
rating: 5
read at:
date added: 2013/12/16
shelves: dismal-science
review:
For me, the whole pathos of economics lies in the fact that it’s a science with the soul of an artist. It can never quite keep its emotions under control, its politics in check or its shit together. It may flaunt the trappings of science—bar graphs, Nobel prizes, bow ties—but its conclusions are almost as subjective and contestable as those of literary criticism. There’s the same interpretive leeway in both disciplines, the same margin for rhetoric and ideology. The difference, of course, is that the stakes are so much higher in economics, for the simple reason that a John Maynard Keynes or a Milton Friedman can change the world in substantial ways, whereas a Harold Bloom mostly can’t, thanks be to God.

In Against Thrift, James Livingston has attempted something truly ballsy—or rather, two ballsy things: a complete revision of modern economic history, followed by a passionate defense of consumerism from a socialist perspective. The book duly blew my mind, but that could just be a function of my profound ignorance. I’d dearly like to lock up, say, Paul Krugman and Alan Greenspan in a room together, force them to read Against Thrift, and not let them out until they issued a joint book report in plain English. But I know I’d be mopping blood off the floor before they ever got that far, so I guess I’m on my own here.

Crudely compressed, Livingston’s argument goes something like this: basic economic theory, as enshrined in textbooks and party platforms, tells you that lowering taxes on corporate profits will free up capital for productive uses (building new factories, for example), thereby stimulating the economy and creating jobs. It’s a seductively simple theory that was probably true enough back in the days of the Industrial Revolution, and if reality had any manners at all, it would just keep playing along. But according to Livingston, this classical model has been obsolete since about 1919, when technological and managerial innovations started pushing productivity toward its effective limits. In concrete terms, by the 1920's American industry was already pumping out Model Ts and Dapper Dan pomade just about as efficiently as it could. There were no more big scores to be had in that direction.

Successful modern corporations are therefore faced with a delightful problem: they have all this cash on hand, but nowhere productive to reinvest it. So they park it in the banks, which hatch all sorts of sophisticated ‘instruments�, such as credit cards and hedge funds, to put it to work. The problem is that there simply aren’t enough safe outlets for this tide of lucre, so it starts flowing into ever sketchier areas and inflating huge speculative bubbles along the way (think subprime mortgages). On this reading, the banking clusterfuck of 2008—like that of 1929—was merely a symptom of disorder, not the cause. Fraud and incompetence aside, the banks did their rational best in a situation of morbid superfluity. There was just too much damn money in the system, and it got all bunged up.

So when governments, in thrall to conventional economists, cut corporate taxes, they only compound the problem. Instead of creating more jobs, they just send more surplus capital sloshing through the banks, distorting values everywhere, until the whole thing finally bursts. Idle profits are the devil’s playthings, would be the moral here.

What’s the solution then? This is where Livingston’s argument is going to get him into all sorts of trouble with all sorts of people. He claims that, since saving and investment are part of the problem, the only logical alternative is more consumption: i.e., more plasma screens, more Land Rovers, more Wal-Mart-bought gewgaws. Look, he says: instead of channeling surplus capital back into an already dropsical financial sector, why not redistribute it to the working and middle classes, who will take it and go buy more shit—which will have a ripple effect on the whole economy. This is essentially what FDR did it back in the 30's. When the New Deal kicked in and workers went on a spending spree, the American economy enjoyed some of its fastest growth rates in history (and kept on growing for 40 years).

As Livingston well knows, the biggest objections to this proposal are moral rather than economic, and will come from both sides of the political divide. The Right, which has always extolled the virtues of individualism and free enterprise, would hardly be thrilled at the prospect of a ‘socialization of investment�, while the Left, with its instinctive aversion to consumerism, would be equally appalled, albeit for different reasons. Leftists want to see workers prosper, of course; they just don’t want to see them actually spending money (least of all at Wal-Mart).

But another GR reviewer has already raised the most obvious objection to Livingston’s thesis. In a burst of passionate indignation against the author, he writes:

You honestly don’t see the destructive narcissism and apathy and self-centeredness that a consumerist culture breeds? Hasn’t it occurred to you that the people who are following your advice in earnest � glued to their TV for the latest utopian idiom and doing their weekend mall pilgrimage � won’t buy and read your book with its lofty ideas because � how else should I put this � they are too dumbed-down by the consumerist culture?

I don’t quote this as an example of abject stupidity. It isn’t. I’ve often had the same thought myself. So have most sentient people. But I’d suggest that this is precisely the sort of conventional thinking that Livingston is trying to argue us out of. As I read it, the book is a call to something more generous than mere snobbery and contempt.

I don’t know the man, but I’m guessing that the reviewer quoted above is a consumer himself (of books, if nothing else). And yet, I notice that he implicitly excludes himself from the zombie-eyed consumerist hordes of his caricature. And ٳ󲹳’s okay. I’d prefer to exclude myself too. The question is, how do we make those Other People—and I take it he’s talking, more or less, about fat white people who love Jesus and NASCAR with equal fervor—how do we make Them more like Us? That is, how do we make Them as hip and enlightened and environmentally-conscious as We fondly imagine Ourselves to be? Is it by nagging them to death, tut-tutting over their fat intake, TV-viewing habits and unfortunate fashion choices? Well, ٳ󲹳’s been tried already. (And how’s that working out?) Or is it—and this is Livingston’s gamble—by giving them more of everything: more money, first of all, but also more leisure, more education, and ultimately more opportunities to read the sorts of books and watch the sorts of movies that We would approve of?

I can’t speak to Livingston’s economics, or to the unfathomable deviations by which he’s arrived at his heretical, post-Marxist brand of socialism. His position may be, and probably is, a political dead end, but it feels like a more expansive and optimistic place than anything the orthodox Left or Right has dared to imagine lately.

]]>
<![CDATA[Pleasuring the Pirate (How To, #2)]]> 3347215
All it took was a flick of the wrist. A deft touch of his sword point and Drake the Dragon bared her bound breasts. Then with the heat of his hands along her skin, he bared her soul. All the wantonness Jacquelyn had denied herself as a famous courtesan's daughter, all the desire she'd held in her heart while running Lord Gabriel Drake's estate flooded through her at his touch. Not that she could let a bloody pirate know it.

Gabriel may have left his seafaring days behind, but his urge to plunder was stronger than ever. Especially if it involved full, ripe lips and a warm, soft body. Unfortunately, he needed Jacquelyn's help, not her maidenhead, to learn how to behave properly toward a lady so he could marry and produce an heir. Yet Mistress Jack was the only woman he wanted, no matter what her heritage. And everyone knows what a pirate wants, a pirate takes....]]>
302 Emily Bryan 0843961333 Buck 2 chicks-dig-it Seven Ways of Looking at a Pirate


The Pirate Deconstructed

'Il faut interroger inlassablement les métaphores.� Never has Derrida’s injunction seemed more urgent than in the case of Pleasuring the Pirate, a text whose figurative economy is routinely disrupted by its own libidinal excess, by a free-floating, predatory jouissance which one might aptly describe as ‘piratical�, and which threatens at every turn to seduce the prim, orderly narrative into an orgy of auto-erotic self-consumption.


The Pirate Parodied

Suddenly, he was beside her in the gathering dusk, his skin giving off that intoxicating, goatish man-smell of his. He was standing dangerously close to her now—so close she could make out the faint Kool-Aid moustache above his upper lip. She had to repress a wild urge to lick it off.

A hand reached out and grasped her bare arm. It was a surprisingly smooth, well-moisturized hand, yet strong enough, she knew, to crush a ripe tangerine with a single firm squeeze. At his touch, something stirred inside her fallopian tubes, something warm and gooey, like the batter in the center of an undercooked muffin.

“Who—who are you?� she panted out.

He stood on tiptoe, bringing his lips to her ear: “An overworked literary construct,� he whispered, “Now let’s get you out of those sweat pants.�


The Pirate Remembered: A ŷ Reviewer Shares a Very Special Experience

In the summer of 2008, my then-boyfriend and I, while vacationing in northern Thailand, enrolled ourselves in a one-week elephant training course. Total spur of the moment decision. My instructor was this four-foot nothing former drug smuggler named Tiam. A darling man, with a very rubbable bald head. He spoke no English and spent most of the time screaming at me in some incomprehensible tribal dialect. But the rapport he had with those majestic animals was just incredible. Anyway, our first day, they assigned us our elephants (mine was this old bull named Michael Jordan, ha ha, right? Who names these things?) So Tiam shows us how to mount and dismount and whatnot. And suddenly there’s this loud siren thing going off all over the place and we’re like, “Um, what’s that?� and they’re like, “Oh, that mean bath time.� Huh? So they lead us, all of us totally oblivious farang on our massive elephants, down this jungle path and straight into this old stadium right out there in the middle of nowhere. And we’re all kind of looking at each other and going, “What the fuck?� And inside, I shit you not, there were like 500 Thai soldiers sitting in the stands, watching us and drinking Pepsi or whatever. I guess it was like a field trip or something. And ٳ󲹳’s when Tiam shouted the command. The “jump in the water� command. I can still remember the words: �Bang bong! Bang bong!� Just like that, twenty odd elephants start charging for this big, muddy water hole in the middle of the stadium. I’m hanging on for dear life, and Michael Jordan goes diving right in. The water’s up to my waist and there are all these, like, huge elephant turds floating around and stuff. Just nasty. I’m soaking wet, I’m terrified, I’m trying to catch my breath, I’ve just swallowed a huge mouthful of this elephant shit water, and then I look up and I see all these soldiers on their feet, clapping and hollering. To this day, I still don’t know what all that was about.

So anyhow, ٳ󲹳’s where I found this book, in the elephant training camp. Or wait, I think I found it in a guest house in Phuket the week before. Whatever. I don’t remember much about the book. I left it on the plane. Two stars.


The Pirate Reviewed in the New York Times

Snort. As if.


The Pirate Keelhauled: A Feminist Perspective

Even in a genre notorious for its retrograde ideological orientation, Pleasuring the Pirate stands out for its blithe phallocentrism and outright misogyny. While the hero may be a wooden cliché, the author at least allows him a measure of personal agency: he woos, he fights, he strives etc. The heroine, by contrast, remains nothing more than a receptacle for the male, a uterine vessel waiting passively to be filled. In the novel’s bizarre physiology, her womb becomes the source of sexual pangs and pleasure, a sort of erotic fifth column forever sabotaging her virtuous resolutions. If she is—to use the novel’s crass term—‘rutted� by her pirate, she is also, on a more fundamental level, screwed by her own biology.


The Pirate Promoted: A Personal Message from the Author

Damn, I’m good! Every time I open one of my books, a jolt of pure delight streaks to my womb.

If you enjoyed Pleasuring the Pirate, be sure to look for its highly anticipated follow-up, Fellating the Falconer.

Cheers,

Emily


The Pirate Summed up by Buck Mulligan, Who, in an Unguarded Moment, Talks about his Penis

Alright, I’ll admit it: this book turned me on a little bit. To borrow a phrase, it “nudged my groin to aching life.� Stop snickering, assholes, I’m serious. Sure, The Talisman Ring was superior in every way as literature, but how many boners did it give me? Zero. So four stars for the boners. Minus two stars because they were wasted boners. Um, mostly.
]]>
3.61 2008 Pleasuring the Pirate (How To, #2)
author: Emily Bryan
name: Buck
average rating: 3.61
book published: 2008
rating: 2
read at:
date added: 2013/12/16
shelves: chicks-dig-it
review:
Seven Ways of Looking at a Pirate


The Pirate Deconstructed

'Il faut interroger inlassablement les métaphores.� Never has Derrida’s injunction seemed more urgent than in the case of Pleasuring the Pirate, a text whose figurative economy is routinely disrupted by its own libidinal excess, by a free-floating, predatory jouissance which one might aptly describe as ‘piratical�, and which threatens at every turn to seduce the prim, orderly narrative into an orgy of auto-erotic self-consumption.


The Pirate Parodied

Suddenly, he was beside her in the gathering dusk, his skin giving off that intoxicating, goatish man-smell of his. He was standing dangerously close to her now—so close she could make out the faint Kool-Aid moustache above his upper lip. She had to repress a wild urge to lick it off.

A hand reached out and grasped her bare arm. It was a surprisingly smooth, well-moisturized hand, yet strong enough, she knew, to crush a ripe tangerine with a single firm squeeze. At his touch, something stirred inside her fallopian tubes, something warm and gooey, like the batter in the center of an undercooked muffin.

“Who—who are you?� she panted out.

He stood on tiptoe, bringing his lips to her ear: “An overworked literary construct,� he whispered, “Now let’s get you out of those sweat pants.�


The Pirate Remembered: A ŷ Reviewer Shares a Very Special Experience

In the summer of 2008, my then-boyfriend and I, while vacationing in northern Thailand, enrolled ourselves in a one-week elephant training course. Total spur of the moment decision. My instructor was this four-foot nothing former drug smuggler named Tiam. A darling man, with a very rubbable bald head. He spoke no English and spent most of the time screaming at me in some incomprehensible tribal dialect. But the rapport he had with those majestic animals was just incredible. Anyway, our first day, they assigned us our elephants (mine was this old bull named Michael Jordan, ha ha, right? Who names these things?) So Tiam shows us how to mount and dismount and whatnot. And suddenly there’s this loud siren thing going off all over the place and we’re like, “Um, what’s that?� and they’re like, “Oh, that mean bath time.� Huh? So they lead us, all of us totally oblivious farang on our massive elephants, down this jungle path and straight into this old stadium right out there in the middle of nowhere. And we’re all kind of looking at each other and going, “What the fuck?� And inside, I shit you not, there were like 500 Thai soldiers sitting in the stands, watching us and drinking Pepsi or whatever. I guess it was like a field trip or something. And ٳ󲹳’s when Tiam shouted the command. The “jump in the water� command. I can still remember the words: �Bang bong! Bang bong!� Just like that, twenty odd elephants start charging for this big, muddy water hole in the middle of the stadium. I’m hanging on for dear life, and Michael Jordan goes diving right in. The water’s up to my waist and there are all these, like, huge elephant turds floating around and stuff. Just nasty. I’m soaking wet, I’m terrified, I’m trying to catch my breath, I’ve just swallowed a huge mouthful of this elephant shit water, and then I look up and I see all these soldiers on their feet, clapping and hollering. To this day, I still don’t know what all that was about.

So anyhow, ٳ󲹳’s where I found this book, in the elephant training camp. Or wait, I think I found it in a guest house in Phuket the week before. Whatever. I don’t remember much about the book. I left it on the plane. Two stars.


The Pirate Reviewed in the New York Times

Snort. As if.


The Pirate Keelhauled: A Feminist Perspective

Even in a genre notorious for its retrograde ideological orientation, Pleasuring the Pirate stands out for its blithe phallocentrism and outright misogyny. While the hero may be a wooden cliché, the author at least allows him a measure of personal agency: he woos, he fights, he strives etc. The heroine, by contrast, remains nothing more than a receptacle for the male, a uterine vessel waiting passively to be filled. In the novel’s bizarre physiology, her womb becomes the source of sexual pangs and pleasure, a sort of erotic fifth column forever sabotaging her virtuous resolutions. If she is—to use the novel’s crass term—‘rutted� by her pirate, she is also, on a more fundamental level, screwed by her own biology.


The Pirate Promoted: A Personal Message from the Author

Damn, I’m good! Every time I open one of my books, a jolt of pure delight streaks to my womb.

If you enjoyed Pleasuring the Pirate, be sure to look for its highly anticipated follow-up, Fellating the Falconer.

Cheers,

Emily


The Pirate Summed up by Buck Mulligan, Who, in an Unguarded Moment, Talks about his Penis

Alright, I’ll admit it: this book turned me on a little bit. To borrow a phrase, it “nudged my groin to aching life.� Stop snickering, assholes, I’m serious. Sure, The Talisman Ring was superior in every way as literature, but how many boners did it give me? Zero. So four stars for the boners. Minus two stars because they were wasted boners. Um, mostly.

]]>
<![CDATA[The Price of Glory: Verdun 1916]]> 406776 The Price of Glory: Verdun 1916 is the second book of Alistair Horne's trilogy, which includes The Fall of Paris and To Lose a Battle and tells the story of the great crises of the rivalry between France and Germany.

The battle of Verdun lasted ten months. It was a battle in which at least 700,000 men fell, along a front of fifteen miles. Its aim was less to defeat the enemy than bleed him to death and a battleground whose once fertile terrain is even now a haunted wilderness.

Alistair Horne's classic work, continuously in print for over fifty years, is a profoundly moving, sympathetic study of the battle and the men who fought there. It shows that Verdun is a key to understanding the First World War to the minds of those who waged it, the traditions that bound them and the world that gave them the opportunity.

'Verdun was the bloodiest battle in history ... The Price of Glory is the essential book on the subject'
Sunday Times

'It has almost every merit ... Horne sorts out complicating issues with the greatest clarity. He has a splendid gift for depicting individuals'
A.J.P. Taylor, Observer

'A masterpiece'
The New York Times

'Compellingly told ... Alastair Horne uses contemporary accounts from both sides to build up a picture of heroism, mistakes, even farce'
Sunday Telegraph

'Brilliantly written ... very readable; almost like a historical novel - except that it is true'
Field Marshal Viscount Montgomery

One of Britain's greatest historians, Sir Alistair Horne, CBE, is the author of a trilogy on the rivalry between France and Germany, The Price of Glory, The Fall of Paris and To Lose a Battle, as well as a two-volume life of Harold Macmillan.]]>
388 Alistair Horne 0140170413 Buck 5 pro-patria-mori
Something very, very bad happened at Verdun in 1916. Not just bad in the trite war-is-hell kind of way, but cosmically, apocalyptically bad. Those who experienced the battle groped instinctively for religious or mythological analogues: ‘Moloch�, they called it, or ‘Minotaur�, or simply ‘the monster�. All these nicknames attest to a feeling shared by nearly everyone who was there: a sense that the war had finally exceeded the reach of human control or comprehension. As the editor of the German Reichsarchiven put it:

...Verdun transformed men’s souls. Whoever floundered through this morass full of the shrieking and the dying, whoever shivered in those nights, had passed the last frontier of life, and henceforth bore deep within him the leaden memory of a place that lies between Life and Death, or perhaps beyond either...

But ordinary soldiers could be no less eloquent. A French sergeant—who had once been filled with ‘the patriotism of the warrior’—wrote to his wife:

I have changed terribly. I did not want to tell you anything of the horrible lassitude which the war has engendered in me, but you force me to it. I feel myself crushed…I am a flattened man.

Or there’s the Jesuit priest who had enlisted in the ranks and who found himself expressing, in the words of the author, ‘singularly un-Catholic sentiments�:

Having despaired of living amid such horror, we begged God not to have us killed—the transition is too atrocious—but just to let us be dead. We had but one desire: the end.

Military history per se doesn’t really interest me: I couldn’t care less how many meters XX Corps advanced or how the 9th Hussars effected a sweeping pincer movement. And in the vast, chaotic abattoir that Verdun became—troops being marched up to the line would sarcastically bleat like sheep—such tactical details are even less relevant than usual. Alistair Horne knows this, and though he’s very good at the ‘big picture� stuff, his true forte is the telling close-up, where he zooms in on a solitary individual to show you the grime on his face, to let you hear his cynical jokes and—all too often—witness his final moments.

The Price of Glory contains dozens of these inset portraits, many of which read like novels compressed into a single paragraph. They give an overwhelming impression of the variety, intensity and plain oddness of all those vanished lives. Here’s Horne describing Jean Navarre, a French fighter ace:

The son of a wealthy paper manufacturer and something of a playboy, Navarre loathed killing and claimed he flew only because he had to. He took poorly even to relaxed airforce discipline; he was incapable of keeping a log-book, and was at one time placed under arrest for disobedience. The men in the trenches adored him because when there was no enemy in the air he would ‘distract� them by hurling his red plane…into terrifying—and strictly forbidden—aerobatics over the front line. In all he fought 257 combats at Verdun, most of them against heavy odds, and shot down eleven planes. Wounded, he displayed violent bad temper in hospital; shook Paris by his wild debauches on convalescent leave; and finally ended the war in a mental home, suffering from chronic depression into which he had sunk after the death of his brother. In 1919, while preparing a stunt to fly under the Arc de Triomphe, he was killed in collision with telephone wires under circumstances that suggested suicide.

Isn’t that amazing? You couldn’t invent such a fascinating character if you tried. I don’t think they even make people like that anymore.

