Kurt Brindley's Blog, page 142

The Past, the Present, and the Future walk into a bar…

 

 

 

It was tense.

 

#internetspotting

#grammarhumor

 

 

Filed under: Humor Tagged: authors, grammar, grammar humor, Internet, internetspotting, jokes, writers, writing

Bookies on the Books

The Nobel Prize for Literature will be announced next week and the Wall Street Journal is reporting that the odds makers are making noise for the usual suspects.

Of course we all know it’s all just a guessing-game (as most gambling is) as to who will win, a game depending on the author and scholars who make up the selection panel, and, unfortunately, the international politics at play.

That said, still it’s fun to guess. Here are some of the odds:

Haruki Murakami is the favorite at 5 to 1

Joyce Carol Oates is at 12 to 1

Philip Roth is at 16 to 1

Thomas Pynchon is at 25 to 1

Don DeLillo is at 33 to 1

Richard Ford is also at 33 to 1

Cormac McCarthy, Salman Rushdie, and Bob Dylan are all at 50 to 1

I don’t think I’ve ever read a winner before he or she had been announced (or too many thereafter, either). My reading list is way too full of dead authors that I’m supposed to read so it’s darn near impossible to find time for the living ones I’m also supposed to read.

But I have read many on the list here and I personally like Oates (at least she’s interesting on Twitter — but I’d guess her chances are diminished somewhat since a woman was chosen last year).

However, when considering this list along with the politics du jour, I’d have to go with Murakami, even though (especially since?) they have recently awarded an Asian writer, Mo Yan from China, which was highly politicized.

But the recently aggressive China and somewhat recently humbled (the past couple decades anyway) Japan have been going at it pretty good lately, so this might be a chance for the Nobel Prize pickers to stick it in China’s government’s eye again.

Unfortunately, I have no idea if there are any contending Ukrainian, Iranian, Uighur, or any other writers from politically sensitive countries.

But, I’m looking forward to finding out who the winner will be…and the sure-to-come guilty letdown I’ll get when I realize it’s yet another writer I have never read.

Filed under: Books, Literary Tagged: China, Haruki Murakami, Iran, Japan, Joyce Carol Oates, Mo Yan, Nobel Prize for Literature, Philip Roth, politics, Thomas Pynchon, Ukraine, writing

My Crime, My Punishment

BOOK | FICTION | LITERATURE

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT

by Fyodor Dostoevsky

RATING: ★ ★ ★

Fyodor Dostoevsky

My crime?

Posing myself as a Fyodor Dostoevsky fanboy for just about all my adult life.

Why is this a crime?

Because, in all honesty, I never really read Dostoevsky…until recently.

Well, I did pass my eyes over all the words of his NOTES FROM THE UNDERGROUND (some editions translate it as LETTERS FROM THE UNDERWORLD) back in my early twenties.

But as an early twenty-something, I didn’t stand a chance with Dostoevsky seeing that research has proven at that age brains aren’t yet fully developed. For all intents and purposes, according to science, someone in their early to mid twenties is still an adolescent. Which, in retrospect, explains many things about my life. And which begs the question, how can someone without a fully developed prefrontal cortex truly appreciate or fully comprehend something as complex and nuanced as Dostoevsky’s writing?

As I’ve come to find out, even with a fully developed prefrontal cortex Dostoevsky is still rather overwhelming and abstruse.

Unlike Franz Kafka, who I also first read in my early twenties, I never went back to Dostoevsky over the years. I don’t know why. Perhaps my adolescent twenty-something self did understand more of what he read than I now give him credit for. But over the years, I did revisit Kafka’s work – often – and his writing has been, and continues to be, what I consider a foundational pillar of my intellectual being (for better or worse). There are other writers, too, whom I consider foundational to my being. Writers such as Vonnegut, Hemingway, Kerouac, Camus (yes, all the stereotypical white male authors one would expect a stereotypical white male dude like me would admire), among others.

