Aranjuez is a special place for me. Not only have I been working in the lovely little city for the past two years, but several years before that I staAranjuez is a special place for me. Not only have I been working in the lovely little city for the past two years, but several years before that I started dating a lovely woman from Aranjuez—to whom I am now legally attached. But even if I did not have a personal and professional connection to the royal town, I think it would still be a beautiful and interesting place. It is arguably the closest thing Spain has to Versailles—with a large royal palace, extensive and manicured gardens, and a carefully planned city surrounding it. Granted, it may not be nearly as iconic as its French counterpart; but it doesn’t have the same suffocating crowds.
This book was recently assigned to my 5th-year (11 years old) students, to be read before a guided tour of the town conducted by the author himself. Though I was not granted the privilege of meeting the author, I was given a copy of the book by a fellow teacher. And I must say I was surprised both by how much I enjoyed it and how much I learned.
The style López Medina employs is obviously geared toward his younger audience. The prose is simple, the text is full of jokes (and exclamation marks!), and each chapter is short. Needless to say, it is neither a complete nor a scholarly study of history. But within the bounds of a book accessible to children, I thought it was actually quite ambitious. Each chapter is focused on the reign of a single monarch, and though López Medina is grounds the narrative on the development of Aranjuez, he manages to squeeze in a miniature history of all of Spain in the telling (at least since the time of Carlos V).
He not only relates, for example, how the palace was commissioned, designed, and built, or how Aranjuez grew from a royal palace to a village, complete with bullring and marketplace—but he also says something about Spain’s wars with France and England, the loss of her overseas colonies, and even the creation of Spain’s modern flag. This may sound unwieldy and irrelevant, but it is not, as Aranjuez was a major center of power in the Iberian Peninsula since its creation as a royal retreat. All of these subjects are, of course, presented in the barest outline, but López Medina nevertheless manages to preserve the genuinely interesting aspects of history—the revealing, the unanticipated, or the downright bizarre.
Within the latter category must be ranked the personalities of many of Spain’s royal rulers. Indeed, I greatly appreciated how irreverent his portraits of Spanish royalty were. Though the book has no explicit political message, one breaths a sigh of relief when Spain finally transitions into a democracy, since the royal rulers of Spain have varied from the mentally unstable (Philip V) to the nefarious (Fernando VII). The one king López Medina praises is Amadeo I, an Italian prince briefly elected king, who abdicated after just three years after finding the position impossible.
As you can tell, I learned a good deal from this little book. It is also, I must say, rather attractive—full of little illustrations, as well as QR codes which link to educational videos (a modern touch). In general I am in favor of anything which can help foment the love of reading and an appreciation of history among our youth (not to mention republican values!). So I can only conclude by saying: ¡Bien hecho!...more
My longest canoe trip was approximately three hours. It was on a Canadian lake. My brother and I set off with the wind at our backs, paddling effortleMy longest canoe trip was approximately three hours. It was on a Canadian lake. My brother and I set off with the wind at our backs, paddling effortlessly, until we decided to turn around. As soon as the canoe was perpendicular to the wind, we capsized. My phone was ruined. We swam the canoe to the shore and turned it over to get the water out. The rest of the journey was a hard battle against the oncoming wind.
On that same lake, a couple years later, we took another canoe trip, this time to a small island where some family friends have their summer house. We arrived successfully. There, I was loaned the journals of one Edwin Tappan Adney, an eccentric intellectual who used to live in that part of Canada. Among that man’s many accomplishments was the preservation of the technique for making canoes out of wood and birchbark—a technology developed by several indigenous groups living in that region, but which nearly disappeared with the decline of indigenous lifeways.
This book is the next chapter in that story. It begins with a profile of Henri Vaillancourt, who was born the year that Adney died. From a young age he became obsessed with the idea of bark canoes and basically taught himself using the book of Adney’s drawings and explanations, eventually becoming the acknowledged master of his very specific craft. The second part of the book is a narrative of a voyage into the Maine woods along with Vaillancourt and a few friends, on two of the bark canoes. In this, they retrace the steps of Henry David Thoreau, whose only experience with real wilderness took place in these woods.
For such a niche subject, I found the book to be oddly compelling. For one, McPhee’s profile of Vaillancourt is a wonderful portrait of the born artist—somebody for whom craft is a supreme passion. And though I did not really understand it, I greatly enjoyed the details of how a person can make a canoe with trees, bark, and sap, using only a knife and an axe and a bit of fire. McPhee’s narration of his journey was also pleasant reading. The Maine woods are very much like the Canadian forests familiar to me. I could hear the loons calling and see the moose running by.
Somehow, then, this short book about a subject irrelevant and uninteresting to most people manages to be rich and suggestive. I can see why McPhee commands such respect among writers. He, too, is a supreme craftsman....more
This is the second Murakami novel I have read, and again I have a rather muddled impression. Somehow, I quite enjoyed the actual reading of the book; This is the second Murakami novel I have read, and again I have a rather muddled impression. Somehow, I quite enjoyed the actual reading of the book; yet when I put it down, I was unsure whether it was genuinely interesting or merely entertaining.
For one, a lot of potentially heavy themes pervade the story—the power of music, the significance of dreams, the existence of destiny, the nature of identity—and yet, for me, the themes did not really resolve or conclude, but sort of drifted like an aimless melody in the background. The plot itself has this same quality: though there is a definite narrative arc, so many questions are left unanswered that it just seems to float off into the upper atmosphere. As in a dream, there is often a sensation that something terribly meaningful is lying in wait, below conscious understanding but barely perceivable—but is this nagging sensation trustworthy, or merely a kind of trick of Murakami’s writing?
By the conventional standards of a novelist, Murakami is certainly open to criticism. For example, his characters often talk in a highly unnatural way, indulging in long philosophical speculation, emotional confessions, or intently analyzing events of the plot. Yet the characters of Dickens or Dostoyevsky—or Kafka himself for that matter—do not speak anything like living people, and that has not hurt their authors’ reputations. Another potential fault is Murakami’s habit of including lots of extremely banal details into his writing. At one point, for example, the protagonist describes everything he finds inside a refrigerator. Yet I do think the contrast between these mundane facts and the often bizarre events of the plot do create a certain aesthetic effect that is one of Murakami’s trademarks.
Perhaps I ought to give the author credit, since I found myself enjoying apparently pointless things without being able to explain why. One of my favorite chapters in the book, for example, consists of a character going to a coffee shop and listening to a Beethoven trio. The prose is nothing special (indeed, Murakami’s style is very plain), nothing much happens, and nothing profound is said. Despite this, I felt a real, solid sense of what it would be like to be sipping good coffee and listening to some exquisite classical music. This in itself is such a pleasant sensation to imagine that it hardly even matters what it has to do with the plot.