Well, I feel I’m on the verge of one of my tiresome anti-fiction rants here, so I’ll calmly remove my hands from the keyboard. But let me say that if you have any desire to understand the series of collective psychotic episodes known as twentieth-century history, you could do worse than to start at Verdun. It’s pretty much the primal scene. No wonder the last hundred years have been totally FUBAR.
]]>
4.29 1962 The Price of Glory: Verdun 1916
author: Alistair Horne
name: Buck
average rating: 4.29
book published: 1962
rating: 5
read at:
date added: 2013/12/16
shelves: pro-patria-mori
review:
Some selfish but ultimately healthy mechanism insulates us—most of us, most of the time—from life's horrors. Without a mental carapace to protect us from the sheer awfulness of things, we’d be reduced to masses of quivering, suicidal jelly before we even got out of bed. Take this humdrum little factoid: a quarter of a million men died in the Battle of Verdun. A quarter of a million. The mind refuses to assimilate such a statistic. Sure, you can understand it, but its full significance doesn’t register; it couldn’t possibly, because if you ever managed to grasp the immensity of suffering concealed behind that cold, round figure, you’d go insane.

Something very, very bad happened at Verdun in 1916. Not just bad in the trite war-is-hell kind of way, but cosmically, apocalyptically bad. Those who experienced the battle groped instinctively for religious or mythological analogues: ‘Moloch�, they called it, or ‘Minotaur�, or simply ‘the monster�. All these nicknames attest to a feeling shared by nearly everyone who was there: a sense that the war had finally exceeded the reach of human control or comprehension. As the editor of the German Reichsarchiven put it:

...Verdun transformed men’s souls. Whoever floundered through this morass full of the shrieking and the dying, whoever shivered in those nights, had passed the last frontier of life, and henceforth bore deep within him the leaden memory of a place that lies between Life and Death, or perhaps beyond either...

But ordinary soldiers could be no less eloquent. A French sergeant—who had once been filled with ‘the patriotism of the warrior’—wrote to his wife:

I have changed terribly. I did not want to tell you anything of the horrible lassitude which the war has engendered in me, but you force me to it. I feel myself crushed…I am a flattened man.

Or there’s the Jesuit priest who had enlisted in the ranks and who found himself expressing, in the words of the author, ‘singularly un-Catholic sentiments�:

Having despaired of living amid such horror, we begged God not to have us killed—the transition is too atrocious—but just to let us be dead. We had but one desire: the end.

Military history per se doesn’t really interest me: I couldn’t care less how many meters XX Corps advanced or how the 9th Hussars effected a sweeping pincer movement. And in the vast, chaotic abattoir that Verdun became—troops being marched up to the line would sarcastically bleat like sheep—such tactical details are even less relevant than usual. Alistair Horne knows this, and though he’s very good at the ‘big picture� stuff, his true forte is the telling close-up, where he zooms in on a solitary individual to show you the grime on his face, to let you hear his cynical jokes and—all too often—witness his final moments.

The Price of Glory contains dozens of these inset portraits, many of which read like novels compressed into a single paragraph. They give an overwhelming impression of the variety, intensity and plain oddness of all those vanished lives. Here’s Horne describing Jean Navarre, a French fighter ace:

The son of a wealthy paper manufacturer and something of a playboy, Navarre loathed killing and claimed he flew only because he had to. He took poorly even to relaxed airforce discipline; he was incapable of keeping a log-book, and was at one time placed under arrest for disobedience. The men in the trenches adored him because when there was no enemy in the air he would ‘distract� them by hurling his red plane…into terrifying—and strictly forbidden—aerobatics over the front line. In all he fought 257 combats at Verdun, most of them against heavy odds, and shot down eleven planes. Wounded, he displayed violent bad temper in hospital; shook Paris by his wild debauches on convalescent leave; and finally ended the war in a mental home, suffering from chronic depression into which he had sunk after the death of his brother. In 1919, while preparing a stunt to fly under the Arc de Triomphe, he was killed in collision with telephone wires under circumstances that suggested suicide.

Isn’t that amazing? You couldn’t invent such a fascinating character if you tried. I don’t think they even make people like that anymore.

Well, I feel I’m on the verge of one of my tiresome anti-fiction rants here, so I’ll calmly remove my hands from the keyboard. But let me say that if you have any desire to understand the series of collective psychotic episodes known as twentieth-century history, you could do worse than to start at Verdun. It’s pretty much the primal scene. No wonder the last hundred years have been totally FUBAR.

]]>
Scum of the Earth 552008 Darkness at Noon. After retreating to Paris he was imprisoned by the French as an undesirable alien even though he had been a respected crusader against fascism. Only luck and his passionate energy allowed him to escape the fate of many of the innocent refugees, who were handed over to the Nazis for torture and often execution.

Scum of the Earth is more than the story of Koestler's survival. His shrewd observation of the collapse of the French determination to resist during the summer of 1940 is an illustration of what happens when a nation loses its honour and its pride.

--From the 2006 paperback edition.]]>
253 Arthur Koestler 0907871496 Buck 5 in-captivity, life-writing Oh France, why must you be so full of fail?

For anyone who’s a fan of Western civilization—as I am, most days—the fall of France in 1940 represents a spectacular, game-seven meltdown on the part of the home side. Born decades later and a continent away, I can still access some vicarious shame at that whole debacle. A great, modern democracy folding up like a set of Wal-Mart patio furniture � well, it’s something you never want to see, any more than you want to see your dad cry.

Scum of the Earth is Arthur Koestler’s brilliant, bitter take on the French collapse. Its main theme is that 1940 was more than just a military disaster; it was a complete moral capitulation. In his view, France—sour and divided, and half in love with easeful death—was already whupped before the first panzers nosed their way out of the Ardennes.

Koestler had good reason to be pissed off. Living in Paris when the war broke out, he was rounded up with hundreds of other ‘undesirable aliens� and placed in an internment camp. Most of these men, including Koestler himself, were refugees from fascism, and asked for nothing better than to join the French army and fight the Nazis. Instead, the government let them rot in atrocious conditions and, when the Germans came, simply handed them over to the Gestapo (helpfully providing their dossiers). Koestler managed to escape to England, where he immediately sat down and wrote Scum of the Earth, at least in part as a well-deserved fuck you to France.

I’ll probably have a new theory next week, but as of now, I believe that one of literature’s noblest functions is to rescue things from oblivion. Which sounds pompous, but just amounts to this: bearing witness, getting it all down. You read a book like Scum of the Earth and suddenly a whole vanished world is before you again, with its stinks and slang, its gadgets and ambience. And then there are the people: ordinary people, mostly, who leer up out of the book for a page or two, say something trivial or profound, and fade back into history. At one point, Koestler catalogues some of his fellow internees in the filthy barrack at Le Vernet:

There was also the ex-Buddhist monk from Mongolia who sold postcards of nudes in Montparnasse cafes, and Balogh the Hungarian, who had been commander of a warship on the Danube and a stamp-collector, and who had been invited by King George V to London in 1912 to show his collection…There was Dessauer, the ex-rabbi and medical orderly, who wore his wristwatch on the wrist of a prosthesis which replaced his right arm; at night the prosthesis with the watch hung on a nail over his place in Barrack 33, and whoever wanted to know the time took Dessauer’s arm and carried it to the oil lamp next to the entrance. And there was Herr Birn, a German business man who had spent the four years of the Great War as a civilian prisoner in England and had learnt all the variants of the Italian opening by heart from the chess book and now, interned for a second time, learnt with the same German thoroughness the variants of the Queen’s Gambit, and yet, when it came to playing, lost every game within twenty moves.

So there they are: the exotic offscourings of wartime Paris, all doomed by some combination of French malice and French inertia. But a writer remembered them and put them in a book: a tenuous afterlife, you might say, but more than most of us will enjoy.
]]>
4.28 1941 Scum of the Earth
author: Arthur Koestler
name: Buck
average rating: 4.28
book published: 1941
rating: 5
read at:
date added: 2013/10/21
shelves: in-captivity, life-writing
review:

Oh France, why must you be so full of fail?

For anyone who’s a fan of Western civilization—as I am, most days—the fall of France in 1940 represents a spectacular, game-seven meltdown on the part of the home side. Born decades later and a continent away, I can still access some vicarious shame at that whole debacle. A great, modern democracy folding up like a set of Wal-Mart patio furniture � well, it’s something you never want to see, any more than you want to see your dad cry.

Scum of the Earth is Arthur Koestler’s brilliant, bitter take on the French collapse. Its main theme is that 1940 was more than just a military disaster; it was a complete moral capitulation. In his view, France—sour and divided, and half in love with easeful death—was already whupped before the first panzers nosed their way out of the Ardennes.

Koestler had good reason to be pissed off. Living in Paris when the war broke out, he was rounded up with hundreds of other ‘undesirable aliens� and placed in an internment camp. Most of these men, including Koestler himself, were refugees from fascism, and asked for nothing better than to join the French army and fight the Nazis. Instead, the government let them rot in atrocious conditions and, when the Germans came, simply handed them over to the Gestapo (helpfully providing their dossiers). Koestler managed to escape to England, where he immediately sat down and wrote Scum of the Earth, at least in part as a well-deserved fuck you to France.

I’ll probably have a new theory next week, but as of now, I believe that one of literature’s noblest functions is to rescue things from oblivion. Which sounds pompous, but just amounts to this: bearing witness, getting it all down. You read a book like Scum of the Earth and suddenly a whole vanished world is before you again, with its stinks and slang, its gadgets and ambience. And then there are the people: ordinary people, mostly, who leer up out of the book for a page or two, say something trivial or profound, and fade back into history. At one point, Koestler catalogues some of his fellow internees in the filthy barrack at Le Vernet:

There was also the ex-Buddhist monk from Mongolia who sold postcards of nudes in Montparnasse cafes, and Balogh the Hungarian, who had been commander of a warship on the Danube and a stamp-collector, and who had been invited by King George V to London in 1912 to show his collection…There was Dessauer, the ex-rabbi and medical orderly, who wore his wristwatch on the wrist of a prosthesis which replaced his right arm; at night the prosthesis with the watch hung on a nail over his place in Barrack 33, and whoever wanted to know the time took Dessauer’s arm and carried it to the oil lamp next to the entrance. And there was Herr Birn, a German business man who had spent the four years of the Great War as a civilian prisoner in England and had learnt all the variants of the Italian opening by heart from the chess book and now, interned for a second time, learnt with the same German thoroughness the variants of the Queen’s Gambit, and yet, when it came to playing, lost every game within twenty moves.

So there they are: the exotic offscourings of wartime Paris, all doomed by some combination of French malice and French inertia. But a writer remembered them and put them in a book: a tenuous afterlife, you might say, but more than most of us will enjoy.

]]>
<![CDATA[Sogang Korean New Series: Students' Book 2A]]> 13036044 176 Kim Song-hee Buck 4
Well, it wasn’t much maybe, but ٳ󲹳’s the kind of gratifying encounter that keeps me plugging away at this abominable language. Of course, it would be more true to my experience to tell an anecdote that ends with my complete humiliation and a bunch of Korean matrons tittering at me, but why dwell on the negatives? I’d have given up long ago if I couldn’t put that stuff behind me.

And now I’m going to geek out on Korean grammar for a while. The deeper I get into this textbook series, the more I appreciate it. I have no idea who wrote it, but there’s a really keen pedagogical intelligence at work behind it. You know how, when you watch a well-crafted show like The Wire, a plot point introduced in one episode will suddenly take on added significance five or six episodes down the line? That’s sort of what Sogang Korean is like, except that, instead of a plot, you’re watching the grammar of a language slowly ramify and crystalize. Okay, so it’s not as compelling as a high-end police procedural, but it has a peculiar beauty of its own.

The only problem I have with Sogang—and some of my classmates have made the same complaint—is that it doesn’t cover banmal (casual speech) until the upper-intermediate level. Unfortunately, in order to do anything really fun in Korean, like talking trash or getting laid, you need to know banmal. So the editors� decision seems kind of dumb � theoretically sound, no doubt, but pragmatically dumb.

Still, this volume introduces some other useful things, including conditional sentences and reported speech, the latter of which is even more kooky than most Korean grammatical items. And as always, there are dialogues featuring Andy, Mina and the other characters from the Sogang repertory, with their cartoonish good looks and surprisingly grown-up problems (one chick nervously tells her date she doesn’t want to watch Titanic with him because she’s already made plans to see it with another guy.)

By now I’ve been studying Korean for over a year and a half and it’s still kicking my ass on a regular basis. It seems like every time I figure out one little thing and get some purchase on the language, whole new vistas of darkness and ignorance open up somewhere else. But I can’t help loving it. If I leave this country with nothing but a few good memories and a working knowledge of its mixed-up language, I’ll have come out ahead.
]]>
4.17 Sogang Korean New Series: Students' Book 2A
author: Kim Song-hee
name: Buck
average rating: 4.17
book published:
rating: 4
read at:
date added: 2013/09/28
shelves: self-congratulatory-multilingual, korea
review:
This afternoon, looking for something quick and dirty to eat, I stepped into a grungy little buffet in downtown Gwangju. The lunch rush was just ending and the owner was sitting at his ease by the cash register, joshing with a few cronies. This particular joint must not get a lot of white customers, because I sensed a subtle shift in the vibe when I walked in. After some hesitation, the boss jumped up and gestured apologetically toward the empty buffet table. I could see his mouth working away before any words came out. “Chicken,� he finally managed, in halting English. “Sold out.� Everybody’s looking at me now, wondering how I’ll take this. I answer in Korean: “I see. Then I’ll come back another time.� The boss stops and gapes at me; his cronies are cracking up. I don’t want to spoil my triumph, so I turn and head out, but on my way up the stairs I hear somebody say, “Whoa, that foreigner speaks Korean!�

Well, it wasn’t much maybe, but ٳ󲹳’s the kind of gratifying encounter that keeps me plugging away at this abominable language. Of course, it would be more true to my experience to tell an anecdote that ends with my complete humiliation and a bunch of Korean matrons tittering at me, but why dwell on the negatives? I’d have given up long ago if I couldn’t put that stuff behind me.

And now I’m going to geek out on Korean grammar for a while. The deeper I get into this textbook series, the more I appreciate it. I have no idea who wrote it, but there’s a really keen pedagogical intelligence at work behind it. You know how, when you watch a well-crafted show like The Wire, a plot point introduced in one episode will suddenly take on added significance five or six episodes down the line? That’s sort of what Sogang Korean is like, except that, instead of a plot, you’re watching the grammar of a language slowly ramify and crystalize. Okay, so it’s not as compelling as a high-end police procedural, but it has a peculiar beauty of its own.

The only problem I have with Sogang—and some of my classmates have made the same complaint—is that it doesn’t cover banmal (casual speech) until the upper-intermediate level. Unfortunately, in order to do anything really fun in Korean, like talking trash or getting laid, you need to know banmal. So the editors� decision seems kind of dumb � theoretically sound, no doubt, but pragmatically dumb.

Still, this volume introduces some other useful things, including conditional sentences and reported speech, the latter of which is even more kooky than most Korean grammatical items. And as always, there are dialogues featuring Andy, Mina and the other characters from the Sogang repertory, with their cartoonish good looks and surprisingly grown-up problems (one chick nervously tells her date she doesn’t want to watch Titanic with him because she’s already made plans to see it with another guy.)

By now I’ve been studying Korean for over a year and a half and it’s still kicking my ass on a regular basis. It seems like every time I figure out one little thing and get some purchase on the language, whole new vistas of darkness and ignorance open up somewhere else. But I can’t help loving it. If I leave this country with nothing but a few good memories and a working knowledge of its mixed-up language, I’ll have come out ahead.

]]>
<![CDATA[Shklovsky: Witness to an Era (Russian Literature)]]> 14433713 Shklovsky: Witness to an Era is a blend of riotous anecdote, personal history, and literary reflection, collecting interviews with Viktor Shklovsky conducted by scholar Serena Vitale in the '70s, toward the end of the great critic's life, and in the face of interference and even veiled threats of violence from the Soviet government. Shklovsky's answers are wonderfully intimate, focusing particularly on the years of the early Soviet avant-garde, and his relationships with such figures as Eisenstein and Mayakovsky. Bearing witness to a vanished age whose promise ended in despair, Shklovsky is in great form throughout, summing up a century of triumphs and disappointments, personal and historical.]]> 120 Serena Vitale 1564787915 Buck 3 russians Miami Vice? It’s all a bit Aspern Paper-ish.

But ٳ󲹳’s Shklovsky for you. Everything about him seems to defy periodization. His amazing memoir, A Sentimental Journey, came out in 1923 but remains as friskily postmodern as anything published last month. In some ways, we’re still catching up to this guy. In other ways, I think we’ve stopped trying.

Near the end of his life, Shklovsky was visited by the Italian scholar Serena Vitale, who spent several afternoons interviewing the old man in his apartment, while his wife puttered around in the next room and the obligatory KGB escort waited outside in their cars. The resulting book, brief as it is, seems ridiculously frontloaded, with all the best lines and biggest revelations coming in the two prefaces (a very Shklovskian touch, that superfluous preface). But it’s an important and fascinating document, all the more precious for being so unlikely.

At first, Shklovsky comes on all gruff and cynical, still tossing off the sort of epigrams that made him the bad boy of the Russian avant garde back in the day:

I never had talent, just displaced fury.

The only thing I need to be fully appreciated is death. Actually, maybe ٳ󲹳’s what other people need. I don’t need anything.

There are only two ways to survive: write for yourself and earn money from some other occupation, or lock yourself in your house and contemplate the meaning of existence. There is no third way. I chose the third.


That last line, aside from being intrinsically awesome, is also a coded reference to the impossible country in which he lived and wrote. The resounding subtext here is that practically everyone and everything Shklovsky cared about was destroyed by Stalin, and that his own survival required more or less atrocious compromises. Shklovsky is remarkably upfront about all this. Recalling a long-ago betrayal of Pasternak, he asks himself why he did it:

The most terrible thing is that I don’t remember anymore. The times? Sure, but we’re the times, I am, millions like me. One day everything will come to light: the records of those meetings, the letters from those years, the interrogation procedures, the denunciations—everything. And all that sewage will also dredge up the smell of fear.


The most affecting moment in the book comes in an unguarded, off-the-record moment recalled by Vitale. After their session one day, Shklovsky tells her about his brother, a talented linguist who died in the Gulag. It’s a wrenching, appalling story, like something out of Solzhenitsyn, and at the end of it, there’s just this:

"I still don’t know where he’s buried." He took a sip of water. "It’s a horror, isn’t it? Old people crying. It puts me off too."
]]>
4.30 2012 Shklovsky: Witness to an Era (Russian Literature)
author: Serena Vitale
name: Buck
average rating: 4.30
book published: 2012
rating: 3
read at:
date added: 2012/12/21
shelves: russians
review:
The very existence of this book is faintly anomalous. Its subject, Viktor Shklovsky, shared the earth with Tolstoy, wrote game-changing literary theory back in the 1910s, and belonged to the same doomed generation as Mandelstam and Tsvetaeva. So how is it that this man was still hobbling around Moscow as late as 1984, on the eve of perestroika, during the first season of Miami Vice? It’s all a bit Aspern Paper-ish.

But ٳ󲹳’s Shklovsky for you. Everything about him seems to defy periodization. His amazing memoir, A Sentimental Journey, came out in 1923 but remains as friskily postmodern as anything published last month. In some ways, we’re still catching up to this guy. In other ways, I think we’ve stopped trying.

Near the end of his life, Shklovsky was visited by the Italian scholar Serena Vitale, who spent several afternoons interviewing the old man in his apartment, while his wife puttered around in the next room and the obligatory KGB escort waited outside in their cars. The resulting book, brief as it is, seems ridiculously frontloaded, with all the best lines and biggest revelations coming in the two prefaces (a very Shklovskian touch, that superfluous preface). But it’s an important and fascinating document, all the more precious for being so unlikely.

At first, Shklovsky comes on all gruff and cynical, still tossing off the sort of epigrams that made him the bad boy of the Russian avant garde back in the day:

I never had talent, just displaced fury.

The only thing I need to be fully appreciated is death. Actually, maybe ٳ󲹳’s what other people need. I don’t need anything.

There are only two ways to survive: write for yourself and earn money from some other occupation, or lock yourself in your house and contemplate the meaning of existence. There is no third way. I chose the third.


That last line, aside from being intrinsically awesome, is also a coded reference to the impossible country in which he lived and wrote. The resounding subtext here is that practically everyone and everything Shklovsky cared about was destroyed by Stalin, and that his own survival required more or less atrocious compromises. Shklovsky is remarkably upfront about all this. Recalling a long-ago betrayal of Pasternak, he asks himself why he did it:

The most terrible thing is that I don’t remember anymore. The times? Sure, but we’re the times, I am, millions like me. One day everything will come to light: the records of those meetings, the letters from those years, the interrogation procedures, the denunciations—everything. And all that sewage will also dredge up the smell of fear.


The most affecting moment in the book comes in an unguarded, off-the-record moment recalled by Vitale. After their session one day, Shklovsky tells her about his brother, a talented linguist who died in the Gulag. It’s a wrenching, appalling story, like something out of Solzhenitsyn, and at the end of it, there’s just this:

"I still don’t know where he’s buried." He took a sip of water. "It’s a horror, isn’t it? Old people crying. It puts me off too."