But even though I never went back to Dostoevsky, and even though I am quite sure my twenty-something adolescent self had no clue what the NOTES FROM THE UNDERGROUND was about, all throughout the years in my mind I regarded him to be just as fundamental to my core as the writers whom I just listed.

Again, I do not know why. Probably because, like I already confessed, I was just a poser who enjoyed thinking that he knew what the hell Dostoevsky was about.

In my defense, I don’t think I ever made a public spectacle of myself with any obnoxious proclamations of deep knowledge of his writings; nor did I ever engage in any self-righteous debates or arguments with someone who did know and understand Dostoevsky’s works.

No, I believe my fanboy-dom was not a public lie, it was more a self lie. Somehow, somewhere deep down in my subconsciousness I came to believe that Dostoevsky was important to me when in fact he wasn’t.

Only the idea of Dostoevsky was important to me.

That is my crime.

So what, then, is my punishment?

Guilt.

I feel tremendous guilt. For, after a lifetime of self-deception in believing that Dostoevsky’s work was deeply meaningful to me, I find that after rereading NOTES FROM THE UNDERGROUND (twice now) and finally reading CRIME AND PUNISHMENT, perhaps Dostoevsky’s most acclaimed work, I really do not enjoy his writing as much as I thought I did…or should.

What is wrong with me?

Much.

And in addition to my punishment of guilt, I fear I am about to feel the wrath from Dostoevsky’s worldwide, extremely devoted fan base (which includes amongst its global army none other than Pope Francis! I’m doomed…) for what I’m about to write.

Before I get into it, I’ll confess that I am quite certain any faults I find with Dostoevsky’s works are more than likely due to my lacking intellect than with him lacking any skill as a writer. (Hopefully that confession will subdue the wrath somewhat…but I doubt it.)

I’ll start out by saying that I truly enjoyed reading NOTES FROM THE UNDERGROUND, at least much more than I did CRIME AND PUNISHMENT. In fact, to me they are very similar in content and in feel — psychologically tormented, self-righteous, megalomaniac protagonists disillusioned by societal norms fall in love with young ladies of ill repute and take it upon themselves to attempt to reform the young ladies but in the end its the young ladies who reform the psychologically tormented, self-righteous, megalomaniac protagonists.

Okay, I admit that is a very superficial synopsis of both stories. And I also admit that it’s debatable whether the NOTES FROM THE UNDERGROUND protagonist was actually reformed at the end (but we do know he felt remorse for his behavior toward the young lady of ill repute and regretted denying her love).

That being said, it seems to me that NOTES FROM THE UNDERGROUND is what would be left of CRIME AND PUNISHMENT if CRIME AND PUNISHMENT had only been properly edited.

Now, I have no idea what the editing process was for the book; however, I do know that Dostoevsky was in debt for much of his writing life (due in part to an unfortunate gambling addiction and taking on the responsibility of caring for his brother’s family) and in an effort to make a quick buck he would whip out his books as fast as possible. Is this the cause for the book’s excessive use of words? Who’s to say?

However I will say CRIME AND PUNISHMENT is too long, much longer than it needs to be.

The beginning starts out great, though. The protagonist Raskolinkov is faced with a crime he feels compelled to commit: rid the world of an evil person through murder, steal her money and use the money to better himself, thereby bettering the world. He justifies his warped philosophical outlook on community service by comparing it to the actions of men like Napoleon. He believes that great men are not bound by societal norms, such as regarding murder as a crime. Had Napoleon not killed to meet his goals, he never would have been able to conquer Europe, assume the title of emperor, and implement the liberal reforms as he had. Raskolinkov believed that, like the Great Men of History, his act of murder would be justified by the great acts he would eventually perform.

Ends do justify the means.

The writing used to set this scene and to take us within the turmoil of Raskolinkov’s psychological debate within himself as he worked up the courage to commit the crime was both beautiful and genius.

It’s after this initial burst of beauty and genius that things get convoluted and overly expanded. It’s as if in the first one hundred pages or so Dostoevsky was channeled by Camus and displayed his exquisite tendency for existential starkness, and then for the next 350 pages he channeled Balzac and displayed his unfortunate tendency for excessive adornment.