There were times, however, that Murakami’s ability to transport the reader worked to his detriment. The many sex scenes in the book, for example, are almost all disturbing—being not only ethically questionable, but simply illegal in most countries I’m familiar with.
I suppose I must end this review with a shrug of my shoulders. All I can really say for certain is that I found Kafka on the Shore to be highly readable and enjoyable. What it means, or whether it means anything at all; what Murakami hoped to convey, or whether he hoped to convey anything concrete; whether it is too complicated or too simple-minded to analyze—I cannot quite figure it out, and so, like the book itself, I will let my review end on an unresolved note....more
As a lamp, a cataract, a shooting star an illusion, a dewdrop, a bubble a dream, a cloud, a flash of lightning view all created things like this.
This
As a lamp, a cataract, a shooting star an illusion, a dewdrop, a bubble a dream, a cloud, a flash of lightning view all created things like this.
This is a fascinating group of texts. The first in the book is the very brief Heart Sutra. It is short enough to be memorized and recited, like the Lord’s Prayer; and true to its name, it contains the “heart” of much Buddhist teaching, specifically with the famous lines “form is emptiness, emptiness is form.” The sutra is, in essence, a giant negation of conventional reality—all that can be perceived and conceived. The reality of the senses is superficial, transitory, and illusory; and recognizing the emptiness of this reality is fundamental to achieving enlightenment.
The Diamond Sutra is somewhat longer, though still short enough to be easily read in one sitting. Exactly when it was written down is unclear, though it has the distinction of being the printed book with the earliest known date.
This manuscript (now in the British Library) was printed on May 11, 868, about 600 years before Gutenberg’s bible, at the expense of one Wang Jie. Indeed, this good man even specified that it was “made for free universal distribution,” thus putting it into the public domain. The frontispiece—a line drawing of the Buddha surrounded by his disciples—is a lovely work of art in itself. Even the story of the book’s discovery is interesting. The manuscript, along with many others, had been preserved in a section of the Mogao Caves that had been sealed off since the 11th century—perhaps to protect them from plunderers—only to be opened in the early 1900s.
The text consists of a conversation between the Buddha and his disciple, Subhuti. The upshot of this conversation is very much the same as the message of the Heart Sutra: that everything is fundamentally unreal. Thus, beings are beingless, and the dharma is without dharma. (The word “dharma” can apparently mean a great many things, from “the nature of reality,” to “the right way of acting,” to “phenomena.”) Even the Buddha’s own teachings are unreal. But, paradoxically, though all beings are beingless, for this very reason they should be referred to as “beings.” Apparently, this is an attempt to maintain the practical use of language without attributing reality to what our words refer to. In other words, we must use words to communicate, but we should not mistake our statements about the phenomenal world as having any absolute validity.
The Diamond Sutra is praised and referred to in the last text in this volume, The Platform Sutra of the Sixth Patriarch. Written around 1,000 years ago (it doesn’t seem clear when), it is attributed to the sixth Chan patriarch, Huineng, who preached to and instructed his disciples from a raised platform (thus the name). Unlike the other two works, then, which may have been written in India, this one is certainly Chinese in origin. The book is divided into ten sections and, rather like the Bible, is rather miscellaneous in content, containing stories, poems, parables, preaching, and philosophical discussion.
Despite this variety, I thought that the basic message of the sutra was fairly clear. It expounds a form of Buddhism based on introspection. Well, perhaps “introspection” is the wrong word, since it is a basic tenet of this doctrine that everyone’s fundamental nature is the same, and it is only delusions and confusions that make us lose sight of this. As a kind of substrate of the mind, below our attachments to the external world, we all share the same Buddha-nature. Indeed, in this sutra, Buddha is not so much a man as a state of being, and anyone who attains it is fully the equal of Siddhartha Gautama.
The story of Huineng’s ascension to the patriarchate is deservedly famous. The fifth patriarch decided to have a kind of poetry competition, to see which of his disciples should carry on his mantle. Shenxiu, the leading disciple, came up with this: “The body is the bodhi tree. / The mind is like a bright mirror’s stand. / At all times we must strive to polish it / and must not let dust collect.” Yet the illiterate “barbarian” from the south, Huineng, upon hearing this verse, came up with a response: “Bodhi originally has no tree. / The mirror has no stand. / The Buddha-nature is always clear and pure. / Where is there room for dust?” (Once again, note the emphasis on negation, the message that reality is insubstantial.) This was enough to secure him the position.
As you can see, it is a curious feature of Buddhism that it requires the paradoxical use of language to express its tenets. For example, as the sutras repeat, enlightenment consists of seeing the world as “empty” of form—that is, of seeing past the superficial differences that separate one thing from another, one person from another. It means seeing beyond dualities such as bad and good, beautiful and ugly, as these are only expressions of our own egotistical desires, and the enlightened one is theoretically free from any selfish desire. It is, in short, a kind of ego-death, the conquering of all attachment to external goods, in which only the purest form of consciousness remains, seeing the world exactly as it is, as one undifferentiated whole.
Indeed, there is an interesting metaphysical view inherent in these statements, though as far as I know it is not made explicit. It is that the apparent reality of people and things is due to our inability to come to grips with the passage of time. Everything that exists now did not exist previously and will someday cease to exist. Furthermore, all of the matter and energy in the universe swirls in an enormous cycle, generating and destroying all phenomena. In this sense, a mountain, say, is “unreal” since it is only a mountain at this moment, and its existence depends on a host of other factors. Its existence is conditioned and impermanent, and thus superficial.
There is also, arguably, an epistemology inherent in this doctrine. It is that our conceptualization of reality ultimately warps it to such an extent that we merely delude ourselves. In this sense, Buddhism has something in common with Kant’s system (which Schopenhauer would be the first to point out, of course). Thus, when we call a big pile of rocks a “mountain” we are often attributing certain other qualities to it: natural, big, beautiful, and so on. But what is considered “natural,” or “big,” or “beautiful” are highly subjective qualities, which say more about our own perception than the thing being perceived.
In sum, then, conventional reality is “empty” for two reasons. First, because our minds attribute permanence and self-subsistence to things which are, in actuality, impermanent and conditioned. Second, because our desires and opinions do not allow us to perceive things as they really are.
For this reason, language is a source of delusion, since words create a sense of fixity in the mind—a word picks out an object and treats it as if it were stable. Further, the definitions of words often rely on contrasts (hot and cold, old and young), which are expressions of our subjectivity. However, the Buddhist preacher is forced, by the nature of communication, to say that enlightenment is better than delusion, that meditation is good while attachment is bad, that trying to achieve enlightenment through meditation is correct while doing so by reciting sacred texts is wrong. In short, the doctrine can only be expressed using the very dualities that it purports to move beyond. As a result, the sutras are full of seemingly nonsensical statements, such as that an enlightened one both feels and doesn’t feel pain.