]]>
<![CDATA[Le Ventre de Paris (Les Rougon-Macquart, #3)]]> 816925 Le Ventre de Paris, ce sont les Halles, avec leur « souffle colossal épais encore de l'indigestion de la veille », leurs montagnes de mangeailles, de viandes saignantes, « de choses fondantes, de choses grasses », de « gradins de légumes » d'où montent « le râle de tous les potagers de la banlieue ». « L'idée générale, écrit Zola, est le ventre, la bourgeoisie digérant, ruminant, la bête broyant le foin au râtelier, la bedaine pleine et heureuse se ballonnant au soleil. » Aux « Gras » s'opposent les « Maigres » : Florent, un proscrit du 2 Décembre revenu à Paris qui fomente un complot contre le régime et sera dénoncé par Lisa, sa belle-sœur, une charcutière « au grand calme repu ». Florent retourne en prison et c'est à son ami Claude Lantier, le futur héros de 'Œܱ, que revient le mot de la fin : « Quels gredins que les honnêtes gens ! »]]> 470 Émile Zola Buck 0 to-read 3.85 1873 Le Ventre de Paris (Les Rougon-Macquart, #3)
author: Émile Zola
name: Buck
average rating: 3.85
book published: 1873
rating: 0
read at:
date added: 2012/09/18
shelves: to-read
review:
I've reached my renewal limit at the library, so for now it's back to the stacks with Le Ventre de Paris. Thank you, M. Zola, for immeasurably increasing my store of obsolete technical terms and immeasurably lowering my opinion of the French bourgeoisie.
]]>
<![CDATA[Sogang Korean New Series 1B Student's Book]]> 13020817 167 Hyun-Jung Kim Buck 4 hangumal from natives, but you have to bear in mind that Koreans have ridiculously low standards in this regard. They don’t expect foreigners—least of all grotesquely Caucasian foreigners such as myself—to speak their language. So if you can stammer out a few broken sentences, they treat you like a prodigy of learning. It’s like what Dr. Johnson said about dogs walking on their hind legs: ‘It is not done well, but you are surprised to find it done at all.�

I’ve already reviewed the first textbook in this series and have nothing new to add about the second. So I’ll just throw in a quick plug for . It’s four delirious minutes of K-pop genius and a better advertisement for Korean culture than anything I could say. I’m totally serious. Shake ya ass, but watch ya self.]]>
4.12 2010 Sogang Korean New Series 1B Student's Book
author: Hyun-Jung Kim
name: Buck
average rating: 4.12
book published: 2010
rating: 4
read at:
date added: 2012/08/31
shelves: korea, self-congratulatory-multilingual
review:
After ten months and a lot of heartbreak, I can finally claim, without equivocation, that I sort of, more or less, under certain circumstances, speak Korean. At any rate, I’m starting to get the odd compliment on my hangumal from natives, but you have to bear in mind that Koreans have ridiculously low standards in this regard. They don’t expect foreigners—least of all grotesquely Caucasian foreigners such as myself—to speak their language. So if you can stammer out a few broken sentences, they treat you like a prodigy of learning. It’s like what Dr. Johnson said about dogs walking on their hind legs: ‘It is not done well, but you are surprised to find it done at all.�

I’ve already reviewed the first textbook in this series and have nothing new to add about the second. So I’ll just throw in a quick plug for . It’s four delirious minutes of K-pop genius and a better advertisement for Korean culture than anything I could say. I’m totally serious. Shake ya ass, but watch ya self.
]]>
<![CDATA[Backward Ran Sentences: The Best of Wolcott Gibbs from The New Yorker]]> 11731459 New Yorker editor Harold Ross once said of the magazine's brilliantly sardonic theater critic Wolcott Gibbs. And, for over thirty years at the magazine, Gibbs did do just about everything. He turned out fiction and nonfiction, profiles and parodies, filled columns in "The Talk of the Town" and "Notes and Comment," covered books, movies, nightlife, and, of course, the theater. A friend of the Algonquin Round Table, Gibbs was renowned for his humor. (Perhaps his most enduring line is from a profile of Henry Luce, parodying Time magazine's house style: "Backward ran sentences until reeled the mind.")

In his day, Gibbs was equal in stature to E. B. White and James Thurber, but he is little read today. In Backward Ran Sentences, journalist Thomas Vinciguerra provides a biographical sketch of Gibbs and gathers a generous sampling of his finest work across an impressive range of genres, bringing a brilliant, multitalented writer of incomparable wit to a new age of readers.

Praise for Wolcott Gibbs:

"His style had brilliance that was never flashy, he was self-critical as well as critical, and he had absolute pitch, which enabled him to become a parodist of the first rank."-E. B. White, New Yorker, 1958]]>
688 Wolcott Gibbs 1608195503 Buck 3
The classic New Yorker writers are all tainted with whimsy in my eyes, from the avuncular whimsy of White and Thurber right through to the avant-garde whimsy of Donald Barthelme. Even fat, ironical old A.J. Liebling, whom I adore, can get a little too ‘quaint and fanciful� for my liking.

I don’t know if Wolcott Gibbs is whimsical to quite the same degree as his colleagues, but his work is definitely permeated by that old-timey, New Yorker ambience: a bit arch, a bit amused, a bit suburban in spite of everything. For a sour, misanthropic drunk, Gibbs wrote his share of luminous sentences, but most of them are buried away in profiles of forgotten celebrities or reviews of forgotten plays. You have to hack through a lot of period detail to get at them. He’d have hated me for saying this, but I think his talent comes out best in his Talk of the Town pieces, which he seems to have dashed off with prima donna-ish contempt. They compress more wit and style into two or three paragraphs than most magazines these days manage to get into an entire issue.

Cursed with versatility, Gibbs never quite found the right genre for his particular gifts, possibly because it hadn’t been invented yet (he’d have made a blogger of genius, and I say that with no disrespect). Instead, he lived out an almost ideally miserable, mid-century literary life, beset by alcoholism, divorce, and mental illness, followed by a lonely death on Fire Island and posthumous obscurity. This book should help to redress that last misfortune, if nothing else.
]]>
3.89 2011 Backward Ran Sentences: The Best of Wolcott Gibbs from The New Yorker
author: Wolcott Gibbs
name: Buck
average rating: 3.89
book published: 2011
rating: 3
read at:
date added: 2012/08/21
shelves:
review:
I abhor whimsy. I abominate it. Sarcasm may be cheap, but whimsy is just plain lazy. It risks nothing. Like the prettiest girl at the prom, it just sort of stands there waiting to be admired. (If you’re not sure what I mean by whimsy—defined as 'quaint and fanciful humor'—just think of Dave Barry, whose desperate hamming is appallingly whimsical. A local example might be the GR meme of 'celebrity death matches', which many intelligent friends of mine seem to find irresistibly hilarious, but which only leave me saddened and perplexed.)

The classic New Yorker writers are all tainted with whimsy in my eyes, from the avuncular whimsy of White and Thurber right through to the avant-garde whimsy of Donald Barthelme. Even fat, ironical old A.J. Liebling, whom I adore, can get a little too ‘quaint and fanciful� for my liking.

I don’t know if Wolcott Gibbs is whimsical to quite the same degree as his colleagues, but his work is definitely permeated by that old-timey, New Yorker ambience: a bit arch, a bit amused, a bit suburban in spite of everything. For a sour, misanthropic drunk, Gibbs wrote his share of luminous sentences, but most of them are buried away in profiles of forgotten celebrities or reviews of forgotten plays. You have to hack through a lot of period detail to get at them. He’d have hated me for saying this, but I think his talent comes out best in his Talk of the Town pieces, which he seems to have dashed off with prima donna-ish contempt. They compress more wit and style into two or three paragraphs than most magazines these days manage to get into an entire issue.

Cursed with versatility, Gibbs never quite found the right genre for his particular gifts, possibly because it hadn’t been invented yet (he’d have made a blogger of genius, and I say that with no disrespect). Instead, he lived out an almost ideally miserable, mid-century literary life, beset by alcoholism, divorce, and mental illness, followed by a lonely death on Fire Island and posthumous obscurity. This book should help to redress that last misfortune, if nothing else.

]]>
<![CDATA[Notes on a Century: Reflections of a Middle East Historian]]> 13091946 The #1 New York Times bestselling author of What Went Wrong? tells the story of his extraordinary lifeAfter September 11, Americans who had never given much thought to the Middle East turned to Bernard Lewis for an explanation, catapulting What Went Wrong? and later Crisis of Islam to become number one bestsellers. He was the first to warn of a coming "clash of civilizations," a term he coined in 1957, and has led an amazing life, as much a political actor as a scholar of the Middle East. In this witty memoir he reflects on the events that have transformed the region since World War II, up through the Arab Spring.
A pathbreaking scholar with command of a dozen languages, Lewis has advised American presidents and dined with politicians from the shah of Iran to the pope. Over the years, he had tea at Buckingham Palace, befriended Golda Meir, and briefed politicians from Ted Kennedy to Dick Cheney. No stranger to controversy, he pulls no punches in his blunt criticism of those who see him as the intellectual progenitor of the Iraq war. Like America’s other great historian-statesmen Arthur Schlesinger and Henry Kissinger, he is a figure of towering intellect and a world-class raconteur, which makes Notes on a Century essential reading for anyone who cares about the fate of the Middle East.]]>
400 Bernard Lewis 0670023531 Buck 3 life-writing
That lead-in was intended as hyperbole, until I did the math and realized it was potentially true in my case, depending on how you count languages (and sexual partners). So now I feel like a slacker in both departments.

Lewis published this memoir just a few months ago, at the inconceivable age of 96. True, he had a bit of help putting it together, but so what? Even supposing I make it to 96, I don’t plan on doing much beyond drooling into my All-Bran, so I’m awarding him an extra star just for coming out.

Still, Notes on a Century isn’t a great memoir. While surprisingly brisk and lucid, it’s just not that interesting. The few times it threatens to get spicy, Lewis draws back, coyly drawing a veil over his wartime service in MI6 by invoking the Official Secrets Act, and later cutting short a discussion of academic taboos on the grounds that they are, after all, taboos. Come on, man! You’re older than God and, professionally speaking, almost as untouchable. Publish and be damned, I say. But maybe ٳ󲹳’s just the insouciance of early middle age talking.
]]>
3.85 2012 Notes on a Century: Reflections of a Middle East Historian
author: Bernard Lewis
name: Buck
average rating: 3.85
book published: 2012
rating: 3
read at:
date added: 2012/08/21
shelves: life-writing
review:
Bernard Lewis has acquired more languages than most people have sexual partners.

That lead-in was intended as hyperbole, until I did the math and realized it was potentially true in my case, depending on how you count languages (and sexual partners). So now I feel like a slacker in both departments.

Lewis published this memoir just a few months ago, at the inconceivable age of 96. True, he had a bit of help putting it together, but so what? Even supposing I make it to 96, I don’t plan on doing much beyond drooling into my All-Bran, so I’m awarding him an extra star just for coming out.

Still, Notes on a Century isn’t a great memoir. While surprisingly brisk and lucid, it’s just not that interesting. The few times it threatens to get spicy, Lewis draws back, coyly drawing a veil over his wartime service in MI6 by invoking the Official Secrets Act, and later cutting short a discussion of academic taboos on the grounds that they are, after all, taboos. Come on, man! You’re older than God and, professionally speaking, almost as untouchable. Publish and be damned, I say. But maybe ٳ󲹳’s just the insouciance of early middle age talking.

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The Writer and the World 5850
“The most splendid writer�. He looks into the mad eye of history and does not blink.� � The Boston Globe

V.S. Naipaul is our most sensitive, literate, and undeceivable observer of the post-colonial world. In these pages, he trains his relentless moral intelligence on societies from India to the United States and sees how each deals with the challenges of modernity and the seductions of both the real and mythical past.

Whether he is writing about a string of racial murders in Trinidad; the mad, corrupt reign of Mobutu in Zaire; Argentina under the generals; or Dallas during the 1984 Republican Convention, Naipaul combines intellectual playfulness with sorrow, indignation, and analysis so far-reaching that it approaches prophecy. The Writer and the World reminds us that he is in a class by himself.]]>
544 V.S. Naipaul 0375707301 Buck 3
Naipaul is a writer of many virtues, but cultural sensitivity is not one of them. Wherever he goes, he can be counted on to find something incredibly tactless to say:

On India: The absurdity of India can be total. It appears to ridicule analysis. It takes the onlooker beyond anger and despair to neutrality.

On Argentina: ...an artificial, fragmented colonial society, made deficient and bogus by its myths.

On a group of black American women serving as missionaries in the Ivory Coast:

They were ill-favoured, many of them unusually fat, their grossness like a form of self-abuse, some hideously bewigged, some dumpling-legged in short, wide, flowered skirts. They were like women brought together by a common physical despair.

So is Naipaul a hater? Indubitably. Should this worry you? That depends on your politics. But before you go putting him on your personal Index Librorum Prohibitorum, I’d just point out that half the writers worth reading are haters in some respect, from Christopher Hitchens all the way back to Yahweh himself. You know who’s not a hater? Deepak Chopra. Make your own decision.
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3.89 2002 The Writer and the World
author: V.S. Naipaul
name: Buck
average rating: 3.89
book published: 2002
rating: 3
read at:
date added: 2012/08/20
shelves:
review:
For decades, V.S. Naipaul has played the part of to the Third World. (Never mind that he’s actually straight). He’ll come swishing into some post-colonial backwater, give the place the once over, and then start in with the home truths: your society is sick, your economy is a joke and your government is a horror show. And I don’t know what they told you at the store, but those jeans make your ass look ginormous.

Naipaul is a writer of many virtues, but cultural sensitivity is not one of them. Wherever he goes, he can be counted on to find something incredibly tactless to say:

On India: The absurdity of India can be total. It appears to ridicule analysis. It takes the onlooker beyond anger and despair to neutrality.

On Argentina: ...an artificial, fragmented colonial society, made deficient and bogus by its myths.

On a group of black American women serving as missionaries in the Ivory Coast:

They were ill-favoured, many of them unusually fat, their grossness like a form of self-abuse, some hideously bewigged, some dumpling-legged in short, wide, flowered skirts. They were like women brought together by a common physical despair.

So is Naipaul a hater? Indubitably. Should this worry you? That depends on your politics. But before you go putting him on your personal Index Librorum Prohibitorum, I’d just point out that half the writers worth reading are haters in some respect, from Christopher Hitchens all the way back to Yahweh himself. You know who’s not a hater? Deepak Chopra. Make your own decision.

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<![CDATA[The Hollow Years: France in the 1930s]]> 1138526 352 Eugen Weber 0393314790 Buck 0 to-read 3.94 1995 The Hollow Years: France in the 1930s
author: Eugen Weber
name: Buck
average rating: 3.94
book published: 1995
rating: 0
read at:
date added: 2012/08/20
shelves: to-read
review:

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The Korean War 55407 427 Max Hastings 0330392883 Buck 3 korea, pro-patria-mori 3.99 1987 The Korean War
author: Max Hastings
name: Buck
average rating: 3.99
book published: 1987
rating: 3
read at:
date added: 2012/08/20
shelves: korea, pro-patria-mori
review:

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<![CDATA[Why Does the World Exist?: An Existential Detective Story]]> 8854815
“The pleasure of this book is watching the match: the staggeringly inventive human mind slamming its fantastic conjectures over the net, the universe coolly returning every serve.... Holt traffics in wonder, a word whose dual meanings—the absence of answers; the experience of awe—strike me as profoundly related. His book is not utilitarian. You can’t profit from it, at least not in the narrow sense.... And yet it does what real science writing should: It helps us feel the fullness of the problem.� (Kathryn Schulz, New York Magazine)

" Jim Holt leaves us with the question Stephen Hawking once asked but couldn't answer, ‘Why does the universe go through all the bother of existing?’� (Ron Rosenbaum, Slate )]]>
279 Jim Holt 0871404095 Buck 0 to-read 3.80 2011 Why Does the World Exist?: An Existential Detective Story
author: Jim Holt
name: Buck
average rating: 3.80
book published: 2011
rating: 0
read at:
date added: 2012/08/08
shelves: to-read
review:

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<![CDATA[The Fall of Constantinople 1453]]> 428521
"... an excellent tale, full of suspense and pathos... He [Sir Steven Runciman] tells the story and, as always, tells it very elegantly."
- History

"This is a marvel of learning lightly worn..."
- The Guardian]]>
270 Steven Runciman 0521398320 Buck 0 to-read 4.32 1965 The Fall of Constantinople 1453
author: Steven Runciman
name: Buck
average rating: 4.32
book published: 1965
rating: 0
read at:
date added: 2012/08/08
shelves: to-read
review:

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<![CDATA[The Ascent of Money: A Financial History of the World]]> 2714607 442 Niall Ferguson 1594201927 Buck 3 dismal-science 3.90 2007 The Ascent of Money: A Financial History of the World
author: Niall Ferguson
name: Buck
average rating: 3.90
book published: 2007
rating: 3
read at:
date added: 2012/07/12
shelves: dismal-science
review:

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<![CDATA[Incompleteness: The Proof and Paradox of Kurt Gödel (Great Discoveries)]]> 51287
Probing the life and work of Kurt Gödel, Incompleteness indelibly portrays the tortured genius whose vision rocked the stability of mathematical reasoning—and brought him to the edge of madness.]]>
300 Rebecca Goldstein 0393327604 Buck 0 to-read 3.97 2005 Incompleteness: The Proof and Paradox of Kurt Gödel (Great Discoveries)
author: Rebecca Goldstein
name: Buck
average rating: 3.97
book published: 2005
rating: 0
read at:
date added: 2012/07/12
shelves: to-read
review:

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<![CDATA[I.O.U.: Why Everyone Owes Everyone and No One Can Pay]]> 7354453 Part economic primer, part fiscal and historical analysis, New Yorker and London Review of Books contributor John Lanchester offers his brilliantly witty, succinct overview of the current financial crisis.

For most people, the reasons for the sudden collapse of our economy remain obscure. I.O.U. is the story of how we came to experience such a complete and devastating financial implosion, and how the decisions and actions of a select group of individuals had profound consequences for America, Europe, and the global economy overall. John Lanchester begins with "The ATM Moment," that seemingly magical proliferation of cheap credit that led to an explosion of lending, and then deftly outlines the global and local landscapes of banking and finance. Viewing the crisis through the lens of politics, culture, and contemporary history -- from the invention and widespread misuse of financial instruments to the culpability of subprime mortgages -- Lanchester draws perceptive conclusions on the limitations of financial and governmental regulation, capitalism's deepest flaw, and, most important, on the plain and simple facts of human nature where cash is concerned.

Weaving together firsthand research and superbly written reportage, Lanchester delivers a shrewd perspective and a digestible, comprehensive analysis that connects the dots for the expert and casual reader alike. I.O.U. is an eye-opener of a book -- it may well provoke anger, amazement, or rueful disbelief -- and, as the author clearly reveals, we've only just begun to get ourselves back on track.

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272 John Lanchester 1439169845 Buck 4 dismal-science
Some day, decades from now, someone’s going to write the definitive history of the financial crisis. Until then, John Lanchester’s I.O.U. will probably stand as the go-to book. Written by an intelligent layman—or "civilian", as he sometimes prefers� it bristles with a kind of wtf, dude? incredulity. Which is only fitting. I mean, the world very nearly ended because a Chinese math geek published an equation in some obscure journal. That’s just stupefying. The whole story is just stupefying.

At the end of the day, I’d still like to believe in capitalism, which, say what you will, has always picked up the tab for liberal democracy (a point made by Lanchester himself). It’s just that, once a century or so, capitalism goes on a wild binge, maxes out the credit cards and wraps the Porsche around a utility pole. It’s the Lindsay Lohan of economic systems, and we’re married to it. Maybe we just need to accept that, in this relationship, the sexy fun times will always end in insolvency and despair, and that longish stretches of semi-normalcy are about all we can hope for.
]]>
3.95 2009 I.O.U.: Why Everyone Owes Everyone and No One Can Pay
author: John Lanchester
name: Buck
average rating: 3.95
book published: 2009
rating: 4
read at:
date added: 2012/07/12
shelves: dismal-science
review:
One of the few times George W. Bush ever rose to quotability came during the 2008 credit crunch, when he was heard to mutter darkly: "This sucker could go down." He wasn’t talking about the US banking system; he was talking about civilization as we know it. That’s how close we were to the abyss. Another few days and you’d have seen armed mobs looting 7-Eleven’s and Viggo Mortensen trudging down the Road.

Some day, decades from now, someone’s going to write the definitive history of the financial crisis. Until then, John Lanchester’s I.O.U. will probably stand as the go-to book. Written by an intelligent layman—or "civilian", as he sometimes prefers� it bristles with a kind of wtf, dude? incredulity. Which is only fitting. I mean, the world very nearly ended because a Chinese math geek published an equation in some obscure journal. That’s just stupefying. The whole story is just stupefying.