In addition to being overly psychological and rambling, the book has too many characters, each overly psychological and rambling who, naturally, make the book even longer than it should be.

In my view, if Dostoevsky would have focused mostly on Raskolnikov and his psychological torment as a result of the crime he committed, as well as the trials and tribulations of his relationship with Sonia, the young lady of ill repute, then we would have a much better, less cluttered, far leaner book.

Instead we have to listen to the ramblings of ridiculous characters such as Porfiry, the story’s ridiculous detective — of course in a book dealing with murder there is a requirement for a detective but this guy has way too much dialogue, with too much of it not making much sense at all.

And he was strange, like he was trying to be Sherlock Holmes…but while performing as a circus clown.

I could go on listing characters who I believe could have been axed but I think my point has been made:

The book needs a good thrashing with a red pencil.

And what was with all the names? Do Russians really call a person by three different names all within the same block of narrative? If so, no wonder they seem so smart.

Speaking of names, I really like the name Raskolnikov. I have a habit of naming my pets after writers I like, but I think I’ll change up my convention a bit and name my next pet after him. Of course the pet would have his complete name: Rodion Romanovich Raskolnikov (which it seems in the book can be used in any order, or even each as a stand alone, if desired). But I would just call him “Raskol.” As in, “Here Raskol! Raskol! Bad Raskol!

Get it? Raskol, as in rascal?

Anyway…

Aside from its need for a trim, perhaps the biggest beef I have with the book is the ending.

**SPOILER ALERT**

Oh my God! We go through 400 pages or so of the back and forth and back and forth and back and forth of Raskolinkov’s psychological dilemma only to find out in that last few pages of this painfully dense tome that, through the love and dedication of Sonia, the young lady of ill repute, Raskolinkov, the psychologically tormented, self-righteous, megalomaniac protagonist, magically finds God and repents his sin. And we are led to believe that after he completes the seven years he has remaining on his Siberian sentence, he and his young lady of ill repute (formerly) will live happily ever after.

I about threw the book through the window after finishing it.

Look, I’ve nothing against finding God or for repenting one’s sins, but after putting me through over 450 pages of psychological madness, don’t give me some cheesy deus ex machina plot device at the book’s end.

I mean, come on.

That really hurt.

Okay, that’s enough. I’m already guilty in this article of what I accuse Dostoevsky of in CRIME AND PUNISHMENT:

Too many words.

So, to recap…

I committed the egregious crime of being a Dostoevsky poser and for fooling myself into thinking that he was important to my self development. My punishment for this crime is a lifetime of guilt for my foolish youthful false love since I now know, after having actually read his work, that he really isn’t all that I thought he was.

But there still must be a way for me to pay off my debt to society, right? There must be a way for me to reform myself so I can once again hold Dostoevsky in high regard?

Considering that I already confessed that any fault I find with Dostoevsky is probably due to my failings and not his, perhaps what I need to do is give him another chance. More specifically, I need to give CRIME AND PUNISHMENT another chance since I already said I enjoyed NOTES FROM THE UNDERGROUND and I’m already halfway through THE GAMBLER.

Maybe part of my problem with CRIME AND PUNISHMENT is not so much with Dostoevsky as it is with the translator. The edition I read was translated by Constance Garnett. From what I’ve discovered through a quick search is that the translation by the duo of Pevear and Volokhonsky is the way to go when it comes to reading Russian literature in English.

Maybe.

Maybe, after giving it some time and letting the book sink into my psyche for a while, I will revisit it again, this time reading Pevear and Volokhonsky’s translation.