The logically-minded reader thus may be repelled by much of this. After all, the content of a self-contraditory statement is precisely zero. And one could easily make the opposite of the above arguments. For example, just because something is conditioned or impermanent doesn’t make it unreal—indeed, that is arguably the very definition of what is real. The fact that our perception of the world is warped by our subjectivity does not make it unreal—indeed, arguably our subjective reality is the only one we can be sure of. And anybody who has read a scientific text knows that language can be a very useful tool for understanding the world.
But this is all probably beside the point. To begin with, I think a Buddhist would likely object to my attempt to formulate this doctrine as a metaphysical or epistemological doctrine. To the contrary, such a system would be antithetical to the entire spirit of the enterprise, which is precisely the attempt to move beyond intellectual attempts to understand and rationalize reality. Rather, I think these paradoxes and negations should be read as attempts to inculcate an attitude, or to induce a mental state.
If I have any criticism of this doctrine, it is that it seems—to put it bluntly—rather defeatist. All human striving is vain; all attempts at satisfying our desires are vain; every effort to understand reality is vain. A Buddhist may disagree with this assessment—and, in truth, my understanding of these sutras is undoubtedly superficial—but seeing the world as unreal and freeing myself of all desire seem rather like death than something to pursue. That being said, like most people, I certainly err in the opposite direction: getting too swept up in trivialities, getting upset over things beyond my control, seeing my world from the narrow perspective of my short-term desires. As a corrective to this unhappy state of affairs, I think there is a great deal of value in this school of Buddhism. I look forward to continually failing to apply it to my life....more
When I first undertook to read The Story of Civilization, years ago, I decided to skip the first volume. It just seemed absurd to cover the story of tWhen I first undertook to read The Story of Civilization, years ago, I decided to skip the first volume. It just seemed absurd to cover the story of the world’s largest continent in one (admittedly long) volume, while devoting 10 to Europe. In any case, I knew that Durant was hardly an expert on the subject and doubted that he would be the best resource.
Now, eight years later, I find that I was mostly correct. This volume is certainly the odd one out in the series—in subject, quality, and organization. To be fair to Durant, his original plan was to write five volumes of his series, so that his coverage of Asia would be more balanced with that of Europe. Even so, today it seems both arrogant and insulting to try to summarize the history of ancient Mesopotamia, Egypt, Persia, the beginnings of Judaism, and the entire histories of India, China, and Japan in the course of a single volume, with a long preface on the origins of humankind and prehistory for good measure. Durant did not lack self-confidence.
Considering the amount of ground he hopes to cover, Durant is forced to extremes of brevity. Enormous topics—the Old Testament, Babylonian law, Hinduism—are boiled down to a few pages. Thousands of years of political history are summed up in mere paragraphs. Admittedly, this is not necessarily bad, as this history is intended more as a guidebook than as a detailed chronicle. And if you share Durant’s priorities, then there is much valuable information. His focus is, in a word, “civilization,” by which he means everything high, refined, cultured—everything that “elevates” morally and aesthetically. In other words, Durant is focused on philosophy, music, and the arts, but he has virtually no interest in military or political history.
More than any other book in the series, this one shows its age. Most obviously, Durant occasionally uses language that would be considered racist or sexist nowadays. Also, we know much more about prehistory and hunter-gatherers, and (in the so-called West) about Indian, Chinese, and Japanese culture. At the time the book was written, for example, the Piltdown hoax had not yet been exposed; the Lascaux cave paintings remained undiscovered; and the Terracotta Warriors were still peacefully underground. Durant’s ideas on “civilization” do not fare much better. The entire preface on prehistory is an exercise in drawing grand, sweeping conclusions from extremely scant data, with predictably poor results.
As a historian in the strict sense, Durant leaves much to be desired. By that I mean that he does not reveal the “why” of history. His explanation of the breakup of the Persian empire is a good example: “It is in the nature of an empire to disintegrate soon, for the energy that created it disappears from those who inherit it, at the very time the subject peoples are gathering strength to fight for their lost liberty.” This is so generic as to be absolutely unenlightening, and encapsulates Durant’s tendency to substitute oracular generalizations for probing thought.
(On the other hand, the book ends with a startling prediction of a war between Japan and the United States, so Durant did know a thing or two.)
But it is only fair to point out that many of the book’s faults are due to its age. Durant certainly cannot be blamed for having outdated information and outmoded assumptions. Indeed, for its time this was likely an extremely valuable book for the reading public, when relatively little was available for the general reader on these manifold topics. Few books published in 1935, I would bet, contained an account of Indian classical music, Japanese Noh theater, or Chinese poetry—much less all three, and far more besides. What is more, though Durant’s language can be grating today, at the time this was a progressive attempt to foster understanding of, and respect for, foreign cultures. It says much for the book that, in prison, Malcolm X was inspired by Durant’s section on Gandhi and Indian colonialism.
(Durant, to his credit, was one of the first and most strident American critics of English colonialism in India.)
For my part, I am very glad to have finally, officially finished The Story of Civilization. And I am grateful for everything Durant taught me along the way....more
This book is a successful failure. Adharanand Finn set out to find the “secret” of the Kenyan’s running prowess by living and training in Iten—the runThis book is a successful failure. Adharanand Finn set out to find the “secret” of the Kenyan’s running prowess by living and training in Iten—the running capital of the country—for several months. What he finds is that there is no secret, just a multitude of factors that come together which make Kenyans into great runners (more later). As most of these factors aren’t easily replicable by aspiring non-Kenyan runners, the book is not useful as a running guide. That is the failure part. The success is that it manages to be an inspiring and enjoyable read, anyway.
As for those aforementioned factors, there are many. One, many Kenyan children—particularly those living in the countryside—run to school, back and forth, often twice a day. And they tend to do this running barefoot, which according to Finn improves running form. That is a lot of training. Another major factor is that, for many, running is the only viable path out of poverty. Thus, athletic talent is not siphoned off into other sports or diverted into other careers; every bit is tapped for running. Indeed, all over the country there are running camps where potential champions can live. There, they do nothing but run, sleep, and eat. Finn also thinks the high calorie, low fat, low protein diet is a major factor (probably a controversial claim). And of course there is the oft-mentioned altitude. Iten, for example, is 2400 meters (about 8000 feet) above sea level. (Training at high-altitude is supposed to make the body more cardiovascularly efficient.)
As you can see, unless you grew up and live in Kenya (or a similar place), this is not exactly useful. Nevertheless, Finn did improve during his time in Iten, mostly the old-fashioned way—running, running, running. (He also ate a lot of ugali, the carb-rich staple of the region.) Certainly, the constant presence of elite runners helped. Every other person in Iten, it seems, is a star runner. Finn could sleepwalk into a running group, and coaches fell from the sky. It is a rather peculiar kind of paradise. But the book is more of a memoir than a manual. Finn’s writing is strong and he effectively transports you into the experience of being a comparatively average runner in a strange land, training with the best of the best.