At the end of the day, I’d still like to believe in capitalism, which, say what you will, has always picked up the tab for liberal democracy (a point made by Lanchester himself). It’s just that, once a century or so, capitalism goes on a wild binge, maxes out the credit cards and wraps the Porsche around a utility pole. It’s the Lindsay Lohan of economic systems, and we’re married to it. Maybe we just need to accept that, in this relationship, the sexy fun times will always end in insolvency and despair, and that longish stretches of semi-normalcy are about all we can hope for.

]]>
<![CDATA[Naked Economics: Undressing the Dismal Science]]> 33293 Naked Economics makes up for all of those Econ 101 lectures you slept through (or avoided) in college, demystifying key concepts, laying bare the truths behind the numbers, and answering those questions you have always been too embarrassed to ask. For all the discussion of Alan Greenspan in the media, does anyone know what the Fed actually does? And what about those blackouts in California? Were they a conspiracy on the part of the power companies? Economics is life. There's no way to understand the important issues without it. Now, with Charles Wheelan's breezy tour, there's no reason to fear this highly relevant subject. With the commonsensical examples and brilliantly acerbic commentary we've come to associate with The Economist, Wheelan brings economics to life. Amazingly, he does so with nary a chart, graph, or mathematical equation in sight—certainly a feat to be witnessed firsthand.


Economics is a crucial subject. There's no way to understand the important issues without it. Now, with Charles Wheelan's breezy tour, there's also no reason to fear it.]]>
260 Charles Wheelan 0393324869 Buck 3 dismal-science 3.96 2002 Naked Economics: Undressing the Dismal Science
author: Charles Wheelan
name: Buck
average rating: 3.96
book published: 2002
rating: 3
read at:
date added: 2012/07/07
shelves: dismal-science
review:

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<![CDATA[The Seduction of Unreason: The Intellectual Romance with Fascism from Nietzsche to Postmodernism]]> 349784 Fifteen years ago, revelations about the political misdeeds of Martin Heidegger and Paul de Man sent shock waves throughout European and North American intellectual circles. Ever since, postmodernism has been haunted by the specter of a compromised past. In this intellectual genealogy of the postmodern spirit, Richard Wolin shows that postmodernism's infatuation with fascism has been widespread and not incidental. He calls into question postmodernism's claim to have inherited the mantle of the left--and suggests that postmodern thought has long been smitten with the opposite end of the political spectrum.

In probing chapters on C. G. Jung, Hans-Georg Gadamer, Georges Bataille, and Maurice Blanchot, Wolin discovers an unsettling commonality: during the 1930s, these thinkers leaned to the right and were tainted by a proverbial "fascination with fascism." Frustrated by democracy's shortcomings, they were seduced by fascism's grandiose promises of political regeneration. The dictatorships in Italy and Germany promised redemption from the uncertainties of political liberalism. But, from the beginning, there could be no doubting their brutal methods of racism, violence, and imperial conquest.

Postmodernism's origins among the profascist literati of the 1930s reveal a dark political patrimony. The unspoken affinities between Counter-Enlightenment and postmodernism constitute the guiding thread of Wolin's suggestive narrative. In their mutual hostility toward reason and democracy, postmodernists and the advocates of Counter-Enlightenment betray a telltale strategic alliance--they cohabit the fraught terrain where far left and far right intersect.

Those who take Wolin's conclusions to heart will never view the history of modern thought in quite the same way.

"For anyone who has passed through the academic humanities in the last quarter-century and has been exposed to the dubious legacy of postmodernism, The Seduction of Unreason is an indispensable book. It is another important installment in what has become one of the major intellectual enterprises of our time: Richard Wolin's principled defense of liberalism against its most sophisticated enemies."--Adam Kirsch, New York Sun

"In this impressive book Wolin does for the Left what Bloom did for the Right; he makes a powerful case for a return to moral seriousness."--Daniel P. Murphy, Magill's Literary Annual 2005

"The topic of Richard Wolin's book is the nexus between postmodernism and politics. . . . Wolin's book raises the right questions at the right time. He forces us to think critically about the deepest philosophical underpinnings of our moral and political ideals. We simply cannot rest content with an unmeasured assault on reason."--Andy Wallace,Ethics

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400 Richard Wolin 0691125996 Buck 0 to-read 3.55 2004 The Seduction of Unreason: The Intellectual Romance with Fascism from Nietzsche to Postmodernism
author: Richard Wolin
name: Buck
average rating: 3.55
book published: 2004
rating: 0
read at:
date added: 2012/07/07
shelves: to-read
review:

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Les Mots 572460 224 Jean-Paul Sartre 2070366073 Buck 0 à bientôt Monsieur Sartre. Considering that the book was written in a fit of Maoist self-criticism, it's actually weirdly beautiful. I still say Sartre was the Leni Riefenstahl of the Left: i.e. a shit of the first order, but a great artist. I'll be going back to this some day - against my will. ]]> 3.56 1963 Les Mots
author: Jean-Paul Sartre
name: Buck
average rating: 3.56
book published: 1963
rating: 0
read at:
date added: 2012/06/30
shelves: self-congratulatory-multilingual, to-read
review:
I didn't quite finish this before heading overseas, and now it seems kind of incongruous to read French prose in the middle of East Asia, so à bientôt Monsieur Sartre. Considering that the book was written in a fit of Maoist self-criticism, it's actually weirdly beautiful. I still say Sartre was the Leni Riefenstahl of the Left: i.e. a shit of the first order, but a great artist. I'll be going back to this some day - against my will.
]]>
<![CDATA[The Last Empire: Essays 1992-2000]]> 284429 United States, Gore Vidal’s scintillating ninth collection, The Last Empire, affirms his reputation as our most provocative critic and observer of the modern American scene. In the essays collected here, Vidal brings his keen intellect, experience, and razor-edged wit to bear on an astonishing range of subjects. From his celebrated profiles of Clare Boothe Luce and Charles Lindbergh and his controversial essay about the Bill of Rights–which sparked an extended correspondence with convicted Oklahoma City Bomber Timothy McVeigh–to his provocative analyses of literary icons such as John Updike and Mark Twain and his trenchant observations about terrorism, civil liberties, the CIA, Al Gore, Tony Blair, and the Clintons, Vidal weaves a rich tapestry of personal anecdote, critical insight, and historical detail. Written between the first presidential campaign of Bill Clinton and the electoral crisis of 2000, The Last Empire is a sweeping coda to the last century’s conflicted vision of the American dream.]]> 480 Gore Vidal 037572639X Buck 3 3.90 2001 The Last Empire: Essays 1992-2000
author: Gore Vidal
name: Buck
average rating: 3.90
book published: 2001
rating: 3
read at:
date added: 2012/06/08
shelves:
review:

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<![CDATA[Counterpoints: 25 Years of The New Criterion on Culture and the Arts]]> 6327711
Since its founding in 1982 by the art critic Hilton Kramer and the pianist and music critic Samuel Lipman, The New Criterion has waged a brisk and articulate campaign against facile and often politically motivated assaults on art and greatness. It has brought unparalleled verve, clarity, and wit to the vocation of criticism. But The New Criterion is not only America's foremost voice of critical dissent in culture and the arts; it is also an energetic ally in the battle against cultural and intellectual amnesia. At a moment when many institutions have become willing collaborators in despoiling our intellectual and artistic legacy, The New Criterion has been a standard-bearer for literary and cultural excellence. Drawn from twenty-five years of the magazine, this abundant collection contains a generous sampling of the very best writing from The New Criterion , featuring the judgments of our generation's most astute and entertaining observers. The many contributors include Brooke Allen, Stefan Beck, James Bowman, Anthony Daniels, Guy Davenport, John Derbyshire, Ben Downing, Paul Dean, Daniel Mark Epstein, Joseph Epstein, John Gross, Laura Jacobs, William Logan, Harvey Mansfield, Kenneth Minogue, Jay Nordlinger, Eric Ormsby, Cynthia Ozick, David Pryce-Jones, Mordecai Richler, Roger Scruton, John Simon, Mark Steyn, and David Yezzi.]]>
512 Roger Kimball 1566638054 Buck 2
To be fair, though, I have to give a shout-out here (if you'll pardon the colloquialism, Roger) to Eric Ormsby and William Logan, the former for his sensitive and scholarly review of Robert Alter's translation of the Pentateuch, and the latter for an appreciation of Robert Frost that was so wise, so plain wonderful, that I wanted to jump up and go read some Frost - which is not a craving that comes over me very often. Thanks, guys, for relieving the gloom and letting in some air. ]]>
3.50 2007 Counterpoints: 25 Years of The New Criterion on Culture and the Arts
author: Roger Kimball
name: Buck
average rating: 3.50
book published: 2007
rating: 2
read at:
date added: 2012/06/01
shelves:
review:
As a man in his thirties who worries that he's drifting into early-onset conservatism, I was cheered to discover that I could still violently disagree with many of the bow-tied little dweebs who write for this rag. And it's not even that I disagree with their ideas so much as I'm revolted by the sniffy, elitist, ungenerous tone in which those ideas are expressed. Their kind of donnish contempt for popular culture - Roger Kimball, the editor, speaks sneeringly of 'demotic inanities' - is enough in itself to get me to throw down my briefcase and pry up the nearest paving stone. When that same Kimball quotes approvingly, in one essay, T.S. Eliot, C.S. Lewis and Evelyn Waugh, well, it doesn't take you long to figure out what particular species of bastard you're dealing with.

To be fair, though, I have to give a shout-out here (if you'll pardon the colloquialism, Roger) to Eric Ormsby and William Logan, the former for his sensitive and scholarly review of Robert Alter's translation of the Pentateuch, and the latter for an appreciation of Robert Frost that was so wise, so plain wonderful, that I wanted to jump up and go read some Frost - which is not a craving that comes over me very often. Thanks, guys, for relieving the gloom and letting in some air.
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Samuel Johnson 356663 688 Walter Jackson Bate 1887178767 Buck 0 to-read 4.17 1977 Samuel Johnson
author: Walter Jackson Bate
name: Buck
average rating: 4.17
book published: 1977
rating: 0
read at:
date added: 2012/05/28
shelves: to-read
review:

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<![CDATA[Thinking the Twentieth Century]]> 12383405 "Ideas crackle" in this triumphant final book of Tony Judt, taking readers on "a wild ride through the ideological currents and shoals of 20th century thought.� (Los Angeles Times)

One of our most brilliant historians, Tony Judt brings the past century vividly to life in this unprecedented and original history. Structured as a series of intimate conversations between Judt and his friend and fellow historian Timothy Snyder, Thinking the Twentieth Century presents the triumphs and the failures of the twentieth century's most prominent intellectuals and their ideas, guiding readers through the debates that defined our world.

Spanning an era with unprecedented clarity and insight, Thinking the Twentieth Century is a tour de force: a masterful analysis of the life of the mind and an unforgettable guide to leading the mindful life.]]>
414 Tony Judt 0434017426 Buck 4 4.24 2012 Thinking the Twentieth Century
author: Tony Judt
name: Buck
average rating: 4.24
book published: 2012
rating: 4
read at:
date added: 2012/05/25
shelves:
review:
Unremittingly, almost oppressively brilliant. I want to re-read this book when I grow up.
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The Pillars of Hercules 130512
His grand tour of the Mediterranean begins in Gibraltar and takes him through Spain, the French Riviera, Italy, Greece, Istanbul and beyond. He travels by any means necessary - including dilapidated taxi, smoke-filled bus, bicycle and even a cruise-liner. And he encounters bullfights, bazaars and British tourists, discovers pockets of humanity in war-torn Slovenia and Croatia, is astounded by the urban developments on the Costa del Sol and marvels at the ancient wonders of Delphi.

Told with Theroux's inimitable wit and style, this lively and eventful tour evokes the essence of Mediterranean life.]]>
509 Paul Theroux 0449910857 Buck 4
But nice people, as a rule, don’t write great travel books. They write "heartwarming tales" full of spiritual uplift and multicultural group hugs. Niceness—complacent, undiscriminating niceness—is basically sluttish. It smiles at stupidity and winks at injustice and consults its own comfort.

I don’t know if The Pillars of Hercules is a great travel book, but it’s definitely an interesting one, and ٳ󲹳’s saying something, because the Mediterranean is the most overdone body of water in literature. Theroux may be a hater, but he’s what Hazlitt used to call a "good hater": his hatred generously makes room for all kinds of odd passions and sudden sympathies.

If you really must travel—and personally I think more people should stay home and watch CSI—Theroux’s example is as good as any. ]]>
3.93 1995 The Pillars of Hercules
author: Paul Theroux
name: Buck
average rating: 3.93
book published: 1995
rating: 4
read at:
date added: 2012/05/01
shelves:
review:
Paul Theroux is not a nice man. It isn’t nice to say that Albanians look “retarded�. It isn’t nice to point out that Greece is a welfare case sponging off the EU and milking a cultural legacy it has dishonored with its parochialism. And it certainly isn’t nice—it is, in fact, downright impolitic and a bit sinister—to take such obvious pleasure in despising Israelis.

But nice people, as a rule, don’t write great travel books. They write "heartwarming tales" full of spiritual uplift and multicultural group hugs. Niceness—complacent, undiscriminating niceness—is basically sluttish. It smiles at stupidity and winks at injustice and consults its own comfort.

I don’t know if The Pillars of Hercules is a great travel book, but it’s definitely an interesting one, and ٳ󲹳’s saying something, because the Mediterranean is the most overdone body of water in literature. Theroux may be a hater, but he’s what Hazlitt used to call a "good hater": his hatred generously makes room for all kinds of odd passions and sudden sympathies.

If you really must travel—and personally I think more people should stay home and watch CSI—Theroux’s example is as good as any.
]]>
<![CDATA[Essays from the Nick of Time: Reflections and Refutations]]> 7920488
A new collection of prophetic essays from one of the sharpest practitioners of the form

Mark Slouka writes from a particular vantage point, one invoked by Thoreau, who wished "to improve the nick of time . . . to stand on the meeting of two eternities, the past and future." At this bewildering convergence, Slouka asks us to consider what it means to be human and what we must revive, or reject, in order to retain our humanity in the modern world.

Collected over fifteen years, these essays include fascinating explorations of the relationship between memory and history and the nature of "tragedy" in a media-driven culture; meditations on the transcendent "wisdom" of the natural world and the role of silence in an age of noise; and arguments in defense of the political value of leisure time and the importance of the humanities in an age defined by the language of science and industry. Written in Slouka's supple and unerring prose, celebratory, critical, and passionate, Essays from the Nick of Time reawakens us to the moment and place in which we find ourselves, caught between the fading presence of the past and the neon lure of the future.
]]>
208 Mark Slouka 1555975712 Buck 2
Slouka, a contributor to Ჹ’s Magazine, is a fine writer, and I read these essays with something like pleasure. But increasingly, I kept coming up against certain liturgical expressions, certain articles of leftist faith that I just can’t get behind anymore. Things like this:

If one of the characteristics of capitalism is that it tends to shut down options, narrow the margins, then perhaps what we are seeing these days is one of the side effects of the so-called free market...

In what sense, however loose and metaphorical, is that statement even remotely true? (Note Slouka’s weaselly ‘if�, his cagey ‘perhaps�: sandbags for a leaky argument). Just looking around the café where I’m writing this, I count 36 different caffeinated beverages on the menu, along with coffee beans from a dozen different countries; I see people wearing a diverse assortment of clothing, footwear, and accessories; if I get bored, I can pull out my iPod and listen to music from Renaissance Europe, 1920s New Orleans, or modern-day Mali, or I can fire up my e-reader and peruse almost any book ever written in the history of the world. Such are the depredations of capitalism. Pace Slouka, I’m actually completely swamped with options; I’m deluged with choices. This can create problems of its own, of course, and we can talk about that. But deep down, I kinda like having choices. It sure beats the alternative. Or what particular mode of ascetic communal living is Slouka advocating?

As with many intellectuals, Slouka’s logic and sense of proportion desert him whenever he turns his attention—with an almost perceptible shudder—to that loathsome thing, business. If you listen carefully, you can hear the squeal of outraged sensibilities:

Look about: The business of business is everywhere and inescapable; the song of the buyers and sellers never stops…We have no time for our friends or our families, no time to think or to make a meal. We’re moving product, while the soul drowns like a cat in a well.

Speak for yourself, Mark. My soul may be a little bedraggled, but I wouldn’t call it drowned, exactly. And besides, since you keep going on about your trips to Europe and the delightful cottage where you spend your summers, and since you seem to have plenty of leisure time in which to write these elegant essays of yours, I’m guessing you manage to keep your exquisite soul decently sheltered from the vulgar hurly-burly of American life. So where are these dead cats you’re talking about? Ah, you must be thinking of those other Americans, the ones who don’t read Ჹ’s: that obese woman scarfing down curly fries at Arby’s � surely her soul is a dreary blank, right? Or that doltish-looking teenager on the bus, with the livid acne and the Tupac shirt on which he’s dribbled some Grape Crush � no way does he have an inner life.

Slouka paints himself, rather unconvincingly, as a bit of a rebel, a rugged individualist in a land of bleating sheep. Fine, whatever, James Dean. But behind all this posing, there’s a barely concealed contempt for the supposedly 'drowned' souls of Middle America. He cites approvingly an old anecdote about Sherwood Anderson: how he chucked his job managing a paint factory in order to become a vagabond and writer. And, hey, great for Sherwood. But Slouka’s moral seems to be that the only way to live an authentic life is to drop out and turn to some kind of vaguely defined bohemianism. Implicit in this is the idea that absurd people such as factory managers, and all those who dirty their hands with commerce, are necessarily debased and ignorant philistines. And, what’s worse, Republicans. There’s something laughably juvenile and retrograde about this Manichean, quasi-beatnik vision of a world divided into squares and hep cats, as if Slouka had just read Kerouac for the first time at age 48 or whatever and decided to hit the road � with his Amex card, just in case. It’s frankly embarrassing.

I think my problem is that I’m just too Canadian to appreciate this guy. I actually agree with a lot of what he says; I just dislike the sour, aggrieved tone in which he says it. Maybe if I lived in the U.S., I’d be just as pissed-off as he is; maybe I’d sit around all day raging against email, cell phones, the profit motive, George W. Bush, and every last feature of modern life. Maybe. But I’d also like to think I’d take the time to eat the odd Twinkie, go to a few ball games and, you know, just enjoy being an American. None of which, as far as I can see, Slouka ever does.
]]>
4.23 2010 Essays from the Nick of Time: Reflections and Refutations
author: Mark Slouka
name: Buck
average rating: 4.23
book published: 2010
rating: 2
read at:
date added: 2012/04/28
shelves:
review:
This perfectly civilized little book had me asking myself an uncomfortable question: am I still, in fact, a liberal? Do I still subscribe to these pieties, still nod along to these homilies? The answer would appear to be yes, since there’s nothing more tediously liberal than interrogating your own liberalism. But Mark Slouka sometimes makes me feel like a borderline agnostic sitting through a church service, politely mouthing the hymns while suppressing the impulse to shout 'bullshit' at the bland, well-meaning pastor.

Slouka, a contributor to Ჹ’s Magazine, is a fine writer, and I read these essays with something like pleasure. But increasingly, I kept coming up against certain liturgical expressions, certain articles of leftist faith that I just can’t get behind anymore. Things like this:

If one of the characteristics of capitalism is that it tends to shut down options, narrow the margins, then perhaps what we are seeing these days is one of the side effects of the so-called free market...

In what sense, however loose and metaphorical, is that statement even remotely true? (Note Slouka’s weaselly ‘if�, his cagey ‘perhaps�: sandbags for a leaky argument). Just looking around the café where I’m writing this, I count 36 different caffeinated beverages on the menu, along with coffee beans from a dozen different countries; I see people wearing a diverse assortment of clothing, footwear, and accessories; if I get bored, I can pull out my iPod and listen to music from Renaissance Europe, 1920s New Orleans, or modern-day Mali, or I can fire up my e-reader and peruse almost any book ever written in the history of the world. Such are the depredations of capitalism. Pace Slouka, I’m actually completely swamped with options; I’m deluged with choices. This can create problems of its own, of course, and we can talk about that. But deep down, I kinda like having choices. It sure beats the alternative. Or what particular mode of ascetic communal living is Slouka advocating?

As with many intellectuals, Slouka’s logic and sense of proportion desert him whenever he turns his attention—with an almost perceptible shudder—to that loathsome thing, business. If you listen carefully, you can hear the squeal of outraged sensibilities:

Look about: The business of business is everywhere and inescapable; the song of the buyers and sellers never stops…We have no time for our friends or our families, no time to think or to make a meal. We’re moving product, while the soul drowns like a cat in a well.