Maybe (hopefully) their version comes with significantly less words.

~~~~

Rating System:

★ = Unreadable

★ ★ = Poor Read

★ ★ ★ = Average Read

★ ★ ★ ★ = Outstanding Read

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ = Exceptional Read
Filed under: Reviews Tagged: book reviews, brain development, crime, Crime and Punishment, Fyodor Dostoevsky, guilt, Notes from the Underground, punishment, Russan writers, Russian literature, The Gambler

#HONGKONG

 

 

#REVOLUTION

 

 

 

 

Filed under: China, Freedom Tagged: democracy, liberty, protest, revolution,

Life Is Mostly Understood

The door opened, finally; February’s unforgiving chill entered with him. He went straight to her and hugged her gently. After a noticed hesitation, she tried to return his affection. Neither spoke.

Neither spoke as he helped her with her coat. Neither spoke as he led her to the car. Neither spoke as they drove away.

Eventually, she spoke. “What are we going to do now?”

His grip tightened on the steering wheel. He stared hard at the road before him. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I-I don’t know. I thought it would make you…” She couldn’t hold back the sob.

He pushed the handle down to signal a turn, but the light changed. She thought he would run the light. But they stopped and they waited.

He watched the signal blinking behind the steering wheel.

She, crying in earnest now, watched him.

“Well…aren’t you?”

Only the blinking signal responded.

The light changed.

They made their turn.

Filed under: Flash Fiction Tagged: context, fiction, flash fiction, language, living, men, psychology, relationships, short stories, understanding, women, writing

If You Can’t Beat ‘Em…

Furthering the music discussion from a few posts down…

So now the New York Times is reporting that Radiohead frontman Thom Yorke is releasing his latest solo project, “Tomorrow’s Modern Boxes,” via BitTorrent for a mere six bucks.

BitTorrent will take 10% off the top and Yorke pockets the rest.

That’s right, the same band that seven years ago pretty much pioneered the act of giving away music.

Well, it wasn’t an actual giveaway, per se – the deal was, a fan could set whatever price he or she was willing to pay for the download.

So yeah, it essentially was a giveaway. I mean, come on…

I remember when Radiohead first made the news for their “set-your-price” gimmick. I remember thinking how off-the-wall it was. I also remember thinking that they’ll probably lose their shirts on it. However, I don’t remember why I never “purchased” the album for myself.

Probably forgot (I like them. They’re good. But their music has never motivated me enough to want to acquire it. Even if it’s free…apparently).

But, oh my garsh, the irony of Yorke’s latest gimmick, no?

Can you just imagine if this works, if Yorke creates a new music distribution model through BitTorrent, and, presumably, through other bit torrent services. I mean, we’re talking the same type of massive file sharing services — i.e., illegal download sites — that deserves most of the blame (credit?) for crushing the legacy music industry into unrecognizable pebble dust.

And it just may work — according to the Times article, there have already been over 60K download purchases of the album.

But heck, even if it does work, it’s just delaying the inevitable. Soon there will no such thing as ownership.

Soon, like, maybe, now soon, everything we digitizedly desire will exist freely in the cloud…along with the torrent of advertising it will take to support this ethereal freedom.

But hey, I’ll take free…even if it is for a price.

Incidentally, if you want to get a copy of In Rainbows now, it will cost you a pretty penny…er, euro — £7.50, to be exact. My guess is they’re still trying to recoup that shirt they lost from the initial “set-your-price” gimmick.

[[ For a broader perspective on and the implications of Apple "giving" away U2's Songs of Innocence, check out this thought-provoking article by A Little More Sauce: This is NOT a Gift: That U2 Album You Didn’t Ask For and the Possibility of Generosity ]]

Filed under: Business, Music Tagged: Apple, bit torrent, BitTorrent, file sharing, gift, In Rainbows, New York Times, Radiohead, Songs of Innocence, Thom Yorke, Tomorrow's Modern Boxes, U2

Step Into the Grass

Tonight

I’ll bare my feet

and step into the grass;

and, for the first time

since the sun

last set on my naked

shoulders,

I’ll prostrate myself

before the rising moon.

So much time has

passed since then,

since I last felt raw

moonglow on

my rusty skin,

that I have forgotten

how the breath of night

can upturn a sallow face.

Long ago,

when I could still remember

how to pause,

and how to listen,

and how to breathe,

for more reasons

than just to breathe,

I knew fields

and wood,

and calico aster;

I knew how to kneel,

and how to observe,

and how to bring myself to quiet.

And I knew,

without knowing,

that if I lay

on my back

beneath the reeds

and remained hushed,

as night clouds

floated by,

shadowed and silent,

that my Self

would simply fall

away.