As a final note, I wanted to dwell on how very contradictory so much running advice is. The sportswriter Matt Fitzgerald, for example, emphasizes that good running form cannot be taught, and that every body naturally develops its own efficient stride. Yet Finn is convinced that running barefoot markedly improves form and efficiency. Further, Fitzgerald advocates mostly long, slow runs, whereas Finn basically ran as long and as fast as he could during every training. This inconsistency is true in my own experience in running, too. I recently signed up (heaven help me) to do a full marathon. One seasoned runner told me to focus on short, fast intervals; another told me I had to focus on building up mileage. Perhaps there is not any one ideal approach. In any case, wish me luck. I’ll need it....more
It is a cliché to say it, but this book found me. I was in the Madrid airport, on my way back to New York for the Christmas holidays. As I sat down onIt is a cliché to say it, but this book found me. I was in the Madrid airport, on my way back to New York for the Christmas holidays. As I sat down on a bench to enjoy (well, to tolerate) an overpriced cup of coffee I got from a machine, I noticed that a little paperback book was laying, face down, beside me. There was nobody nearby who it would obviously belong to, so I curiously flipped it over—delighted to discover a book I had been meaning to read. Should I take it? That seemed wrong. Then again, it also seemed wrong to leave the book and let it get thrown away, when I could give it a loving home. So I compromised: sitting beside the lonely paperback for twenty minutes to see if anybody came back for it. Nobody did, and I took it. (So maybe it did not find me and I just stole it.)
After being selected by Fate to receive the book, I was disappointed to find that I didn’t quite like the first few pages. The prose seemed both to try too hard and to accomplish too little. (There is nothing worse than prose written by a failed poet.) But the style grew on me considerably when I realized that the author (whom I will be referring to as A. Roy, since otherwise I feel like I’m writing about myself) had chosen this style, not merely to show off her literary chops, but as a device of characterization, in service of the plot. I had a similar reaction to the shifts in time. At first the book struck me as abrupt and disorganized. It was only after a few chapters that I realized A. Roy was in perfect control of her material. By the halfway point, I was prepared to admit that Fate may have had a point.
What emerged was a powerful, intelligent, and observant book. And, honestly, I am not sure how much more I can say without spoiling the plot, other than that The God of Small Things ticks off all of the boxes of a good novel—a memorable story, well told, with social relevance. If the novel falls short in any category, I would say that it is characterization. None of the characters, in my opinion, break free of the narrative voice to live on their own. (This is the danger of a strong narrative voice.) Further, I think A. Roy may have fallen into the modern trap of substituting trauma for character development. Just because somebody is Profoundly Messed Up does not make them interesting.
(view spoiler)[As far as the plot goes, I did think one crucial element was conspicuously weak: the attraction between Velutha and Ammu. They basically fall in love—or lust—at first sight, without even exchanging a word. And considering that this scandalous affair is what sets off the explosive chain of events at the book's conclusion, it felt cheap that there was not a stronger setup or explanation to the daliance. After all, lust alone (and what else could it have been, without conversation) is hardly a reason that propels people to risk their reputations, children, and lives. Or am I just naïve?
Oh, and I also thought that the incest scene felt as if it were included merely for the shock value. (hide spoiler)]
In any case, it is now time for the novel to find somebody else. To pay my respects to Fate, I will leave it in some public place. One must appease all the gods, even those of small things. (Also, if by some miracle you are person who forgot the book in the airport, contact me and I’ll send you a replacement. Sorry!)...more
I first heard of this book from Michael Pollan’s short work on caffeine. There, he calls Why We Sleep (to paraphrase) one of the most disturbing booksI first heard of this book from Michael Pollan’s short work on caffeine. There, he calls Why We Sleep (to paraphrase) one of the most disturbing books he had read in a while. This caught my attention. How could a book on sleep be disturbing?
From the first page of this book, I knew why. The author, Matthew Walker, is essentially diagnosing a major health crisis that is going on in front of our drooping, baggy eyes—namely, the crisis of insufficient sleep. According to Walker, virtually everything we do—how we work, how we relax, how we seek entertainment—is disruptive of sleep. And he has plenty of studies to show that, when you do not sleep enough, there are serious consequences.
In addition to the familiar cognitive impairments of bad sleep (inability to focus, lack of energy, wild mood swings), there are the long-term health risks, such as the increased likelihood to develop cancer, heart disease, or diabetes. More unfortunate still, there does not seem to be any way of getting around the familiar recommendation of eight hours of sleep per night. We cannot get by with less, and we cannot make it up on the weekend.
Indeed, the news gets worse and worse. Even moderate amounts of alcohol and caffeine can gravely affect sleep (and marijuana, too—sorry); and sleeping pills may do more harm than good. Our phones, tablets, and computers—even our indoor lights—wreak additional damage by throwing off our natural diurnal rhythms. So this pretty much eliminates all of my nightly plans.
What it comes down to, says Walker, is a cultural disrespect for sleep. I am certainly guilty of this. I have always taken pride in using the opportunity of a plane, train, or bus ride to read a book rather than to nod off, and felt secretly superior to those dozing around me. More generally, sleeping is often equated with laziness. Waking up after midday is a moral failing; taking a nap on the job is a fireable offense; and going to bed early is socially questionable. Further, many people—especially in the business world—take pride in their ability to get by on few hours of sleep. Wakefulness is productiveness. But this prejudice is, Walker contends, based on ignorance of the real value of sleep.
Sleep is a biologically basic process. All mammals, birds, and reptiles, some fish, and even insects have been observed sleeping. Total sleep deprivation is not only harmful, but can be fatal. Some gruesome rat experiments have shown this, as does the rare disease, Fatal Familial Insomnia, in which the brain becomes incapable of generating sleep—which is inevitably fatal. Sleep is just as basic a need as food. And as you might expect from such a basic need, it is hard-wired into our evolution. Indeed, two distinct types of sleep have evolved, which accomplish different purposes: REM and (creatively named) non-REM.
As you may know, the REM stands for “rapid eye movement,” which is when we experience vivid dreams; and it alone accomplishes many things. In addition to fostering creativity by forging novel links between memories, REM sleep apparently keeps us sane (people experimentally deprived of REM sleep for long enough experience symptoms of psychosis). Non-REM is, perhaps, the more restful sort, when new memories are moved from temporary storage to a more permanent location. The two sleep types thus work together and come at predictable moments in the night: deep non-REM sleep early on, and REM closer to the time we wake up. (Short sleep thus selectively cuts down our REM sleep time.)
Walker explains the science because he wants to drive home the importance of sleep—not a luxury, or an indulgence, but a survival mechanism designed by natural selection. With this basic point in hand, Walker goes on to make several social criticisms, and at times the book almost becomes a polemic.