Speak for yourself, Mark. My soul may be a little bedraggled, but I wouldn’t call it drowned, exactly. And besides, since you keep going on about your trips to Europe and the delightful cottage where you spend your summers, and since you seem to have plenty of leisure time in which to write these elegant essays of yours, I’m guessing you manage to keep your exquisite soul decently sheltered from the vulgar hurly-burly of American life. So where are these dead cats you’re talking about? Ah, you must be thinking of those other Americans, the ones who don’t read Ჹ’s: that obese woman scarfing down curly fries at Arby’s � surely her soul is a dreary blank, right? Or that doltish-looking teenager on the bus, with the livid acne and the Tupac shirt on which he’s dribbled some Grape Crush � no way does he have an inner life.

Slouka paints himself, rather unconvincingly, as a bit of a rebel, a rugged individualist in a land of bleating sheep. Fine, whatever, James Dean. But behind all this posing, there’s a barely concealed contempt for the supposedly 'drowned' souls of Middle America. He cites approvingly an old anecdote about Sherwood Anderson: how he chucked his job managing a paint factory in order to become a vagabond and writer. And, hey, great for Sherwood. But Slouka’s moral seems to be that the only way to live an authentic life is to drop out and turn to some kind of vaguely defined bohemianism. Implicit in this is the idea that absurd people such as factory managers, and all those who dirty their hands with commerce, are necessarily debased and ignorant philistines. And, what’s worse, Republicans. There’s something laughably juvenile and retrograde about this Manichean, quasi-beatnik vision of a world divided into squares and hep cats, as if Slouka had just read Kerouac for the first time at age 48 or whatever and decided to hit the road � with his Amex card, just in case. It’s frankly embarrassing.

I think my problem is that I’m just too Canadian to appreciate this guy. I actually agree with a lot of what he says; I just dislike the sour, aggrieved tone in which he says it. Maybe if I lived in the U.S., I’d be just as pissed-off as he is; maybe I’d sit around all day raging against email, cell phones, the profit motive, George W. Bush, and every last feature of modern life. Maybe. But I’d also like to think I’d take the time to eat the odd Twinkie, go to a few ball games and, you know, just enjoy being an American. None of which, as far as I can see, Slouka ever does.

]]>
Sogang Korean Workbook 1A 10404814 411 Kim Song-hee 8976995767 Buck 4
Still, I can’t really claim to speak Korean yet. In fact, each day brings fresh evidence of my humiliating incompetence. But I finally feel that I’m getting under the hood of the language and figuring out how things work. A lot of the credit for this should go to Sogang Korean, which is by far the best Korean-language textbook I’ve come across (out of, like, three). It’s attractively designed and sensibly organized, with an emphasis on practical oral skills. It’s an excellent textbook in every way.

It’s also unintentionally hilarious. In class, I often found myself snickering inappropriately at the romantic tribulations of "Andy", one of the recurring characters in the dialogues. Andy, who's described as an "American exchange student", seems to have come down with a bad case of yellow fever. He spends most of the book pursuing various Korean women with dogged persistence and a bizarre obliviousness to social cues. Here’s a translation of an early dialogue between him and Mina, a fellow student:

Andy: Mina, are you free at 11 o’clock today?
Mina: I am sorry. I have a class at 11.
Andy: Then are you free at 1 o’clock?
Mina: I am sorry. I am going to the hospital at 1 o’clock.
Andy: Um, how about 3 o’clock?
Mina: I work at 3 o’clock.
Andy: Then at 6 o’clock�?
Mina: Andy, I am really sorry. I am having dinner with my friend.


I understand that the reiteration here serves a pedagogical purpose, but the whole thing sounds like a rom-com written by a third-grader � a third-grader with Asperger’s.

In unit 6, Mina and Andy are back at their old Tracy-Hepburn routine. Mina has been showing Andy some pictures of Insadong, a neighbourhood in Seoul. She tells him it’s only 20 minutes away by subway:

Andy: Wow � the subway is very fast. But Mina, um�
Mina: Yes, Andy. What is it?
Andy: I want to go to Insadong with you. Do you have any free time on the weekend?
Mina: I’m sorry, Andy. I have plans this weekend. Let’s go next time.


And ٳ󲹳’s how the textbook ends: on a note of failure and rejection. It’s very modern, very Paul Thomas Anderson. While I was practicing that last dialogue with my language exchange partner—a single woman in her 40s—she suddenly wailed: "Oh my God! I’m Andy!" I can think of no higher tribute to the artistry of the anonymous committee that wrote this thing.
]]>
3.96 2009 Sogang Korean Workbook 1A
author: Kim Song-hee
name: Buck
average rating: 3.96
book published: 2009
rating: 4
read at:
date added: 2012/04/16
shelves: self-congratulatory-multilingual, korea
review:
Studying a foreign language is a bit like suffering from a chronic illness: you have your good days and your bad days. After hammering away at Korean with dweebish enthusiasm for several months, I was starting to get bummed out about my apparent lack of progress. Then I spent the day in Seoul with a couple of Japanese friends who don’t speak a word of the language. Everywhere we went, locals would size us up and instinctively turn to my friends, addressing them in Korean, only to have the big, dopey-looking white guy answer. Cognitive disequilibrium all around. For once, I was the one overturning stereotypes, instead of blundering into them with my usual WASP insouciance. It was pretty sweet.

Still, I can’t really claim to speak Korean yet. In fact, each day brings fresh evidence of my humiliating incompetence. But I finally feel that I’m getting under the hood of the language and figuring out how things work. A lot of the credit for this should go to Sogang Korean, which is by far the best Korean-language textbook I’ve come across (out of, like, three). It’s attractively designed and sensibly organized, with an emphasis on practical oral skills. It’s an excellent textbook in every way.

It’s also unintentionally hilarious. In class, I often found myself snickering inappropriately at the romantic tribulations of "Andy", one of the recurring characters in the dialogues. Andy, who's described as an "American exchange student", seems to have come down with a bad case of yellow fever. He spends most of the book pursuing various Korean women with dogged persistence and a bizarre obliviousness to social cues. Here’s a translation of an early dialogue between him and Mina, a fellow student:

Andy: Mina, are you free at 11 o’clock today?
Mina: I am sorry. I have a class at 11.
Andy: Then are you free at 1 o’clock?
Mina: I am sorry. I am going to the hospital at 1 o’clock.
Andy: Um, how about 3 o’clock?
Mina: I work at 3 o’clock.
Andy: Then at 6 o’clock�?
Mina: Andy, I am really sorry. I am having dinner with my friend.


I understand that the reiteration here serves a pedagogical purpose, but the whole thing sounds like a rom-com written by a third-grader � a third-grader with Asperger’s.

In unit 6, Mina and Andy are back at their old Tracy-Hepburn routine. Mina has been showing Andy some pictures of Insadong, a neighbourhood in Seoul. She tells him it’s only 20 minutes away by subway:

Andy: Wow � the subway is very fast. But Mina, um�
Mina: Yes, Andy. What is it?
Andy: I want to go to Insadong with you. Do you have any free time on the weekend?
Mina: I’m sorry, Andy. I have plans this weekend. Let’s go next time.


And ٳ󲹳’s how the textbook ends: on a note of failure and rejection. It’s very modern, very Paul Thomas Anderson. While I was practicing that last dialogue with my language exchange partner—a single woman in her 40s—she suddenly wailed: "Oh my God! I’m Andy!" I can think of no higher tribute to the artistry of the anonymous committee that wrote this thing.

]]>
<![CDATA[Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion / The Natural History of Religion]]> 80315 origins of belief, and follows its development from polytheism to dogmatic monotheism. Together, these works constitute the most formidable attack upon religious belief ever mounted by a philosopher.
This new edition includes Section XI of The Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding and a letter by Hume in which he discusses Dialogues .]]>
256 David Hume 0192838768 Buck 4 Cops to read him properly. Not that I regret watching Cops, which was an education in itself, but I probably should’ve paid more attention to things like—oh, I don’t know—the freaking Western canon. Just for starters.

Once you get past the genteel diction, Hume’s skepticism still seems pretty hardcore, and I can only wonder how it struck his original readers, some of whom must have had their minds well and truly blown (or whatever the contemporary idiom was). Hume has often been conscripted into the atheists� camp, but as I see it, he was just a no-nonsense agnostic who politely suggested that it was really, really dumb to dogmatize about God. And even dumber to plague and kill each other over an abstract noun about which nothing verifiable can ever be said.

If all of that sounds sweetly reasonable to you, it’s because Hume’s ideas have gradually trickled down to the water table of Western consciousness. Skepticism is like mental fluoride: we’ve all ingested it, whether we wanted to or not. (I’m tempted to squeeze in a metaphor here about the bottled water of fundamentalism, but this paragraph has already exceeded its analogical weight limit).
]]>
4.07 1757 Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion / The Natural History of Religion
author: David Hume
name: Buck
average rating: 4.07
book published: 1757
rating: 4
read at:
date added: 2012/04/16
shelves:
review:
I’m pretty sure I brushed up against Hume in university, but I was too busy getting high and watching Cops to read him properly. Not that I regret watching Cops, which was an education in itself, but I probably should’ve paid more attention to things like—oh, I don’t know—the freaking Western canon. Just for starters.

Once you get past the genteel diction, Hume’s skepticism still seems pretty hardcore, and I can only wonder how it struck his original readers, some of whom must have had their minds well and truly blown (or whatever the contemporary idiom was). Hume has often been conscripted into the atheists� camp, but as I see it, he was just a no-nonsense agnostic who politely suggested that it was really, really dumb to dogmatize about God. And even dumber to plague and kill each other over an abstract noun about which nothing verifiable can ever be said.

If all of that sounds sweetly reasonable to you, it’s because Hume’s ideas have gradually trickled down to the water table of Western consciousness. Skepticism is like mental fluoride: we’ve all ingested it, whether we wanted to or not. (I’m tempted to squeeze in a metaphor here about the bottled water of fundamentalism, but this paragraph has already exceeded its analogical weight limit).

]]>
<![CDATA[Collapse: How Societies Choose to Fail or Succeed]]> 475 Collapse is destined to take its place as one of the essential books of our time, raising the urgent question: How can our world best avoid committing ecological suicide?

In his million-copy bestseller Guns, Germs, and Steel, Jared Diamond examined how and why Western civilizations developed the technologies and immunities that allowed them to dominate much of the world. Now in this brilliant companion volume, Diamond probes the other side of the equation: What caused some of the great civilizations of the past to collapse into ruin, and what can we learn from their fates?

As in Guns, Germs, and Steel, Diamond weaves an all-encompassing global thesis through a series of fascinating historical-cultural narratives. Moving from the Polynesian cultures on Easter Island to the flourishing American civilizations of the Anasazi and the Maya and finally to the doomed Viking colony on Greenland, Diamond traces the fundamental pattern of catastrophe. Environmental damage, climate change, rapid population growth, and unwise political choices were all factors in the demise of these societies, but other societies found solutions and persisted. Similar problems face us today and have already brought disaster to Rwanda and Haiti, even as China and Australia are trying to cope in innovative ways. Despite our own society's apparently inexhaustible wealth and unrivaled political power, ominous warning signs have begun to emerge even in ecologically robust areas like Montana.

Brilliant, illuminating, and immensely absorbing, Collapse is destined to take its place as one of the essential books of our time, raising the urgent question: How can our world best avoid committing ecological suicide?]]>
608 Jared Diamond 0143036556 Buck 0
Collapse is a sobering book, but I'm just jaded enough that after about the tenth analysis of pollen readings from core samples, I was like, "Come on, Jared. Get to the part where they eat each other." And that was before he launched into a detailed discussion of Japanese forestry policy in the Tokugawa era. Silviculture was a lot more interesting to me when I thought it had something to do with art therapy for seniors.

So, yeah, we're all gonna die, and some of us will probably end up getting eaten. But in the meantime, I've still got a few seasons of Barney Miller to download, so no rush.]]>
3.93 2004 Collapse: How Societies Choose to Fail or Succeed
author: Jared Diamond
name: Buck
average rating: 3.93
book published: 2004
rating: 0
read at:
date added: 2012/04/16
shelves: pop-science, more-than-i-could-chew
review:
From now on, every fledgling civilization should be issued with a little pamphlet outlining the dangers of deforestation. On the cover, there'd be a picture of a toppled Easter Island statue, with the caption, "Learn from our mistakes: if you chop down all your trees, your society will expire in an orgy of cannibalism. Also, you might want to go easy on the monoliths."

Collapse is a sobering book, but I'm just jaded enough that after about the tenth analysis of pollen readings from core samples, I was like, "Come on, Jared. Get to the part where they eat each other." And that was before he launched into a detailed discussion of Japanese forestry policy in the Tokugawa era. Silviculture was a lot more interesting to me when I thought it had something to do with art therapy for seniors.

So, yeah, we're all gonna die, and some of us will probably end up getting eaten. But in the meantime, I've still got a few seasons of Barney Miller to download, so no rush.
]]>
<![CDATA[I is an Other: The Secret Life of Metaphor and How it Shapes the Way We See the World]]> 10385841
From President Obama’s political rhetoric to the bursting of the housing bubble, from conversations to commercials, James Geary shows that every aspect of our day-to-day experience is molded by metaphor. Geary takes readers from Aristotle’s investigation of metaphor right up to the latest neuroscientific insights into how metaphor works in the brain.Romeo’s exclamation “It is the East, and Juliet is the sun!� may be one of the most well-known metaphors in literature, but metaphor is more than a device of love-struck poets. As Geary demonstrates, metaphor has leaped off the page and landed with a mighty splash right in the middle of the stream of consciousness.

Witty, persuasive, and original,I Is an Otherexplores metaphor’s effects on financial decision making, effective advertising, leadership, learning, and more.]]>
740 James Geary Buck 0 to-read 3.86 2011 I is an Other: The Secret Life of Metaphor and How it Shapes the Way We See the World
author: James Geary
name: Buck
average rating: 3.86
book published: 2011
rating: 0
read at:
date added: 2012/04/13
shelves: to-read
review:

]]>
<![CDATA[The Koreans: Who They Are, What They Want, Where Their Future Lies]]> 402986
Although Korea has only recently found itself a part of the global stage, it is a country with a rich and complex past. Early history shows that Koreans had a huge influence on ancient Japan, and their historic achievements include being the first culture to use metal movable type for printing books. However, much of their history is less positive; it is marred with political violence, poverty, and war--aspects that would sooner be forgotten by the Koreans, who are trying to focus on their promising future.

The fact that Korean history has eluded much of the world is unfortunate, but as Korea becomes more of a global player, understanding and appreciation for this unique nation has become indispensable.

In The Koreans, Michael Breen provides an in-depth portrait of the country and its people. An early overview of the nature and values of the Korean people provides the background for a more detailed examination of the complex history of the country, in particular its division into the Communist north and pro-Western south.

In this absorbing and enlightening account of the Koreans, Michael Breen provides compelling insight into the history and character of this fascinating nation.]]>
304 Michael Breen 0312326092 Buck 3 korea
So, even though I don’t always agree with him, I get where Michael Breen is coming from. In The Koreans (clever title, that), he obsesses like a mystified lover about what makes his subjects tick. My only major complaint with the book is that, having been published in 1998, it’s already out of date. Like Baudelaire’s Paris, this country changes more quickly than the human heart. (Unlike Baudelaire’s Paris, it has free wifi). Still, Breen is a sympathetic, well-informed observer, and if he’s not exactly a brilliant stylist, he’s a good explainer. There were quite a few passages where I found myself going, “Oh, so ٳ󲹳’s why they’re like that.�

According to Breen, it’s a cliché among Asia-watchers that Koreans are the Irish of the East. I’d never heard that before, but it makes sense in a way. If anything, Koreans have even more reason than the Irish to feel pissed-off and hard-done-by, at least as far as 20th-century history goes. First there was the brutal Japanese occupation—which still rankles, mostly because the Japanese remain so clueless about it—and almost as soon as that was over, a bitter, fratricidal war that left millions dead. Horrible as it was, the war decided precisely nothing: the psychotic North was still slavering away just across the DMZ. Then came a decade or two of grinding, third-world poverty (Lee Myung-bak, the current president of South Korea, was so poor growing up that he was sometimes forced to eat the rice pulp left over from distilling soju; he’d go to school half-drunk.) After that, things were pretty ho-hum for a while: just the usual run of dictatorships, assassinations, uprisings...

What’s so admirable about Koreans, though, is that they collectively said, “Fuck it. Let’s get to work.� With manic energy, they dragged their country out of the stone age and turned it into a thriving, hypermodern democracy - in a single generation. Out of nothing, really nothing. It’s one of the feel-good stories of the 20th-century. Hell, it’s one of the feel-good stories of human history.

So whenever I’m tempted to sneer at Koreans for their crass materialism or whatnot, I have to tell myself to cut them some slack. I mean, what has my country been doing these last sixty years? Pounding beers and watching the Leafs. Christ.
]]>
3.63 1999 The Koreans: Who They Are, What They Want, Where Their Future Lies
author: Michael Breen
name: Buck
average rating: 3.63
book published: 1999
rating: 3
read at:
date added: 2012/03/31
shelves: korea
review:
In strict geographical terms, I’ve only been in Korea for a few months now, but psychologically, I’ve been here for years. Back in Canada, I was dealing with Koreans on a daily basis. I worked for Koreans, taught Koreans, befriended Koreans, got drunk with Koreans, slept with Koreans, had screaming matches with Koreans, and was treated with baffling kindness by the very same Koreans. Somehow, these wonderful, exasperating people slowly took over my life. But they’re like that. They get under your skin, in both senses of that ambiguous idiom.

So, even though I don’t always agree with him, I get where Michael Breen is coming from. In The Koreans (clever title, that), he obsesses like a mystified lover about what makes his subjects tick. My only major complaint with the book is that, having been published in 1998, it’s already out of date. Like Baudelaire’s Paris, this country changes more quickly than the human heart. (Unlike Baudelaire’s Paris, it has free wifi). Still, Breen is a sympathetic, well-informed observer, and if he’s not exactly a brilliant stylist, he’s a good explainer. There were quite a few passages where I found myself going, “Oh, so ٳ󲹳’s why they’re like that.�

According to Breen, it’s a cliché among Asia-watchers that Koreans are the Irish of the East. I’d never heard that before, but it makes sense in a way. If anything, Koreans have even more reason than the Irish to feel pissed-off and hard-done-by, at least as far as 20th-century history goes. First there was the brutal Japanese occupation—which still rankles, mostly because the Japanese remain so clueless about it—and almost as soon as that was over, a bitter, fratricidal war that left millions dead. Horrible as it was, the war decided precisely nothing: the psychotic North was still slavering away just across the DMZ. Then came a decade or two of grinding, third-world poverty (Lee Myung-bak, the current president of South Korea, was so poor growing up that he was sometimes forced to eat the rice pulp left over from distilling soju; he’d go to school half-drunk.) After that, things were pretty ho-hum for a while: just the usual run of dictatorships, assassinations, uprisings...

What’s so admirable about Koreans, though, is that they collectively said, “Fuck it. Let’s get to work.� With manic energy, they dragged their country out of the stone age and turned it into a thriving, hypermodern democracy - in a single generation. Out of nothing, really nothing. It’s one of the feel-good stories of the 20th-century. Hell, it’s one of the feel-good stories of human history.

So whenever I’m tempted to sneer at Koreans for their crass materialism or whatnot, I have to tell myself to cut them some slack. I mean, what has my country been doing these last sixty years? Pounding beers and watching the Leafs. Christ.

]]>
Arguably: Selected Essays 10383597 Arguably offers an indispensable key to understanding the passionate and skeptical spirit of one of our most dazzling writers, widely admired for the clarity of his style, a result of his disciplined and candid thinking.

Topics range from ruminations on why Charles Dickens was among the best of writers and the worst of men to the haunting science fiction of J.G. Ballard; from the enduring legacies of Thomas Jefferson and George Orwell to the persistent agonies of anti-Semitism and jihad. Hitchens even looks at the recent financial crisis and argues for the enduring relevance of Karl Marx.

The book forms a bridge between the two parallel enterprises of culture and politics. It reveals how politics justifies itself by culture, and how the latter prompts the former. In this fashion, Arguably burnishes Christopher Hitchens' credentials as (to quote Christopher Buckley) our "greatest living essayist in the English language."]]>
816 Christopher Hitchens 0771041411 Buck 4 4.20 2011 Arguably: Selected Essays
author: Christopher Hitchens
name: Buck
average rating: 4.20
book published: 2011
rating: 4
read at:
date added: 2012/03/16
shelves:
review:

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Karl Marx 1097544 431 Francis Wheen 1841151149 Buck 4 life-writing, dismal-science
In a famous riff on Hegel, Marx once said that history repeats itself, "the first time as tragedy, the second time as farce." Marx’s own biography suggests a different sequence. His life was a grubby, shambolic farce that somehow gave birth to a world-historic tragedy. Francis Wheen, the author of this generally excellent biography, snidely pooh-poohs the idea that Marx bears any responsibility for the Gulag, but this seems as naïve as the reductionism it was meant to counter. If Stalinism was a misreading of Marx, it was at least a plausible misreading. It can’t be a coincidence that every communist regime in history got Marx wrong in exactly the same way.