~~~~

Youth!

Numinous

youth!

Youth,

as ignorant,

as simple,

as pure,

and as free

as the flowing

freedom of sudden

Dogen insight—

a sudden insight of…

*

~~~~

Tonight

I’ll bare my feet

and step old and aching

into the caliginous balm

of the cool redemptive night.

 

 

from Poems From the River: a collection of reflections

Filed under: Poetry Tagged: Dogen, grass, Japan, meditation, moon, mushin, nature, night, numinous, spirituality, writing, zen

Comforting

Never before had Tomoe felt as uncomfortable as she did while sorting through her father’s belongings. Goro should be responsible for this, she thought, a thought she had been thinking ever since the will was read. A daughter should not have to dispose of her father’s past.

By the third day she had become numb to her task. Clothes would be donated; furniture would be sold; papers, mostly old bills and outdated tax records, would be burned. On the fourth day she found a box, a beautifully lacquered and ornate box of the sort that would not normally be filled with such crumpled and torn papers. The faded script written on the brittle pages was formal, ancient. But as she struggled with the writing, she came to realize that what she was reading was about to change everything she thought she understood about herself.

The writing was that of her great-grandmother’s, a woman whose name she had never once heard mentioned during the whole of her life. She read that, in 1904, as Japan consolidated its forces in Korea in preparation for war with Russia, her great-grandmother, and many young women like her, were also consolidated there to keep the forces comfortable and war ready.

Mostly what Tomoe read was heartbreaking: it was a time of misery and hardship and of suicidal desires. But on the final, most tattered page, she read that one cold February night a fair-skinned and near-frozen American writer named Jack London suddenly arrived. Her great-grandmother and four other girls were specially chosen to bathe him. Her great-grandmother, alone, was chosen to prepare his bed and to comfort him as best she could.

After carefully smoothing out the pages and returning them to their box, Tomoe found a pen and some paper and began to write in a newly found voice.

Filed under: Flash Fiction Tagged: comfort women, death, fiction, human trafficking, Jack London, Japan, Korea, military, prostitution, Russia, war, women's issues, writing

Literary Zen I

Filed under: Literary Tagged: art, eternity, existance, fiction, Franz Kafka, Franz Kafka quotes, Literary Zen, literature, meditation, quotes, writing, zen

Legacy

The father placed the tray over his son’s lap.

“Dad, how come you never ask me about the war?”

The father sat down blatantly in his chair. He found the remote and pointed it at his son’s missing legs. “All the answers are right there.”

The son picked up the sandwich, held it before his mouth, and then set it back down on the paper plate. “You do know there are heroes over there dying trying to defend us, right dad?”

The father sighed and began surfing through the channels. “I have nothing over there that needs defending.”

The son pushed himself up by his elbows. One of his stumps jerked upwards and unsettled the tray. “Unbelievable. Most fathers would think their son is a hero if—”

“We don’t have to do this, you know.” The father stood up, walked over to his son, and reached down for the tray. “If you’re not hungry I’ll—“

“Leave it!” the son said, grabbing the tray and spilling its contents onto his lap.

The father turned and walked toward the door.

“That’s it. Go ahead and run away. Run away on your perfect fucking pair of legs.”

The father stopped. Without turning around he said, “Son, just because someone happens to get killed in battle, or happens to drive over an IED and get his legs blown off, doesn’t automatically make him a hero in my book.”

“Really? Well then, dad, what does it take to make a hero in your book? Sitting around and getting high all day and arguing with the television? Singing protest songs? Carrying dangerously worded signs?”

The father took a step toward the door and then, again, stopped. “Tell me, son. If I think a certain war is immoral to begin with, then what am I supposed to think about the person who volunteers to fight in that war?”

The son didn’t answer.

The father left the room.

Filed under: Flash Fiction Tagged: courage, disability, fiction, honor, military, morality, protest, short stories, volunteer, war, writing