Take driving, for example. Everybody knows that driving drunk is dangerous and irresponsible. But Walker cites studies showing that drowsy driving is, if anything, even more dangerous. When you are sleep deprived, your brain can drift off into what are called “micro-sleeps,” which last just a couple seconds. This is quite enough time to get into a serious car crash. And this is common. Over the Christmas break, everybody I mentioned this to had a story about falling asleep behind the wheel. It has happened to me, too—a thoroughly alarming experience, which thankfully did not result in a crash. Considering this, I cannot help but agree with Walker this issue is just as deserving of public awareness campaigns as inebriated driving.
Walker is also highly critical of how the medical community treats sleep. For one, most general physicians have little training when it comes to sleep, and so are apt to prescribe sleeping pills to patients with insomnia. Unfortunately, sleeping pills merely sedate the brain without generating natural sleep, and so do not really solve the problem. Another issue is that of doctors’ timetables. From residency on, doctors are often expected to work inhumanly long shifts, even though evidence shows that sleep-deprived doctors are less effective by every measure. Another issue is patient sleep. Although sleep is highly conducive to healing, hospitals often present hostile sleep conditions (loud noise, bright lights, poorly scheduled tests), especially in the ICU, which actively impedes recuperation.
Last but not least, Walker contends that many (though not all!) children diagnosed with mental disorders, like ADHD, may really be suffering from a sleep problem, as insufficient sleep can cause many of the same symptoms (lack of focus, lack of emotional control, etc.). This neatly dovetails with another issue: schools. According to Walker, every person has a natural sleep-schedule, and teenagers tend to have a later one than adults. When teenagers are expected to get to class by eight o’clock or earlier, therefore, we are making it impossible for them to adequately sleep, in the same way most adults would not be able to adapt to a job that began at six in the morning. As a result, many teenagers are chronically under-slept. No wonder that they are so considerate and polite.
This certainly resonates with my experience. Not only did my high school start early, but most of the musical extra-curriculars took place in the hour before regular classes. This meant that I had to arrive by quarter to eight, while I hardly ever went to bed before midnight (often much later). Unsurprisingly, I was a zombie for most of my morning classes. It is easy for me, then, to concur with Walker in proclaiming these early start times for high schools to be illogical and counterproductive. Thankfully this message seems to be slowly sinking in, and some schools have begun pushing back their schedules.
This review, long as it is, hardly does justice to the content of this book. Not only has Matthew Walker written an excellent work of popular science, but he has written a quietly revolutionary work. After all, our society would really look quite different if we took our need to sleep as seriously as we took our need to eat. The world Walkers imagines is certainly a more relaxed and humane one (though, it must be said, perhaps a bit puritanical in its strictures). Imagine, for example, a world when napping during work was encouraged and when start times were flexible. Imagine getting a deduction on your health insurance for sleeping enough. A boy can dream.
There was only one moment in which I doubted the good Walker. In 2015, a study was released that tracked the sleep of three hunter-gatherer groups, and found that they slept, on average, slightly less than seven hours, rather than the expected eight. This seems to undermine Walker’s contention that the modern world is uniquely inimical to sleep. He counters that the study may only show that these hunter-gatherers are also not sleeping enough. But this seems like rather weak tea after telling us of the evils of coffee, alarm clocks, and LED lights. If those free of modern temptations can’t do it right, what hope do we have? Perhaps we are doomed. Even so, I think all of us could benefit by treating our shuteye with a little more respect. Speaking of which, it is already past my bedtime. _______________________________ A fellow reviewer on this site, Siddhartha, recommended an article written by the blogger Alexey Guzey that examines the first chapter of Matthew Walker's book in depth, purporting to find many factual errors. I think it is worth going over Guzey's points.
First, he notes that, while Walker claims that longer sleep leads to longer life, in reality studies show a kind of U-curve, where both short and long sleep times are associated with higher mortality. Walker addresses this later on, but defends his position by stating that diseases and comorbidities often lead people to sleep more. Guzey counters that some diseases actually make people sleep less. In any case, Walker's argument does seem fairly weak to me, in the absence of evidence that these longer sleep times are certainly caused by diseases. (Also it seems like circular reasoning to assert that anyone sleeping significantly longer than 8 hours must have some sort of disease. Were they under-sleeping before, thus causing an illness that pushed them into over-sleeping?)
Guzey's next points out that it is untrue that a good night's sleep is always beneficial, since sleep deprivation is used as a therapy for depression. Now, to me these seems like nit-picking. One can still say it is almost always beneficial. True, Walker does discount the potential benefits of sleep deprivation therapy without much thought, but that is still a minor point since Walker is not a psychologist.
Guzey's third point is also somewhat unfair. He points out that it is far from certain that the lack of sleep is what kills victims of Fatal Familial Insomnia. Yes, Walker uses Fatal Familial Insomnia to bolster his claim that lack of sleep is fatal, but he does admit (later on) that it is impossible to say that the lack of sleep is what actually kills in the disease, since victims suffer extensive brain damage. But Walker bases his assertion of the mortality of sleep loss on some (rather cruel) rat studies. Admittedly, we are not rats.
Another of Guzey's criticisms is that, while Walker is quite insistent on the eight-hour number, the National Sleep Foundation actually recommends anywhere between seven and nine hours. (And though Walkers invokes the WHO, the World Health Organization has not actually issued sleep recommendations.) This is certainly a legimitate critique of the book, since somebody who sleeps seven hours is actually within the normal range, even though they would get the impression from Walker's book that they are underslept and at risk.
Several other factual errors Guzey points out are quite valid. It does seem true that, contrary to Walker, the WHO has not declared any sleep loss epidemic in industrialized nations. This is a serious error in itself. Guzey also calls into question whether those in the industrialized world really are getting less sleep now than people did 100 years ago. This claim, in my opinions, does deserves far more scrutiny. True, late night work emails and LED screens are recent inventions. But working on a farm or a factory is hardly more forgiving or flexible. And, again, if hunter-gatherers aren't sleeping more than we are, perhaps the evidence of a recent sleep loss epidemic is not so strong after all.
Not having done any research myself, I can only offer my proverbial two cents. I did get the strong impression that Walker consistently emphasized the most potentially dire consequences and examples of sleep loss. And, honestly, I really hope that Walker's prophecies of doom are somewhat exaggerated, since obtaining perfect sleep while going to work, having a decent social life, keeping up with a hobby or two (not to mention the pressures of raising children—not that I have any) seems close to hopeless.