But, okay, Marx himself was no monster, and Wheen does a good job of humanizing the old bogeyman � almost too good a job, actually: his Marx is not just human, but hilariously, embarrassingly, disastrously human. For the first two-thirds of the book, Marx comes across as a bit of a loser, a schlemiel: living in rented rooms, shamelessly sponging off rich relatives and his good buddy Engels, refusing to get a real job, cowering in his study while his wife turned away creditors, fathering children with grim Victorian persistence (including one with the housekeeper), lancing the aforementioned carbuncles with a razor, getting massive boils on his penis, snoring on the sofa all day long while his kids romped among dirty dishes and broken furniture, confidently predicting revolution every other week (always wrongly), going on benders, writing thunderous, 200-page jeremiads against anyone who looked at him sideways, letting a friend fight a duel in his place (and take a bullet in the head), growing a freaky beard, malingering, and constantly, constantly, CONSTANTLY complaining...

And yet, damn it, the man was a genius. Deirdre McCloskey, a hardcore neoliberal (and therefore the furthest thing imaginable from a Marxist) calls him the greatest social critic of the nineteenth century. As a philosopher and economist, he was a horror show, but as a writer and all-around shit disturber, he has few equals. If only he’d stuck to journalism...

The last years of Marx’s life were spent traipsing around the fashionable spas of Europe, where he charmed the other guests with his witty anecdotes and impeccable manners. He was also a doting grandfather. Eleven people showed up for his funeral.
]]>
4.05 1999 Karl Marx
author: Francis Wheen
name: Buck
average rating: 4.05
book published: 1999
rating: 4
read at:
date added: 2012/03/16
shelves: life-writing, dismal-science
review:
It’s strange but arguably true: millions of people died in Siberia because a philosopher in London had carbuncles on his ass. Chaos theory now makes a little more sense to me.

In a famous riff on Hegel, Marx once said that history repeats itself, "the first time as tragedy, the second time as farce." Marx’s own biography suggests a different sequence. His life was a grubby, shambolic farce that somehow gave birth to a world-historic tragedy. Francis Wheen, the author of this generally excellent biography, snidely pooh-poohs the idea that Marx bears any responsibility for the Gulag, but this seems as naïve as the reductionism it was meant to counter. If Stalinism was a misreading of Marx, it was at least a plausible misreading. It can’t be a coincidence that every communist regime in history got Marx wrong in exactly the same way.

But, okay, Marx himself was no monster, and Wheen does a good job of humanizing the old bogeyman � almost too good a job, actually: his Marx is not just human, but hilariously, embarrassingly, disastrously human. For the first two-thirds of the book, Marx comes across as a bit of a loser, a schlemiel: living in rented rooms, shamelessly sponging off rich relatives and his good buddy Engels, refusing to get a real job, cowering in his study while his wife turned away creditors, fathering children with grim Victorian persistence (including one with the housekeeper), lancing the aforementioned carbuncles with a razor, getting massive boils on his penis, snoring on the sofa all day long while his kids romped among dirty dishes and broken furniture, confidently predicting revolution every other week (always wrongly), going on benders, writing thunderous, 200-page jeremiads against anyone who looked at him sideways, letting a friend fight a duel in his place (and take a bullet in the head), growing a freaky beard, malingering, and constantly, constantly, CONSTANTLY complaining...

And yet, damn it, the man was a genius. Deirdre McCloskey, a hardcore neoliberal (and therefore the furthest thing imaginable from a Marxist) calls him the greatest social critic of the nineteenth century. As a philosopher and economist, he was a horror show, but as a writer and all-around shit disturber, he has few equals. If only he’d stuck to journalism...

The last years of Marx’s life were spent traipsing around the fashionable spas of Europe, where he charmed the other guests with his witty anecdotes and impeccable manners. He was also a doting grandfather. Eleven people showed up for his funeral.

]]>
<![CDATA[Life Sentences: Literary Judgments and Accounts]]> 11778315
It begins with the personal, both past and present. It emphasizes Gass’s lifelong attachment to books and moves on to the more analytical, as he ponders the work of some of his favorite writers (among them Kafka, Nietzsche, Henry James, Gertrude Stein, Proust). He writes about a few topics equally burning but less loved (the Nobel Prize–winner and Nazi sympathizer Knut Hamsun; the Holocaust).

Finally, Gass ponders theoretical matters connected with literature: form and metaphor, and specifically, one of its genetic parts—the sentence.

Gass embraces the avant-garde but applies a classic standard of writing to all literature, which is clear in these essays, or, as he describes them, literary judgments and accounts.

Life Sentences is William Gass at his Gassian best.

The personals column: The literary miracle --
Slices of life in a library --
Spit in the mitt --
The first fourth following 9/11 --
What freedom of expression means, especially in times like these --
Retrospection --
Old favorites and fresh enemies: A wreath for the grave of Gertrude Stein --
Reading Proust --
Nietzsche: in illness and in health --
Kafka: half a man, half a metaphor --
Unsteady as she goes: Malcolm Lowry's cinema inferno --
The bush of belief --
Henry James's curriculum vitae --
An introduction to John Gardner's Nickel mountain --
Katherine Anne Porter's fictional self --
Knut Hamsun --
Kinds of killing --
The Biggs lectures in the classics: Form: Eidos --
Mimesis --
Metaphor --
Theoretics: Lust --
Narrative sentences --
The aesthetic structure of the sentence]]>
368 William H. Gass 0307595846 Buck 2 4.20 2012 Life Sentences: Literary Judgments and Accounts
author: William H. Gass
name: Buck
average rating: 4.20
book published: 2012
rating: 2
read at:
date added: 2012/03/16
shelves:
review:

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<![CDATA[Blood Horses: Notes of a Sportswriter's Son]]> 1254588
Sullivan didn't know, not the track had always been a place his father disappeared to once a year on business, a source of souvenir glasses and inscrutable passions in his Kentucky relatives. But in 2000, Sullivan, an editor and essayist for Harper's, decided to educate himself. He spent two years following the horse-both across the country, as he watched one season's juvenile crop prepare for the Triple Crown, and through time, as he tracked the animal's constant evolution in literature and art, from the ponies that appeared on the walls of European caves 30,000 years ago, to the mounts that carried the Indo-European language to the edges of the Old World, to the finely tuned but fragile yearlings that are auctioned off for millions of dollars apiece every spring and fall.

The result is a witty, encyclopedic, and in the end profound meditation on what Edwin Muir called our "long-lost archaic companionship" with the horse. Incorporating elements of memoir and reportage, the Wunderkammer and the picture gallery, Blood Horses lets us see--as we have never seen before--the animal that, more than any other, made us who we are.]]>
272 John Jeremiah Sullivan 0374172811 Buck 3 4.10 2004 Blood Horses: Notes of a Sportswriter's Son
author: John Jeremiah Sullivan
name: Buck
average rating: 4.10
book published: 2004
rating: 3
read at:
date added: 2012/03/16
shelves:
review:

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Pulphead 10851868 Pulphead, John Jeremiah Sullivan takes us on an exhilarating tour of our popular, unpopular, and at times completely forgotten culture. Simultaneously channeling the gonzo energy of Hunter S. Thompson and the wit and insight of Joan Didion, Sullivan shows us—with a laidback, erudite Southern charm ٳ󲹳’s all his own—how we really (no, really) live now.

In his native Kentucky, Sullivan introduces us to Constantine Rafinesque, a nineteenth-century polymath genius who concocted a dense, fantastical prehistory of the New World. Back in modern times, Sullivan takes us to the Ozarks for a Christian rock festival; to Florida to meet the alumni and straggling refugees of MTV’s Real World, who’ve generated their own self-perpetuating economy of minor celebrity; and all across the South on the trail of the blues. He takes us to Indiana to investigate the formative years of Michael Jackson and Axl Rose and then to the Gulf Coast in the wake of Katrina—and back again as its residents confront the BP oil spill.

Gradually, a unifying narrative emerges, a story about this country that we’ve never heard told this way. It’s like a fun-house hall-of-mirrors tour: Sullivan shows us who we are in ways we’ve never imagined to be true. Of course we don’t know whether to laugh or cry when faced with this reflection—it’s our inevitable sob-guffaws that attest to the power of Sullivan’s work.]]>
365 John Jeremiah Sullivan 0374532907 Buck 4 4.01 2011 Pulphead
author: John Jeremiah Sullivan
name: Buck
average rating: 4.01
book published: 2011
rating: 4
read at:
date added: 2012/03/16
shelves:
review:

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A Universe from Nothing 13250737 “WHERE DID THE UNIVERSE COME FROM? WHAT WAS THERE BEFORE IT? WHAT WILL THE FUTURE BRING? AND FINALLY, WHY IS THERE SOMETHING RATHER THAN NOTHING?�

Lawrence Krauss’s provocative answers to these and other timeless questions in a wildly popular lecture now on YouTube have attracted almost a million viewers. The last of these questions in particular has been at the center of religious and philosophical debates about the existence of God, and it’s the supposed counterargument to anyone who questions the need for God. As Krauss argues, scientists have, however, historically focused on other, more pressing issues—such as figuring out how the universe actually functions, which can ultimately help us to improve the quality of our lives.

Now, in a cosmological story that rivets as it enlightens, pioneering theoretical physicist Lawrence Krauss explains the groundbreaking new scientific advances that turn the most basic philosophical questions on their heads. One of the few prominent scientists today to have actively crossed the chasm between science and popular culture, Krauss reveals that modern science is addressing the question of why there is something rather than nothing, with surprising and fascinating results. The staggeringly beautiful experimental observations and mind-bending new theories are all described accessibly in A Universe from Nothing, and they suggest that not only can something arise from nothing, something will always arise from nothing.

With his characteristic wry humor and wonderfully clear explanations, Krauss takes us back to the beginning of the beginning, presenting the most recent evidence for how our universe evolved—and the implications for how it’s going to end. It will provoke, challenge, and delight readers as it looks at the most basic underpinnings of existence in a whole new way. And this knowledge that our universe will be quite different in the future from today has profound implications and directly affects how we live in the present. As Richard Dawkins has described This could potentially be the most important scientific book with implications for supernaturalism since Darwin.

A fascinating antidote to outmoded philosophical and religious thinking, A Universe from Nothing is a provocative, game-changing entry into the debate about the existence of God and everything that exists. “Forget Jesus,� Krauss has argued, “the stars died so you could be born.�

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256 Lawrence M. Krauss 1451624476 Buck 0 to-read 4.09 2012 A Universe from Nothing
author: Lawrence M. Krauss
name: Buck
average rating: 4.09
book published: 2012
rating: 0
read at:
date added: 2012/02/17
shelves: to-read
review:

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<![CDATA[Past Imperfect: French Intellectuals, 1944-1956]]> 29660
Judt's analysis extends beyond the writings of fashionable "Existentialist" personalities such as Jean-Paul Sartre, Albert Camus, and Simone de Beauvoir to include a wide intellectual community of Catholic philosophers, non-aligned journalists, literary critics and poets, Communist and non-Communist alike.

Judt treats the intellectual dilemmas of the postwar years as an unfinished history. French intellectuals have not fully come to terms with the gnawing sense of what Judt calls the "moral irresponsibility" of those years. The result, he suggests, is a legacy of bad faith and confusion that has damaged France's cultural standing, notably in newly liberated Eastern Europe, and which reflects the nation's larger difficulty in confronting its own ambivalent past.]]>
348 Tony Judt 0520086503 Buck 4 Past Imperfect, which may explain the almost aggressive geekiness of the subtitle: French Intellectuals, 1944-1956. Unless they mistook it for an epitaph, no one but a total poindexter would find that subtitle remotely appealing.

I am, as it happens, a total poindexter. This particular period of intellectual history has always held a perverse fascination for me. I think it’s just the spectacle of so many brilliant people being so colossally stupid. Whenever I want to console myself for not being a genius, I just close my eyes and think of Sartre. What a mind! And what a disgrace!

Past Imperfect is a very angry book. It’s a cool, controlled, lavishly footnoted anger, but it’s all the more devastating for that. Judt, who calls his book “an essay on intellectual irresponsibility� (why couldn’t that have been the subtitle?) paints Sartre and his cohort as a generation of vipers. With a few honourable exceptions, the big brains of postwar France were horny for totalitarianism. Not only Sartre and de Beauvoir, but Picasso, Aragon, Merleau-Ponty, and a host of lesser lights of the French Left � all became groupies and fartcatchers for Stalin, using their artistic and philosophical flair to explain away the Gulag.

This is old news � in uptown circles, anyway. What makes Past Imperfect so eye-opening is the very geekiness I mentioned at the outset. Judt, a true scholar, is staggeringly well-informed, and every bit as theoretically sophisticated as his subjects. He’s read all the dingy little periodicals of the day and knows where the bodies are buried. He can range at will over the intellectual terrain, backtracking to the French Revolution, or detouring into Kojève's Hegel lectures. Without ever trying to excuse, he renders the monstrous folly of these people a little more comprehensible. He points out, for instance, that there was a void at the centre of French politics where liberalism ought to have been, forcing otherwise moderate thinkers to take up extreme positions on the Left or Right. That, to me, is just a really smart observation, and the book is full of insights like that.

I suppose, if there’s one comforting thought to take away from all this, it’s that it doesn’t seem to matter very much what intellectuals think. In mature democracies, they’re condemned to political marginality, and I’d say ٳ󲹳’s a very good thing. For decades, France’s chattering classes were hopelessly compromised, and yet the nation went about its business, building democratic institutions, getting rich...opening Euro Disney. It ain’t sexy (or Sartrean) but it’s progress.
]]>
4.07 1992 Past Imperfect: French Intellectuals, 1944-1956
author: Tony Judt
name: Buck
average rating: 4.07
book published: 1992
rating: 4
read at:
date added: 2012/02/09
shelves:
review:
The late Tony Judt was still an obscure academic when he published Past Imperfect, which may explain the almost aggressive geekiness of the subtitle: French Intellectuals, 1944-1956. Unless they mistook it for an epitaph, no one but a total poindexter would find that subtitle remotely appealing.

I am, as it happens, a total poindexter. This particular period of intellectual history has always held a perverse fascination for me. I think it’s just the spectacle of so many brilliant people being so colossally stupid. Whenever I want to console myself for not being a genius, I just close my eyes and think of Sartre. What a mind! And what a disgrace!

Past Imperfect is a very angry book. It’s a cool, controlled, lavishly footnoted anger, but it’s all the more devastating for that. Judt, who calls his book “an essay on intellectual irresponsibility� (why couldn’t that have been the subtitle?) paints Sartre and his cohort as a generation of vipers. With a few honourable exceptions, the big brains of postwar France were horny for totalitarianism. Not only Sartre and de Beauvoir, but Picasso, Aragon, Merleau-Ponty, and a host of lesser lights of the French Left � all became groupies and fartcatchers for Stalin, using their artistic and philosophical flair to explain away the Gulag.

This is old news � in uptown circles, anyway. What makes Past Imperfect so eye-opening is the very geekiness I mentioned at the outset. Judt, a true scholar, is staggeringly well-informed, and every bit as theoretically sophisticated as his subjects. He’s read all the dingy little periodicals of the day and knows where the bodies are buried. He can range at will over the intellectual terrain, backtracking to the French Revolution, or detouring into Kojève's Hegel lectures. Without ever trying to excuse, he renders the monstrous folly of these people a little more comprehensible. He points out, for instance, that there was a void at the centre of French politics where liberalism ought to have been, forcing otherwise moderate thinkers to take up extreme positions on the Left or Right. That, to me, is just a really smart observation, and the book is full of insights like that.

I suppose, if there’s one comforting thought to take away from all this, it’s that it doesn’t seem to matter very much what intellectuals think. In mature democracies, they’re condemned to political marginality, and I’d say ٳ󲹳’s a very good thing. For decades, France’s chattering classes were hopelessly compromised, and yet the nation went about its business, building democratic institutions, getting rich...opening Euro Disney. It ain’t sexy (or Sartrean) but it’s progress.

]]>
Survival in Auschwitz 6174
In 1943, Primo Levi, a twenty-five-year-old chemist and “Italian citizen of Jewish race,� was arrested by Italian fascists and deported from his native Turin to Auschwitz. Survival in Auschwitz is Levi’s classic account of his ten months in the German death camp, a harrowing story of systematic cruelty and miraculous endurance. Remarkable for its simplicity, restraint, compassion, and even wit, Survival in Auschwitz remains a lasting testament to the indestructibility of the human spirit.]]>
187 Primo Levi 0684826801 Buck 5 in-captivity 4.20 1947 Survival in Auschwitz
author: Primo Levi
name: Buck
average rating: 4.20
book published: 1947
rating: 5
read at:
date added: 2012/02/09
shelves: in-captivity
review:

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Pericles 104813 247 William Shakespeare 074327329X Buck 2 histrionics
The author, who wrote some fairly successful plays in the 1590s, never really lived up to his early promise. Sad.]]>
3.43 1608 Pericles
author: William Shakespeare
name: Buck
average rating: 3.43
book published: 1608
rating: 2
read at:
date added: 2012/02/09
shelves: histrionics
review:
Ben Jonson called this a 'moldy tale'. He was being charitable. It's rank Jacobean cheese.

The author, who wrote some fairly successful plays in the 1590s, never really lived up to his early promise. Sad.
]]>
<![CDATA[Reise Ans Ende Der Nacht: Hörspiel]]> 3761771 0 Louis-Ferdinand Céline 3867170584 Buck 0 voyage á la bibliothèque. C’est dommage, because this one of the few novels that’ve turned me on lately. I need to go back to this some day; I need to listen to more French audiobooks; I need to move to Paris and berate tourists in comically accented English and take a mistress d’un certain age. But mostly I need to finish a book so I can stop writing these pointless pseudo-reviews and get on with my life’s work of writing pointless actual reviews.

_______________________________________________________


In case you were wondering, the French for ‘ass-dragging pukes� is: ‘des tire-au-cul dégueulasses.� Melodious language, French. ]]>
5.00 1932 Reise Ans Ende Der Nacht: Hörspiel
author: Louis-Ferdinand Céline
name: Buck
average rating: 5.00
book published: 1932
rating: 0
read at: 2009/09/14
date added: 2012/01/29
shelves: self-congratulatory-multilingual, to-read
review:
They’ve been very polite about it so far, but the library has made it clear that they want their damn CDs back already. So Céline is making a voyage á la bibliothèque. C’est dommage, because this one of the few novels that’ve turned me on lately. I need to go back to this some day; I need to listen to more French audiobooks; I need to move to Paris and berate tourists in comically accented English and take a mistress d’un certain age. But mostly I need to finish a book so I can stop writing these pointless pseudo-reviews and get on with my life’s work of writing pointless actual reviews.

_______________________________________________________


In case you were wondering, the French for ‘ass-dragging pukes� is: ‘des tire-au-cul dégueulasses.� Melodious language, French.
]]>
L'avalée des avalés 889824 Elle s’appelle Bérénice, elle a une famille � un père juif, une mère catholique � qu’elle hait, elle a un arbre, un “navire� où elle aime se réfugier. “Quand je ne sais plus quoi faire, je m’embarque (�) Larguez les continents. Hissez les horizons. Ici, on part.� Et nous partons. Loin sur les ailes de son imagination. Le plus loin possible de sa douleur, de la vie, de la petitesse des humains.]]> 378 Réjean Ducharme 2070373932 Buck 0 to-read 3.84 1966 L'avalée des avalés
author: Réjean Ducharme
name: Buck
average rating: 3.84
book published: 1966
rating: 0
read at:
date added: 2012/01/29
shelves: to-read
review:

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<![CDATA[Old Calabria (Tauris Parke Paperbacks)]]> 10052452 368 Norman Douglas 1848851138 Buck 3 3.80 1914 Old Calabria (Tauris Parke Paperbacks)
author: Norman Douglas
name: Buck
average rating: 3.80
book published: 1914
rating: 3
read at: 2011/12/18
date added: 2012/01/24
shelves:
review:

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Korean For Dummies 1062995
Complete with lists of ten ways to learn Korean quickly, ten phrases to make you sound Korean, ten expressions that Koreans like to use, and ten things you should never do around a Korean, "Korean For Dummies" is your one-stop guide to speaking basic Korean and understanding the fundamentals of Korean culture.]]>
384 Jungwook Hong 0470037180 Buck 2 For Dummies series must be responsible for any number of quilting disasters, scrapbooking snafus and RV vacationing cock-ups. This book is not just for dummies, but by dummies: dummy writers, dummy editors, dummy interns, dummy bike couriers with dummy girlfriends.... I only exempt the house cartoonist, Rich Tennant, whose panels provide moments of rueful, Ziggy-esque whimsy.

As several disgruntled Amazon customers have pointed out, the fatal flaw in Korean For Dummies is the complete absence of Hangul, the Korean alphabet. I can guess what happened: somebody in the editorial brain trust at Wiley Publishing took the author aside and said, “Listen, Wang, we don’t want to scare off the rubes with a bunch of funny-looking Asian letters. They can barely read English, these people.� But seriously, even dummies can learn Hangul in a day or two; people of average intelligence can do so in the eleven hours it takes to fly from Sea-Tac to Incheon, with plenty of time left over for Kung Fu Panda 2.