Even after all of this, I do think that this book is an important corrective to our current cultural disregard of sleep. Thank you for your time....more
I had high hopes for this book. As an aspiring novelist, with a fair amount of respect for Murakami (I loved his book on running), I hoped that his boI had high hopes for this book. As an aspiring novelist, with a fair amount of respect for Murakami (I loved his book on running), I hoped that his book on writing would be inspiring or, at the very least, motivating. But this is not a how-to book. Nor is it a kind of artistic autobiography. The book is, rather, a series of short essays on the writing world originally published in Japan, all of which could be read independently of one another.
There are, indeed, a few pieces of advice, and some tidbits of autobiography, as well as some reflections on the Japanese publishing business and the education system. None of these topics, however, is explored with anything approximating depth, and half of the book is spent apologizing for not having more to say. Further, what he does have to say is either specific to his own case or, perhaps, specific to Japan. And it must be said that he does not make much of an effort to persuade his readers of his opinions—opinions which, for the most part, are neither original nor subtle.
But rather than harp on the poor man, let me offer an example:
One night my wife and I were trudging home with our heads down, too broke to make the bank payment that was due the next day, when we stumbled upon a crumpled wad of bills lying in the street. Whether it was synchronicity or some kind of sign, I don’t know, but strange to say, it was exactly the amount we needed. It really saved us, since otherwise our check would have bounced.
This story (hard to believe, but perhaps true) encapsulates what frustrated me about this book. Just as finding the exact right amount of money, at the perfect time, is not really financial advice, Murakami’s story of becoming a writing (inspiration out of the blue) and his account of his own work (writing what he wants, when he wants to) is not exactly useful, or even encouraging, for others trying to practice the craft.
As far as writing advice goes, Murakami’s is good, if rather standard: be consistent, set a word goal, re-write often, read a lot, take breaks between drafts. Perhaps his most idiosyncratic tip is to become physically fit. As somebody who both writes and runs, I simply don’t experience the connection he feels between aerobic fitness and working on a novel. Surely, there are few things less physically demanding than typing. Curiously, Murakami’s stance on exercise is directly opposed to that articulated in, say, some of Thomas Mann’s short stories, wherein creativity is linked to illness and physical weakness. Well, if it is not good for your fiction, at least exercise will be good for your health.
If I may complain a bit more about this book, the last quality which irked me is Murakami’s (apparent) disingenuousness. For example, he frequently denigrates his own intelligence and talent, and portrays himself as somebody who is neither special nor particularly gifted. Yet it is difficult for me to believe that he entirely believes these things, since if he did he would hardly bother writing these essays. It also strikes me as insincere to write essays about your own opinion, from your own perspective (as we all must, by virtue of being human), while constantly reiterating that it is only your opinion and might be wrong, etc., etc. In sum, it struck me as a kind of false humility which was, for me, off-putting and unnecessary. Murakami has earned the right to strong opinions, at least about the writing world.
My word, I have written a fairly nasty review of this book. Let me insist, then, that this is all from my own perspective and does not represent more than the opinion of an online book-reviewer. I am neither particularly talented nor intelligent, and in any case this book review won’t change anything. I am sorry for taking up your time. All of this would never have happened if this book had not been left un-attended on a bench in Central Park, at the exact time I was hoping to read a collection of essays by a Japanese writer. Was it fate?...more
Last Christmas, both of my parents independently gifted me 199 Cemeteries to See Before You Die. This year, Santa brought me another book about cemeteLast Christmas, both of my parents independently gifted me 199 Cemeteries to See Before You Die. This year, Santa brought me another book about cemeteries—this one. Apparently, I have acquired something of a reputation as a lurker of graveyards. Many people, I have found, do not share my enthusiasm, finding cemeteries either creepy or simply boring. For my part, however, there are few places which are consistently as beautiful, interesting, and moving—a combination of a park, an art museum, and a historical archive.
The author, Greg Melville, shares my enthusiasm for tombs and mausoleums. And his book is a long demonstration of why they are worth visiting. The book is divided into 17 chapters, each one focusing on a specific burying ground, starting from one of the first European gravesites in North America (Jamestown) and ending with the recent trend of natural burials (in West Laurel Hill). In the process, he shows how each of these places illustrates an aspect of American history.
There is, for example, the poignant contrast between Thomas Jefferson’s obelisk and the unmarked graves of enslaved people who worked on his land. The Jewish Touro Cemetery at Newport is an early example of religious tolerance, and the Sleepy Hollow Cemetery in Concord, Massachusetts, illustrates the ideals of the transcendentalists like Emerson and Thoreau. Melville also shows how innovative cemeteries influenced landscape design and urban parks. Differences in status and class are clearly visible in nearly any burying ground; and burial practices—ranging from embalming, to cremation, to burial without a casket—are a reflection of the values of the times. In short, you don’t need to be an archaeologist to be able to learn from tombs.
If I have any criticism of the book, it is that Melville opens every chapter with a rather pointless, first-person anecdote, which got tiresome by the end. Also—to grind my own axe for a moment—I was disappointed that, despite a whole chapter on the (admittedly beautiful) Sleepy Hollow Cemetery in Massachusetts, the first Sleepy Hollow Cemetery, in New York, was not even mentioned! Considering that it is the subject of probably the most famous scary story set in a cemetery I thought this was a grave omission. But I suppose in a book of this length, it is impossible to leave no stone unturned....more
This is the germ of an excellent book. I’ve been fascinated by New York City’s water supply ever since I learned about the Croton Aqueduct, which runsThis is the germ of an excellent book. I’ve been fascinated by New York City’s water supply ever since I learned about the Croton Aqueduct, which runs right behind my childhood home. But that original aqueduct is no longer active, and the city now gets the vast majority of its water from reservoirs further north, on the other side of the Hudson, in the Catskills. Sante’s book is a short history of the creation of this water supply.
The problem is that the book is much too short to be anything more than a sketch. With just about 160 pages of text—and at least half of those pages occupied by large photographs—the book could easily have been a long magazine article rather than a stand-alone volume. Now, normally I appreciate short books, but in this case there were so many potentially interesting topics that I felt short-changed by the end.
First, there is the fascinating story of the towns that were buried under the new reservoirs, whose residents—both alive and dead—had to be relocated. Sante relies on purely historical records, providing a snapshot of the buildings that were submerged. But her story is not enlivened by any interviews or eye-witness accounts of the flooding. She discusses how the city bullied the property owners, providing measly compensation for lost homes and businesses, but does not follow up on what happened to these unlucky souls. Very little attention is given to the construction of the tunnels that convey the water from its origin in the Catskills all the way to NYC—which includes the Delaware Aqueduct, the longest tunnel in the world (85 miles, or 137 km), which passes underneath the Hudson River—a massive engineering feat.
I also think much more could have been written about the construction process. Sante touches on the makeup of the workforce and the work camps. But surely there must be a treasure trove of good stories in this vein—interactions between the workers and the local population, incidence of discrimination and infighting, fatal accidents during dangerous dam construction. When all of these abovementioned threads are taken together, there is the material of an epic poem, rather than just a little volume.
Sante does deserve credit for her discussion of water metering. I had no idea that water meters were resisted in the city for such a long time, only finally becoming universal at the end of the 20th century. Though the idea of free and unlimited water sounds nice, the lack of metering led to significant waste, which put strain on the water system. I also enjoyed learning that, at various points, a dam across the Hudson River was proposed—though the idea was resisted because of the poor quality of the water (to put it mildly).
Aside from the content, the book is valuable for the photographs alone. The informational chapters are full of historical postcards, maps, and photos—of the city, of the construction of the upstate dams, of some of the communities that were sacrificed to the city. And the book ends with several pages of contemporary photos (of the areas around the reservoirs) by Tim Davis. The book is thus quite attractive, even if it doesn’t fully satisfy one’s curiosity.
In any case, I think it is valuable to consider simple things like water supply. For most of us, most of the time, water is taken for granted. Yet it is a precious, finite resource. Getting enough of it—pure, uncontaminated, and fresh—to the millions living in New York City took a great deal of money and time. More than that, it required overcoming engineering challenges and displacing hundreds of people from their homes. And though the city’s water supply seems stable for now, there is no way of telling whether it will be enough in the years to come, as the climate changes and populations fluctuate....more
This is, first of all, an odd book. There is no preface or introduction of any kind, launching straight into the entry for the first song “Detroit CitThis is, first of all, an odd book. There is no preface or introduction of any kind, launching straight into the entry for the first song “Detroit City”—leaving the reader to wonder what Dylan hopes to do, how he chose the songs, or why they are arranged in a seemingly random order. And as soon as you begin reading, you realize that the book has little resembling “philosophy.” Instead, most chapters have two sections: a kind of literary evocation of the song (normally written in the second person) and then a rumination on something connected with the song (though sometimes the connection is tenuous).
There are 66 songs in total, the oldest from 1924 and the newest from 2003, but the bulk of them from the 1950s—not surprising, since this is the decade in which Dylan grew up. As far as song selection goes, he seems to have chosen songs as much for their quality as for their topic. Considering that at least 75% of rock, pop, and country songs are about love, it is striking that Dylan finds songs about everything from outlaws to movies to getting old. And, for my part, if nothing else the book provides an excellent playlist.
Unfortunately, it does not do much beyond that. As Dylan is proverbially cagey and noncommittal, perhaps it should come as no surprise that the essays have little in the way of self-revelation. He dwells on the universal message of the song rather than what they mean to him, or when he first heard it, or how it influenced his own songwriting. He also does not talk shop, hardly discussing what makes a song good or bad, or what a song exemplifies about the art of songwriting—which is especially disappointing, considering who he is.
I suppose that Dylan was trying to get to the emotional or artistic core of the songs with his prose-poem sections. The effect is, however, rather bland. In rhythm, content, and style, these small literary flights become very repetitive—full of clichés and stereotypes, wholly bereft of any concrete details that would help to differentiate one from another. Here is a typical example:
In this song, people are trying to slap you around, slap you in the face, vilify you. They’re rude and they slam you down, take cheap shots. They don’t like you because you pull out all the stops and go for broke. You put your heart and soul into everything and shoot the works, because you got energy and strength and purpose. Because you’re so inspired they put the whammy on, they’re allergic to you, and they have hard feelings.
It would be hard to find any paragraph with a higher density of hackneyed phrases. And is there anything that indicates that this is written about the Who’s “My Generation”?
Admittedly, the sections Dylan writes in the first person are quite a bit better. Even so, as often as Dylan attempts to illuminate the song itself, he instead takes the song as a jumping-off point for a wider reflection—such as about money, or war, or mental illness—and, it must be said, these are normally not particularly profound. But I am being overly harsh now. There are many good one-liners, interesting tidbits, and worthy thoughts in the book, too. I particularly liked the entry on John Trudell.
Finally, there is the issue of misogyny. Many reviewers have noted that only four of the songs are by women. This in itself would be unsurprising for an 81 year-old man, whose formative musical years were more than half a century ago. Less understandable is the bizarre essay for the song “Cheaper to Keep Her,” which is a rather bitter meditation on divorce, which includes thoughts like “what downtrodden woman with no future, battered around by the whims of a cruel society, wouldn’t be better off as one of the rich man’s wives—taken care of properly, rather than friendless on the street depending on government stamps.” (He is advocating polygamy as a solution for divorce and, apparently, poverty.) This doesn’t read like a joke, isn’t funny, and—aside from being offensive—is also just a bad idea.
I am sorry to be here writing a negative review of a book by one of my musical heroes. Yet I just cannot recommend it. Better in every way—and available free online—are the radio programs that Dylan recorded from 2006-09, Theme Time Radio Hour. In these, Dylan takes a theme (like, say, “coffee”) and finds songs on that topic. For my part, TTRH is wittier and more interesting than this book, with the added bonus that you don’t need to look up the songs yourself. I hope you like it....more
I have the nagging feeling that I’ve gotten lazy about reading—as if I fail to prioritize it, or that it is rarer for me to get swept up into a book. I have the nagging feeling that I’ve gotten lazy about reading—as if I fail to prioritize it, or that it is rarer for me to get swept up into a book. When I examine the books I did manage to read, however, I see that I have had an altogether decent year in this department. In any case, it is wiser to focus on the positives.
As usual, my reading was divided between certain themes and a random spattering of other books.
One major theme—arguably the dominant theme of the year—was music. The first book I completed was Paul McCartney’s The Lyrics, which coincided with my second viewing of Peter Jackson’s incredible Beatles documentary, Get Back. This reignited my Beatlemania and, more generally, my musical fandom. During the course of the year, I made my way through three books on blues, a history of jazz, a history of music in New York City, a history of modern pop music, biographies of Biggie Smalls and Bob Dylan, and the memoirs of Bob Dylan, Pattie Smith, and Miles Davis. Of these, the absolute best was Miles Davis’s Autobiography, which is so engaging, so full of great stories, so illuminating, that it easily ranks among the best books of the year. And I should also mention Malcolm Gladwell’s audiobook on Paul Simon, a delightful little gem. If nothing else, I am grateful to have reconnected with my love of music this year.
Another, rather vague category could be termed “nature and adventure.” This incorporates Ken Burns’s excellent documentary on America’s National Parks, a book about the Hudson River school of landscape paintings, as well as several accounts of getting lost in the wilderness. Most of these combine danger with discovery: Lewis and Clark’s journals on their voyage across the country, Ernest Shackleton’s account of his failed attempt to cross Antarctica, and Steven Callahan’s record of his struggle to survive in an inflatable life-raft. Best of all was Over the Edge of the World, Laurence Bergreen’s book about Magellan’s journey around the world. This last book was such a winning combination of excitement and historical interest that I would recommend it to nearly anyone.