The omission of Hangul forces the author to use a really clunky makeshift: he first provides the Romanized version of the Korean, and follows this with a second, phonetic rendering. So you end up with monstrous-looking entries like this one:

ireobeorisyeotgunyo (ee-ruh-buh-ree-syut-goon-yo) You are lost

Yeah, I sure am, asshole.

To make matters worse, the phonetic spellings are not always consistent: a word transliterated as hang-nyeon in one line will be given as hak-nyeon in the next. Just to mess with your mind.

The book comes with a CD, which is actually pretty good. The problem is, the recorded dialogues differ slightly but persistently from the transcripts. Several sentences have been omitted from the recordings—probably because they were considered too difficult—but carelessly allowed to stand in the book. So you’re listening intently and reading along, concentrating like a futhermucker, and then the conversation suddenly jumps ahead a line or two. That’s when you scream “Keseki!� (gae-saek-ee), which is best left untranslated. It’s the freaking Watergate tapes of language-learning kits.

Finally, the text is riddled with tiny, tell-tale grammatical errors. Like many Koreans, the author is, shall we say, rather sparing with his articles. I don’t want to be a prick about this, because he obviously knows English better than I’ll ever know Korean, but his proofreader really should have had his back.

Still, you can learn a lot even from a bad textbook. This one may be light on grammar (those rubes again) but lexically, it’s a goldmine. I have to admit it’s helped me out in all sorts of practical ways. Just this evening, I was in a bar where I noticed some musical instruments piled up in a corner. After taking a quick peek at chapter 8, I casually asked the bartender if there was going to be a concert later. She smiled and said yes. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so gratified! Then she said a bunch of other stuff that wasn’t in the textbook and looked at me quizzically. I nodded sagely and backed away, clutching my beer. And that was the end of that.
]]>
3.00 2007 Korean For Dummies
author: Jungwook Hong
name: Buck
average rating: 3.00
book published: 2007
rating: 2
read at:
date added: 2012/01/24
shelves: self-congratulatory-multilingual, korea
review:
If this sloppy, misleading volume is anything to go by, the For Dummies series must be responsible for any number of quilting disasters, scrapbooking snafus and RV vacationing cock-ups. This book is not just for dummies, but by dummies: dummy writers, dummy editors, dummy interns, dummy bike couriers with dummy girlfriends.... I only exempt the house cartoonist, Rich Tennant, whose panels provide moments of rueful, Ziggy-esque whimsy.

As several disgruntled Amazon customers have pointed out, the fatal flaw in Korean For Dummies is the complete absence of Hangul, the Korean alphabet. I can guess what happened: somebody in the editorial brain trust at Wiley Publishing took the author aside and said, “Listen, Wang, we don’t want to scare off the rubes with a bunch of funny-looking Asian letters. They can barely read English, these people.� But seriously, even dummies can learn Hangul in a day or two; people of average intelligence can do so in the eleven hours it takes to fly from Sea-Tac to Incheon, with plenty of time left over for Kung Fu Panda 2.

The omission of Hangul forces the author to use a really clunky makeshift: he first provides the Romanized version of the Korean, and follows this with a second, phonetic rendering. So you end up with monstrous-looking entries like this one:

ireobeorisyeotgunyo (ee-ruh-buh-ree-syut-goon-yo) You are lost

Yeah, I sure am, asshole.

To make matters worse, the phonetic spellings are not always consistent: a word transliterated as hang-nyeon in one line will be given as hak-nyeon in the next. Just to mess with your mind.

The book comes with a CD, which is actually pretty good. The problem is, the recorded dialogues differ slightly but persistently from the transcripts. Several sentences have been omitted from the recordings—probably because they were considered too difficult—but carelessly allowed to stand in the book. So you’re listening intently and reading along, concentrating like a futhermucker, and then the conversation suddenly jumps ahead a line or two. That’s when you scream “Keseki!� (gae-saek-ee), which is best left untranslated. It’s the freaking Watergate tapes of language-learning kits.

Finally, the text is riddled with tiny, tell-tale grammatical errors. Like many Koreans, the author is, shall we say, rather sparing with his articles. I don’t want to be a prick about this, because he obviously knows English better than I’ll ever know Korean, but his proofreader really should have had his back.

Still, you can learn a lot even from a bad textbook. This one may be light on grammar (those rubes again) but lexically, it’s a goldmine. I have to admit it’s helped me out in all sorts of practical ways. Just this evening, I was in a bar where I noticed some musical instruments piled up in a corner. After taking a quick peek at chapter 8, I casually asked the bartender if there was going to be a concert later. She smiled and said yes. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so gratified! Then she said a bunch of other stuff that wasn’t in the textbook and looked at me quizzically. I nodded sagely and backed away, clutching my beer. And that was the end of that.

]]>
<![CDATA[The Storm of War: A New History of the Second World War]]> 9850339 From "Britain's finest military historian" (The Economist) comes a magisterial new history of World War II and the flawed axis strategy that led to their defeat.

The Second World War lasted for 2,174 days, cost $1.5 trillion, and claimed the lives of more than 50 million people. What were the factors that affected the war's outcome? Why did the Axis lose? And could they, with a different strategy, have won? Andrew Roberts's acclaimed new history has been hailed as the finest single-volume account of this epic conflict. From the western front to North Africa, from the Baltic to the Far East, he tells the story of the war—the grand strategy and the individual experience, the cruelty and the heroism—as never before.

In researching this magnificently vivid history, Roberts walked many of the key battlefields and wartime sites in Russia, France, Italy, Germany, and the Far East, and drew on a number of never-before-published documents, such as a letter from Hitler's director of military operations explaining the reasoning behind the FÜhrer's order to halt the Panzers outside Dunkirk—a delay that enabled British forces to evacuate. Roberts illuminates the principal actors on both sides and analyzes how they reached critical decisions. He also presents the tales of many little-known individuals whose experiences form a panoply of the extraordinary courage and self-sacrifice, as well as the terrible depravity and cruelty, of the Second World War.

Meticulously researched and masterfully written, The Storm of War gives a dramatic account of this momentous event and shows in remarkable detail why the war took the course it did.

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712 Andrew Roberts 0061228591 Buck 0 to-read 4.16 2009 The Storm of War: A New History of the Second World War
author: Andrew Roberts
name: Buck
average rating: 4.16
book published: 2009
rating: 0
read at:
date added: 2012/01/15
shelves: to-read
review:

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<![CDATA[The Metaphysical Club : A Story of Ideas in America]]> 28202 560 Louis Menand 0007126905 Buck 3 4.07 2001 The Metaphysical Club : A Story of Ideas in America
author: Louis Menand
name: Buck
average rating: 4.07
book published: 2001
rating: 3
read at:
date added: 2012/01/15
shelves:
review:

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<![CDATA[How to Live: A Life of Montaigne in One Question and Twenty Attempts at an Answer]]> 7624457
This question obsessed Renaissance writers, none more than Michel Eyquem de Montaigne (1533-92), perhaps the first truly modern individual. A nobleman, public official, and wine-grower, he wrote free-roaming explorations of his thought and experience, unlike anything written before. He called them 'essays', meaning 'attempts' or 'tries'. Into them he put whatever was in his head: his tastes in wine and food, his childhood memories, the way his dog's ears twitched when dreaming, as well as the appalling events of the religious civil wars raging around him. The Essays was an instant bestseller, and more than four hundred years later, Montaigne's honesty and charm still draw people to him. Readers come to him in search of companionship, wisdom and entertainment--and in search of themselves.

This book, a spirited and singular biography (and the first full life of Montaigne in English for nearly fifty years), relates the story of his life by way of the questions he posed and the answers he explored. It traces his bizarre upbringing (made to speak only Latin), youthful career and sexual adventures, travels, and friendships with the scholar and poet Etienne de La Boétie and with his adopted 'daughter', Marie de Gournay. And as we read, we also meet his readers--who for centuries have found in Montaigne an inexhaustible source of answers to the haunting question, 'how to live?']]>
387 Sarah Bakewell 0701178922 Buck 2 life-writing How to Live is a fairly conventional biography that could have been written at any time in the last fifty years or so. The author comes across as an over-earnest popularizer: "See, kids? Isn’t Montaigne cool? Now I’m going to tell you about the St. Bartholomew’s Day massacre, which is also super interesting. But first we have to go all the way back to the Reformation. Can anyone tell me what the Reformation was...?" Ugh. I may be an idiot, but I’m not twelve.

OTOH, thanks to this book, I can now add Montaigne to my mental list of writers whose penises were probably smaller than mine. So far, it’s just him and poor old Malcolm Lowry, but new candidates are always welcome. Send photos.
]]>
3.97 2010 How to Live: A Life of Montaigne in One Question and Twenty Attempts at an Answer
author: Sarah Bakewell
name: Buck
average rating: 3.97
book published: 2010
rating: 2
read at:
date added: 2012/01/15
shelves: life-writing
review:
I dunno. I was expecting something a little jazzier, a little more hip to the jive. The title and subtitle seem to promise a searching, po-mo genre bender, but How to Live is a fairly conventional biography that could have been written at any time in the last fifty years or so. The author comes across as an over-earnest popularizer: "See, kids? Isn’t Montaigne cool? Now I’m going to tell you about the St. Bartholomew’s Day massacre, which is also super interesting. But first we have to go all the way back to the Reformation. Can anyone tell me what the Reformation was...?" Ugh. I may be an idiot, but I’m not twelve.

OTOH, thanks to this book, I can now add Montaigne to my mental list of writers whose penises were probably smaller than mine. So far, it’s just him and poor old Malcolm Lowry, but new candidates are always welcome. Send photos.

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<![CDATA[Widower's Houses: An Unpleasant Play]]> 12163538 72 George Bernard Shaw 1144732778 Buck 2 histrionics 2.82 1893 Widower's Houses: An Unpleasant Play
author: George Bernard Shaw
name: Buck
average rating: 2.82
book published: 1893
rating: 2
read at:
date added: 2011/12/20
shelves: histrionics
review:

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Arms and the Man 383018 Arms and the Man is a comedy written by George Bernard Shaw, first produced in 1894 and published in 1898. It has become one of the most popular of his plays. Like his other works, Arms and the Man questions conventional values, and it uses war and love as targets for satire.]]> 116 George Bernard Shaw 1599869209 Buck 3 histrionics 3.84 1898 Arms and the Man
author: George Bernard Shaw
name: Buck
average rating: 3.84
book published: 1898
rating: 3
read at:
date added: 2011/12/04
shelves: histrionics
review:

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<![CDATA[Memoirs of Duc de Saint-Simon, 1691-1709: Presented to the King (Memoirs of Duc de Saint-Simon: A Shortened Version, #1)]]> 1439339 Wit, humor, vitriol and pageantry -- the necessary hallmarks for a peer at the French court also deliver a great reading experience. Saint-Simon regales us with an irreverent insider's view of his more than 30 years at court, from the later days of Louis XIV to the ascension of Louis XV. All the plays for power, sex, position and money by friends, enemies, nobles and others are here, with Saint-Simon's fascinating, and brutally honest, assessment of any situation.

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536 1933698144 Buck 4 life-writing 4.06 1755 Memoirs of Duc de Saint-Simon, 1691-1709: Presented to the King (Memoirs of Duc de Saint-Simon: A Shortened Version, #1)
author: Louis de Rouvroy de Saint-Simon
name: Buck
average rating: 4.06
book published: 1755
rating: 4
read at:
date added: 2011/12/04
shelves: life-writing
review:

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Ethiopia: Bradt Travel Guide 6018767 Ethiopia is the most thorough guide available to this country rich in culture, history and dramatic scenery, and has been highly praised by both travel press and readers.

‘Thorough and reassuring, it provides all the practical and background information to make readers leap from their armchairs and visit this vast, magical country�
The Daily Telegraph (UK)]]>
614 Philip Briggs 1841622842 Buck 0 to-read 4.58 1995 Ethiopia: Bradt Travel Guide
author: Philip Briggs
name: Buck
average rating: 4.58
book published: 1995
rating: 0
read at:
date added: 2011/12/03
shelves: to-read
review:

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Fred Herzog: Photographs 11713324 192 Fred Herzog 3775728112 Buck 4 photography
So it’s ironic that, for my sins or whatever, I find myself living in Vancouver, which is basically the anti-Toronto. For those unfamiliar with my fractious little wine-and-cheese party of a country, the antagonism between these two cities recapitulates, on a farcically small scale, the old family quarrel between New York and LA. Toronto represents the go-getting older brother, smug and self-absorbed (in a notorious marketing campaign years ago, the city dubbed itself ‘the centre of the universe�). Vancouver would be the laidback younger sibling who spends his days getting stoned and playing the odd game of clothing-optional Hacky Sack. A grotesque caricature, some might say, but it’s true, I tell you, absolutely true.

I'll never love Vancouver, but if I ever come to accept its maddening quirks, the photography of Fred Herzog will deserve some credit. What Eugène Atget did for old Paris, Herzog did for the Vancouver of the 50s and 60s. As an immigrant from post-war Germany, Herzog brought to the New World an outsider’s capacity for surprise, along with a certain innate cussedness. From the very beginning, he stubbornly turned his back on the city’s showier splendours: the ocean, mountains and majestic firs � all that postcard crap. Instead, he plunged into the gritty, human side of what was still a blue-collar port town - a town just nicely dipping its toes in the bracing waters of modernism:



Another smart move he made early on was to invest in a newfangled Kodak Retina I, which allowed him to work in vibrant, big-ass colour at a time when most ‘artistic� photographers remained prudishly dichromatic.



Herzog's best photographs are crammed with information -- and often with signs in the most literal sense -- but they're also tinged with mystery. They seem to call out for interpretations which they then coyly refuse. Either the drama has just happened, elsewhere:



Or it's unfolding before our eyes, but in some inscrutable, offhand way:



See, you could write a whole essay about that picture, but why bother? It's already a visual essay in itself.

I’m happy to report that Fred Herzog is still alive and living in Vancouver, and that he's finally enjoying some belated recognition. It’s trippy to think that this modest genius is out there somewhere, walking the same streets I do � but seeing so much more than I ever will.
]]>
4.39 2007 Fred Herzog: Photographs
author: Fred Herzog
name: Buck
average rating: 4.39
book published: 2007
rating: 4
read at:
date added: 2011/11/27
shelves: photography
review:
I don’t have many Canadian friends here on ŷ, so I’ll just come out and say it: for me, Canada consists of a few square kilometers of downtown Toronto. The rest is just flyover country, an endless hinterland dotted with Tim Hortons outlets and populated by extras from some unwatchable CBC drama.

So it’s ironic that, for my sins or whatever, I find myself living in Vancouver, which is basically the anti-Toronto. For those unfamiliar with my fractious little wine-and-cheese party of a country, the antagonism between these two cities recapitulates, on a farcically small scale, the old family quarrel between New York and LA. Toronto represents the go-getting older brother, smug and self-absorbed (in a notorious marketing campaign years ago, the city dubbed itself ‘the centre of the universe�). Vancouver would be the laidback younger sibling who spends his days getting stoned and playing the odd game of clothing-optional Hacky Sack. A grotesque caricature, some might say, but it’s true, I tell you, absolutely true.

I'll never love Vancouver, but if I ever come to accept its maddening quirks, the photography of Fred Herzog will deserve some credit. What Eugène Atget did for old Paris, Herzog did for the Vancouver of the 50s and 60s. As an immigrant from post-war Germany, Herzog brought to the New World an outsider’s capacity for surprise, along with a certain innate cussedness. From the very beginning, he stubbornly turned his back on the city’s showier splendours: the ocean, mountains and majestic firs � all that postcard crap. Instead, he plunged into the gritty, human side of what was still a blue-collar port town - a town just nicely dipping its toes in the bracing waters of modernism:



Another smart move he made early on was to invest in a newfangled Kodak Retina I, which allowed him to work in vibrant, big-ass colour at a time when most ‘artistic� photographers remained prudishly dichromatic.



Herzog's best photographs are crammed with information -- and often with signs in the most literal sense -- but they're also tinged with mystery. They seem to call out for interpretations which they then coyly refuse. Either the drama has just happened, elsewhere:



Or it's unfolding before our eyes, but in some inscrutable, offhand way:



See, you could write a whole essay about that picture, but why bother? It's already a visual essay in itself.

I’m happy to report that Fred Herzog is still alive and living in Vancouver, and that he's finally enjoying some belated recognition. It’s trippy to think that this modest genius is out there somewhere, walking the same streets I do � but seeing so much more than I ever will.

]]>
War 7519640
Now, Junger turns his brilliant and empathetic eye to the reality of combat--the fear, the honor, and the trust among men in an extreme situation whose survival depends on their absolute commitment to one another. His on-the-ground account follows a single platoon through a 15-month tour of duty in the most dangerous outpost in Afghanistan's Korengal Valley. Through the experiences of these young men at war, he shows what it means to fight, to serve, and to face down mortal danger on a daily basis.]]>
304 Sebastian Junger 0446556246 Buck 3 pro-patria-mori The Devil Wears Prada or something. You want to jump up and shout, “But we’re not all like that. Or if we are, we’re not like that all the time.�

In a way, though, War isn’t a bad advertisement for what used to be called the masculine virtues. The men profiled here are incredibly brave, thrillingly competent and, within the confines of their unit, totally accountable. In other words, they’re sort of what your dad was like before you got to know him better. Except that these guys are twenty-year-old kids, for the most part. In that respect, the book is also a pretty good advertisement for the US army, which, say what you will, still knows how to turn borderline delinquents into very fine soldiers.

Of course, there’s a big OTOH looming here. If the army straightened these young men out to some extent—many were just a drinking binge away from prison when they signed up�15 months in a combat zone, amid a tiny, inward-looking fraternity, has pretty much ruined them for anything else. Most of them are smart and self-aware enough to realize this, but helpless to do anything about it.

Maybe the scariest insight provided by War isn’t that combat is horrific—we already knew that—but that it’s dangerously seductive. Deep down, many soldiers simply love to fight. Well, “simply� is the wrong word: there’s a ton of fear and guilt mixed in, but like any twisted relationship, this one's based on a perverse attraction. As Junger puts it:

War is a big and sprawling word that brings a lot of human suffering into the conversation, but combat is different. Combat is the smaller game that young men fall in love with, and any solution to the human problem of war will have to take into account the psyches of these young men…These hillsides of loose shale and holly trees are where the men feel not most alive—that you can get skydiving—but the most utilized. The most necessary. The most clear and certain and purposeful. If young men could get that feeling at home, no one would ever want to go to war again, but they can’t.

Speaking as a formerly young man, I think that's a pretty astute observation. Then again, I’ve never fired a shot in anger with anything more powerful than a squirt gun, so what do I know?

I hate to get all effete and artsy-fartsy about such a manly book, but War does have one or two aesthetic shortcomings. I came to it fresh from Rebecca West’s Black Lamb and Grey Falcon, which is basically the K2 of literary non-fiction, so I was sometimes frustrated by Junger’s pedestrian prose, which goes hand with his journalistic matter-of-factness. There’s nothing wrong with journalism—and only a truly hardcore journalist would even consider spending a year in the shittiest shithole in all of Afghanistan—but I can’t help wondering what a Rebecca West or, better yet, a DFW would’ve done with this material. Granted, the result would’ve been a 1000-page behemoth replete with footnotes and obsessive ruminations on PCV tubing or whatever, but it just might have represented some kind of definitive summa of our times.

One more thing. It may or may not be relevant, but my mom just borrowed War from me. This is alarming for a number of reasons, none of which I'll go into now. She thinks it's pretty cool, in case you're wondering. I kinda doubt she’s looking for a “definitive summa of our times�, though, so take that into account.
]]>
4.23 2010 War
author: Sebastian Junger
name: Buck
average rating: 4.23
book published: 2010
rating: 3
read at:
date added: 2011/08/26
shelves: pro-patria-mori
review:
Another reviewer on here said wryly that this book taught her a lot about men. A valid reaction, but it still made me wince. It’s as if I were to say I’d learned a lot about women from, like, The Devil Wears Prada or something. You want to jump up and shout, “But we’re not all like that. Or if we are, we’re not like that all the time.�

In a way, though, War isn’t a bad advertisement for what used to be called the masculine virtues. The men profiled here are incredibly brave, thrillingly competent and, within the confines of their unit, totally accountable. In other words, they’re sort of what your dad was like before you got to know him better. Except that these guys are twenty-year-old kids, for the most part. In that respect, the book is also a pretty good advertisement for the US army, which, say what you will, still knows how to turn borderline delinquents into very fine soldiers.

Of course, there’s a big OTOH looming here. If the army straightened these young men out to some extent—many were just a drinking binge away from prison when they signed up�15 months in a combat zone, amid a tiny, inward-looking fraternity, has pretty much ruined them for anything else. Most of them are smart and self-aware enough to realize this, but helpless to do anything about it.

Maybe the scariest insight provided by War isn’t that combat is horrific—we already knew that—but that it’s dangerously seductive. Deep down, many soldiers simply love to fight. Well, “simply� is the wrong word: there’s a ton of fear and guilt mixed in, but like any twisted relationship, this one's based on a perverse attraction. As Junger puts it:

War is a big and sprawling word that brings a lot of human suffering into the conversation, but combat is different. Combat is the smaller game that young men fall in love with, and any solution to the human problem of war will have to take into account the psyches of these young men…These hillsides of loose shale and holly trees are where the men feel not most alive—that you can get skydiving—but the most utilized. The most necessary. The most clear and certain and purposeful. If young men could get that feeling at home, no one would ever want to go to war again, but they can’t.

Speaking as a formerly young man, I think that's a pretty astute observation. Then again, I’ve never fired a shot in anger with anything more powerful than a squirt gun, so what do I know?

I hate to get all effete and artsy-fartsy about such a manly book, but War does have one or two aesthetic shortcomings. I came to it fresh from Rebecca West’s Black Lamb and Grey Falcon, which is basically the K2 of literary non-fiction, so I was sometimes frustrated by Junger’s pedestrian prose, which goes hand with his journalistic matter-of-factness. There’s nothing wrong with journalism—and only a truly hardcore journalist would even consider spending a year in the shittiest shithole in all of Afghanistan—but I can’t help wondering what a Rebecca West or, better yet, a DFW would’ve done with this material. Granted, the result would’ve been a 1000-page behemoth replete with footnotes and obsessive ruminations on PCV tubing or whatever, but it just might have represented some kind of definitive summa of our times.

One more thing. It may or may not be relevant, but my mom just borrowed War from me. This is alarming for a number of reasons, none of which I'll go into now. She thinks it's pretty cool, in case you're wondering. I kinda doubt she’s looking for a “definitive summa of our times�, though, so take that into account.

]]>
<![CDATA[Public Enemies: Dueling Writers Take On Each Other and the World]]> 6775123
In one corner, Bernard-Henri Lévy, creator of the classic Barbarism with a Human Face, dismissed by the media as a wealthy, self-promoting, arrogant do-gooder. In the other, Michel Houellebecq, bestselling author of The Elementary Particles, widely derided as a sex-obsessed racist and misogynist. What began as a secret correspondence between bitter enemies evolved into a remarkable joint personal meditation by France’s premier literary and political live wires. An instant international bestseller, Public Enemies has now been translated into English for all lovers of superb insights, scandalous opinions, and iconoclastic ideas.

In wicked, wide-ranging, and freewheeling letters, the two self-described “whipping boys� debate whether they crave disgrace or secretly have an insane desire to please. Lévy extols heroism in the face of tyranny; Houellebecq sees himself as one who would “fight little and badly.� Lévy says “life does not ‘live’� unless he can write; Houellebecq bemoans work as leaving him in such “a state of nervous exhaustion that it takes several bottles of alcohol to get out.� There are also touching and intimate exchanges on the existence of God and about their own families.

Dazzling, delightful, and provocative, Public Enemies is a death match between literary lions, remarkable men who find common ground, confident that, in the end (as Lévy puts it), “it is we who will come out on top.”]]>
320 Bernard-Henri Lévy 0812980786 Buck 3 3.39 2008 Public Enemies: Dueling Writers Take On Each Other and the World
author: Bernard-Henri Lévy
name: Buck
average rating: 3.39
book published: 2008
rating: 3
read at:
date added: 2011/08/10
shelves:
review:
Try to put aside all the extra-literary tittle-tattle surrounding Houellebecq and BHL, and just enjoy this one for what it is: a couple of super-smart, hyper-articulate guys talkin' about stuff. To that extent, it's really good. 3.5 stars, as the neurotic sticklers say.
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<![CDATA[Bowstring: On the Dissimilarity of the Similar (Russian Literature)]]> 9539552 467 Victor Shklovsky 1564784258 Buck 0 to-read 4.40 1970 Bowstring: On the Dissimilarity of the Similar (Russian Literature)
author: Victor Shklovsky
name: Buck
average rating: 4.40
book published: 1970
rating: 0
read at:
date added: 2011/06/05
shelves: to-read
review:

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Crimea: The Last Crusade 8250991 608 Orlando Figes 0713997044 Buck 0 to-read 4.00 2010 Crimea: The Last Crusade
author: Orlando Figes
name: Buck
average rating: 4.00
book published: 2010
rating: 0
read at:
date added: 2011/05/24
shelves: to-read
review:

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Scribbling the Cat 83477 272 Alexandra Fuller 0330433997 Buck 0 to-read 3.80 2004 Scribbling the Cat
author: Alexandra Fuller
name: Buck
average rating: 3.80
book published: 2004
rating: 0
read at:
date added: 2011/05/20
shelves: to-read
review:

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<![CDATA[Continental Divide: Heidegger, Cassirer, Davos]]> 8013180
Over the last eighty years the Davos encounter has acquired an allegorical significance, as if it marked an ultimate and irreparable rupture in twentieth-century Continental thought. Here, in a reconstruction at once historical and philosophical, Peter Gordon reexamines the conversation, its origins and its aftermath, resuscitating an event that has become entombed in its own mythology. Through a close and painstaking analysis, Gordon dissects the exchange itself to reveal that it was at core a philosophical disagreement over what it means to be human.

But Gordon also shows how the life and work of these two philosophers remained closely intertwined. Their disagreement can be understood only if we appreciate their common point of departure as thinkers of the German interwar crisis, an era of rebellion that touched all of the major philosophical movements of the day life-philosophy, philosophical anthropology, neo-Kantianism, phenomenology, and existentialism. As Gordon explains, the Davos debate would continue to both inspire and provoke well after the two men had gone their separate ways. It remains, even today, a touchstone of philosophical memory.

This clear, riveting book will be of great interest not only to philosophers and to historians of philosophy but also to anyone interested in the great intellectual ferment of Europe s interwar years."]]>
448 Peter E. Gordon 0674047133 Buck 0 to-read 4.22 2010 Continental Divide: Heidegger, Cassirer, Davos
author: Peter E. Gordon
name: Buck
average rating: 4.22
book published: 2010
rating: 0
read at:
date added: 2011/05/01
shelves: to-read
review:

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<![CDATA[Bourgeois Dignity: Why Economics Can't Explain the Modern World]]> 9231119 The big economic story of our times is not the Great Recession. It is how China and India began to embrace neoliberal ideas of economics and attributed a sense of dignity and liberty to the bourgeoisie they had denied for so long. The result was an explosion in economic growth and proof that economic change depends less on foreign trade, investment, or material causes, and a whole lot more on ideas and what people believe.

Or so says Deirdre N. McCloskey in Bourgeois Dignity, a fiercely contrarian history that wages a similar argument about economics in the West. Here she turns her attention to seventeenth- and eighteenth-century Europe to reconsider the birth of the industrial revolution and the rise of capitalism. According to McCloskey, our modern world was not the product of new markets and innovations, but rather the result of shifting opinions about them. During this time, talk of private property, commerce, and even the bourgeoisie itself radically altered, becoming far more approving and flying in the face of prejudices several millennia old. The wealth of nations, then, didn’t grow so dramatically because of economic factors: it grew because rhetoric about markets and free enterprise finally became enthusiastic and encouraging of their inherent dignity.

An utterly fascinating sequel to her critically acclaimed book The Bourgeois Virtues, Bourgeois Dignity is a feast of intellectual riches from one of our most spirited and ambitious historians—a work that will forever change our understanding of how the power of persuasion shapes our economic lives.

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592 Deirdre Nansen McCloskey 0226556654 Buck 2 dismal-science
This is what Deirdre McCloskey calls the “Great Fact� or simply the “Fact�: i.e. that almost all of us, pretty much across the board, have gotten filthy rich in the last two-hundred years. Since 1800 or so, incomes in the developed world have increased by something like 1500%. Probably much more, in fact, if we could measure the real value of things like Internet access and air conditioning. And contrary to what Michael Moore may have told you, it’s not just those cigar-chomping plutocrats who’ve benefited. Everybody else has made out alright, too. Whereas the poor of two hundred years ago were sometimes reduced to eating grass, the poor of today are reduced to eating KFC Double Downs: a culinary disaster, if you like, but an economic miracle.

To hear McCloskey tell it, no reputable economist disputes the Fact, not even the odd Marxist who’s still skulking around Berkeley. The question is: why? Why did incomes suddenly start shooting up 200 years ago, first in Britain and Holland, then in New England and France, and finally across much of the world? This, apparently, is one of the great white whales of economic history: everybody from Karl Marx to Karl Polanyi has tried to harpoon the sucker. In Bourgeois Dignity, McCloskey examines each theory in turn and patiently explains why it’s total, irredeemable bullshit; then she peddles her own theory. Basically, she says the bourgeoisie did it � or more accurately, a liberated bourgeoisie that was finally empowered to let loose its innovations and creative destruction on the world.

Now, being a largely innumerate English major, I have to take McCloskey’s statistics on faith, but my mushy, liberal-arts-fed brain tells me there’s something to this idea of hers. And then, being an aspiring member of what Keynes used to call the “educated bourgeoisie,� I’m flattered by it. It appeals to my class pride. We created modernity. Fuck, yeah.

I wish I could recommend Bourgeois Dignity to the many Naomi Klein fans I know, just as a neoliberal counterweight. Unfortunately, this isn’t the book ٳ󲹳’s finally going to persuade them to get off the bong and go start an IT company. It could have been that book, if it didn’t suffer from some weird chemical imbalance that makes it alternately brilliant and tedious, insightful and repetitive, like that under-medicated guy at the donut shop ranting about the Arian heresy. The cliché that socialism looks great on paper but falls down in practice can be inverted with neoliberalism: it works okay in practice (except when it doesn't), but the theory is homely as all get-out. Meaning, it's prosaic and flawed, but fundamentally right. The way I see it—and I'm comparing great things with small here—is that 20th-century humanity found itself in roughly the same position as Eric Stoltz in Some Kind of Wonderful: faced with two very different visions of the future, we chose the Mary Stuart Masterson of capitalist democracy, which was the right call, but we're collectively haunted by an inner voice that says, "Man, you totally could have banged Lea Thompson." I'd still like to think there's a Molly Ringwald of radical centrism out there somewhere, but that's a whole different movie.
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4.13 2010 Bourgeois Dignity: Why Economics Can't Explain the Modern World
author: Deirdre Nansen McCloskey
name: Buck
average rating: 4.13
book published: 2010
rating: 2
read at:
date added: 2011/04/24
shelves: dismal-science
review:
My ancestors were illiterate peasants living in their own filth. But ٳ󲹳’s okay � so were yours, and you probably don’t have to go back very far to find them (mine crawled out of the rural idiocy of the Scottish Highlands a mere six or seven generations ago). Unless you happen to be reading this in, say, sub-Saharan Africa, you are enormously, fantastically richer than your great-great-grandparents ever dreamed of being. Even if your Visa card is maxed out and your �92 Honda Accord is emitting its death rattle, you’re immeasurably better off than your forebears. Why? Among other reasons: because you can read and write; because you aren’t going to die of starvation or malaria or while giving birth to your tenth underweight child; because you have a cell phone in your pocket and Skechers on your feet and, just maybe, in spite of your “poverty�, a 36-inch Sony flat screen in your living room.

This is what Deirdre McCloskey calls the “Great Fact� or simply the “Fact�: i.e. that almost all of us, pretty much across the board, have gotten filthy rich in the last two-hundred years. Since 1800 or so, incomes in the developed world have increased by something like 1500%. Probably much more, in fact, if we could measure the real value of things like Internet access and air conditioning. And contrary to what Michael Moore may have told you, it’s not just those cigar-chomping plutocrats who’ve benefited. Everybody else has made out alright, too. Whereas the poor of two hundred years ago were sometimes reduced to eating grass, the poor of today are reduced to eating KFC Double Downs: a culinary disaster, if you like, but an economic miracle.

To hear McCloskey tell it, no reputable economist disputes the Fact, not even the odd Marxist who’s still skulking around Berkeley. The question is: why? Why did incomes suddenly start shooting up 200 years ago, first in Britain and Holland, then in New England and France, and finally across much of the world? This, apparently, is one of the great white whales of economic history: everybody from Karl Marx to Karl Polanyi has tried to harpoon the sucker. In Bourgeois Dignity, McCloskey examines each theory in turn and patiently explains why it’s total, irredeemable bullshit; then she peddles her own theory. Basically, she says the bourgeoisie did it � or more accurately, a liberated bourgeoisie that was finally empowered to let loose its innovations and creative destruction on the world.

Now, being a largely innumerate English major, I have to take McCloskey’s statistics on faith, but my mushy, liberal-arts-fed brain tells me there’s something to this idea of hers. And then, being an aspiring member of what Keynes used to call the “educated bourgeoisie,� I’m flattered by it. It appeals to my class pride. We created modernity. Fuck, yeah.

I wish I could recommend Bourgeois Dignity to the many Naomi Klein fans I know, just as a neoliberal counterweight. Unfortunately, this isn’t the book ٳ󲹳’s finally going to persuade them to get off the bong and go start an IT company. It could have been that book, if it didn’t suffer from some weird chemical imbalance that makes it alternately brilliant and tedious, insightful and repetitive, like that under-medicated guy at the donut shop ranting about the Arian heresy. The cliché that socialism looks great on paper but falls down in practice can be inverted with neoliberalism: it works okay in practice (except when it doesn't), but the theory is homely as all get-out. Meaning, it's prosaic and flawed, but fundamentally right. The way I see it—and I'm comparing great things with small here—is that 20th-century humanity found itself in roughly the same position as Eric Stoltz in Some Kind of Wonderful: faced with two very different visions of the future, we chose the Mary Stuart Masterson of capitalist democracy, which was the right call, but we're collectively haunted by an inner voice that says, "Man, you totally could have banged Lea Thompson." I'd still like to think there's a Molly Ringwald of radical centrism out there somewhere, but that's a whole different movie.

]]>
<![CDATA[The Big Short: Inside the Doomsday Machine]]> 6463967
Michael Lewis creates a fresh, character-driven narrative brimming with indignation and dark humor, a fitting sequel to his #1 bestseller Liar's Poker. Out of a handful of unlikely-really unlikely-heroes, Lewis fashions a story as compelling and unusual as any of his earlier bestsellers, proving yet again that he is the finest and funniest chronicler of our time.]]>
264 Michael Lewis 0393072231 Buck 3 dismal-science 4.20 2010 The Big Short: Inside the Doomsday Machine
author: Michael Lewis
name: Buck
average rating: 4.20
book published: 2010
rating: 3
read at:
date added: 2011/04/24
shelves: dismal-science
review:

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<![CDATA[Nothing to Envy: Ordinary Lives in North Korea]]> 6178648 Nothing to Envy follows the lives of six North Koreans over fifteen years—a chaotic period that saw the death of Kim Il-sung, the unchallenged rise to power of his son Kim Jong-il, and the devastation of a far-ranging famine that killed one-fifth of the population.

Taking us into a landscape most of us have never before seen, award-winning journalist Barbara Demick brings to life what it means to be living under the most repressive totalitarian regime today—an Orwellian world that is by choice not connected to the Internet, in which radio and television dials are welded to the one government station, and where displays of affection are punished; a police state where informants are rewarded and where an offhand remark can send a person to the gulag for life.

Demick takes us deep inside the country, beyond the reach of government censors. Through meticulous and sensitive reporting, we see her six subjects—average North Korean citizens—fall in love, raise families, nurture ambitions, and struggle for survival. One by one, we experience the moments when they realize that their government has betrayed them.

Nothing to Envy is a groundbreaking addition to the literature of totalitarianism and an eye-opening look at a closed world that is of increasing global importance.]]>
316 Barbara Demick 0385523904 Buck 4 in-captivity 4.43 2009 Nothing to Envy: Ordinary Lives in North Korea
author: Barbara Demick
name: Buck
average rating: 4.43
book published: 2009
rating: 4
read at:
date added: 2011/04/24
shelves: in-captivity
review:

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The Waste Books 984015
Lichtenberg's Waste Books have been greatly admired by writers as very different as Tolstoy, Einstein, and Andre Breton, while Nietzsche and Wittgenstein acknowledged them as a significant inspiration for their own radical work in philosophy. The record of a brilliant and subtle mind in action, The Waste Books are above all a powerful testament to the necessity, and pleasure, of unfettered thought.]]>
264 Georg Christoph Lichtenberg 0940322501 Buck 4 4.12 1799 The Waste Books
author: Georg Christoph Lichtenberg
name: Buck
average rating: 4.12
book published: 1799
rating: 4
read at:
date added: 2011/03/21
shelves:
review:

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Elementary Latin Dictionary 443249 952 Charlton Thomas Lewis 0199102058 Buck 4 Elementary Latin Dictionary was first published in 1890. My edition, picked up for pocket change at a university book sale, dates from 1915. Aside from an ancient ink blot on the cover and a wonky spine, it’s still in remarkably good condition. (Will your Kindle last 96 years?) On the flyleaf, written in careful, ladylike script, are two names: Gertrude Fuller and Catherine Canfield, of 38 Allbright House and 91 Elm St., respectively. Canfield has added �18 after her name, presumably her graduation date. (Just think: when my dictionary was being toted around in these young ladies� satchels, women couldn’t even vote yet. The mind does that mysterious thing: it boggles.)

I feel for this book the curious affection that better-adjusted men have for their cars or boats. Its thoroughness, authoritativeness and all-around awesomeness mark it as a product of 19th-century scholarship, as the work of grave gentlemen with chinstrap beards hanging from their sternly-clenched jaws. As far as I know, the ELD has never been bettered. Other dictionaries may be more complete and scholarly, but for the student and amateur Latinist—all four of us—this is still the go-to resource. What makes it so indispensable is its semantic discrimination: it recognizes the figurative and idiomatic uses that cheaper modern dictionaries tend to leave out. An example: every first-year Latin student knows the verb ferre, meaning to bear or carry. The problem is, when you’re reading an actual Latin author, this ‘head� definition will be misleading or inapplicable half the time, because over the centuries the word gathered a thick encrustation of metaphorical meanings (e.g. to be pregnant, to plunder, to suffer, to say etc.) The ELD includes such pesky usages and gives illustrative citations from Caesar, Virgil and the rest. Often enough, the very sentence you’re bashing your head against will turn up in the relevant entry, as an example of some peculiar nuance. I can’t tell you how soothing that is. It makes you feel a little less dense, a little less linguicidal.

Wow, that really happened: I just spent a whole afternoon writing about a century-old Latin dictionary. Now I know what my dad was talking about when he wondered why I couldn’t be more like other boys.
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4.18 1963 Elementary Latin Dictionary
author: Charlton Thomas Lewis
name: Buck
average rating: 4.18
book published: 1963
rating: 4
read at:
date added: 2011/03/21
shelves: self-congratulatory-multilingual
review:
The Elementary Latin Dictionary was first published in 1890. My edition, picked up for pocket change at a university book sale, dates from 1915. Aside from an ancient ink blot on the cover and a wonky spine, it’s still in remarkably good condition. (Will your Kindle last 96 years?) On the flyleaf, written in careful, ladylike script, are two names: Gertrude Fuller and Catherine Canfield, of 38 Allbright House and 91 Elm St., respectively. Canfield has added �18 after her name, presumably her graduation date. (Just think: when my dictionary was being toted around in these young ladies� satchels, women couldn’t even vote yet. The mind does that mysterious thing: it boggles.)

I feel for this book the curious affection that better-adjusted men have for their cars or boats. Its thoroughness, authoritativeness and all-around awesomeness mark it as a product of 19th-century scholarship, as the work of grave gentlemen with chinstrap beards hanging from their sternly-clenched jaws. As far as I know, the ELD has never been bettered. Other dictionaries may be more complete and scholarly, but for the student and amateur Latinist—all four of us—this is still the go-to resource. What makes it so indispensable is its semantic discrimination: it recognizes the figurative and idiomatic uses that cheaper modern dictionaries tend to leave out. An example: every first-year Latin student knows the verb ferre, meaning to bear or carry. The problem is, when you’re reading an actual Latin author, this ‘head� definition will be misleading or inapplicable half the time, because over the centuries the word gathered a thick encrustation of metaphorical meanings (e.g. to be pregnant, to plunder, to suffer, to say etc.) The ELD includes such pesky usages and gives illustrative citations from Caesar, Virgil and the rest. Often enough, the very sentence you’re bashing your head against will turn up in the relevant entry, as an example of some peculiar nuance. I can’t tell you how soothing that is. It makes you feel a little less dense, a little less linguicidal.

Wow, that really happened: I just spent a whole afternoon writing about a century-old Latin dictionary. Now I know what my dad was talking about when he wondered why I couldn’t be more like other boys.

]]>