In the realm of fiction, I made my way through some old classics: Eugénie Grandet, Eugene Onegin, The Charterhouse of Parma, Ivanhoe, As I Lay Dying, The Scarlet Pimpernel, and Their Eyes Were Watching God… My absolute favorite was younger, slimmer, and more stylish than these hoary volumes: Italo Calvino’s If on a winter’s night a traveler… Though not profound, it is a delightful work which manages to be utterly post-modern without being annoying (well, it is slightly annoying). I should also mention Camus’s The Fall, which is certainly profound but not quite delightful.
By far the longest book I finished was a history of science in Spain, El país de los sueños perdidos. I feel almost silly for having dedicated so much time to it, since I neither enjoyed it very much nor learned what I hoped to learn. My most popular review of the year was of David Graeber’s posthumously released book, The Dawn of Everything, which somehow managed to be both brilliant and disappointing at once. Meanwhile, the most-represented author on my list is none other than Rick Steves. Somehow, this dorky, goofy tour-guide absolutely won me over. In addition to reading three of his books, I watched all of his travel programs on YouTube—learning a lot about European travel and travel writing in the process.
Two of the most moving books of the year concerned the holocaust: Anne Frank’s diary and Elie Wiesel’s Night. The books are, in a way, complementary, as they are both written from the perspective of a young adolescent swept up in this catastrophe—indeed, Wiesel’s book begins where Frank’s diary ends, at the gates of the concentration camp. These first-hand accounts of human cruelty were supplemented by Paul Preston’s book on atrocities committed during the Spanish Civil War. There seem to be no depths too deep for us to sink to. But since I don’t think a book review—or the year itself, for that matter—should end on such a dark, depressing note, I also would like to mention that I finally read some books on Norse Mythology, which were lovely.
I suppose if next year’s books are just as good as this year’s, I will have no cause to complain. And, as always, the pleasure will be all the greater with the Goodreads community....more
A year ago, I was lucky enough to visit the exhibit on Robert Caro in the New York Historical Society. It contained typed and written drafts of his noA year ago, I was lucky enough to visit the exhibit on Robert Caro in the New York Historical Society. It contained typed and written drafts of his notes and manuscripts, as well as detailed information about his working process. Though the display only filled a single hallway, I came away in awe of the man.
All professional writers work hard, but Caro is superhuman. Every phase of his writing process is laborious in the extreme. The amount of research he does is nauseating. And then he must assemble it all together—first with pen and paper, and then with a typewriter—in mountains of text, revised over and over again. Simply to write as much as he does would be impressive; but to write millions of carefully researched and painstakingly expressed words is a feat in another category altogether.
This short audiobook confirmed this awe-inspiring impression. His dedication to his work is astounding to me. He could easily have written a book about Robert Moses that was, say, half the size of The Power Broker, and it probably would have been quite excellent. Instead, he insisted on writing a book that was so large that it physically could not be printed and bound, and in the process took serious professional and financial risks. He quit his job, moved his family into a small apartment, and used up his savings, all for the sake of a book that could well have been an utter commercial failure. That takes guts.
As you can tell, I was enthralled by the stories he told of his research in this short audiobook. But it must be said that the title is slightly ridiculous. This is not a meditation on power. It is a collection of anecdotes about how he came to write his biographies of Robert Moses and Lyndon B. Johnson—books which certainly do have much to say about political power. I still often find myself thinking of The Power Broker, so I suppose I will have to read all of the Johnson books one day. Perhaps when he finally—and he better do it!—releases the last volume. For now, I can only hope to emulate, in a small and pitiful way, Caro’s enormous devotion to writing and research. ...more
Since I enjoyed a modern translation of the Prose Edda so much, I thought it would be wise to read a modern retelling of these myths. After all, thougSince I enjoyed a modern translation of the Prose Edda so much, I thought it would be wise to read a modern retelling of these myths. After all, though beautiful, the original poems are fragmentary and occasionally confusing, and apart from that book I am rather ignorant of this tradition. Thankfully, Neil Gaiman’s retelling is exactly what I wanted: a book suited for a beginner without being written for children.
Yet the book is not not-for-children, either. By that I mean that there is nothing dense or imposingly literary about the book. It is simple and straightforward. Even so, by the first few pages of every story, I found myself wholly absorbed. Gaiman is clearly a practiced storyteller, and knows how to add just the right details to bring the old tales to life. I was even a bit sad to reach Ragnarok, the final battle, and to say goodbye to Odin, Thor, and Loki—the three great characters from these myths. Until we meet again, great bearded ones!...more
Since I enjoyed Laurence Bergreen’s book about Magellan’s voyage so much, I figured that I ought to read the original. It is a curious experience. PigSince I enjoyed Laurence Bergreen’s book about Magellan’s voyage so much, I figured that I ought to read the original. It is a curious experience. Pigafetta strikes one as cultured, well-educated, and endlessly curious. He includes details of weather, navigation, flora, fauna, and most especially, foreign customs. This is evidenced by the vocabularies he compiled from a captured Patagonian and during his stay in the Philippines. It is obvious that he exerted quite an effort to understand these alien societies (with a special interest in sexual practice, which I doubt was purely scientific).
Despite his ability to write with objective clarity, this account has many notable omissions. For one, he barely stops to describe the attempted mutiny that occurred while they wintered in South America. He adored Magellan and dwelling on the munity obviously would not redound to the commander’s leadership skills. Also, he summarized the return from the Moluccas rather quickly, though that step of the voyage was certainly full of drama and danger. Juan Sebastian Elcano—the captain who finally completed the voyage after Magellan’s death—is not even mentioned.
Though Pigafetta writes with the politeness of a noble, one gets a very clear idea of the hardships of the voyage. There was danger everywhere: starvation, scurvy, storms, mutinies, and virtually anyone they encountered, especially the Portuguese. Pigafetta describes the horrible food they were forced to eat while making the passage across the pacific: bread chewed through by maggots and soaked in rat urine, and water so rancid it could hardly be stomached. Soldiers even paid for the privilege of eating a rat. (Pigafetta was spared the effects of scurvy because he had preserved quince, though he did not draw any conclusions from this.) Indeed, Pigafetta was remarkably lucky to have survived: of the 270 who began, only 18 completed the journey around the world.
It is difficult to see why Pigafetta revered Magellan to such an extent. His navigation skills were certainly impressive, but he inspired little loyalty in his crew. Worse still, he seems to have gone completely off the rails when he arrived in the Philippines. Though the purpose of his voyage was strictly commercial (find out the location of the spice islands and bring back some spices), he rashly got involved in local politics. Worse still, he decided to become a kind of evangelist, leading mass conversions and even staking his reputation on a miracle cure (amazingly, it worked, at least according to Pigafetta). As he has nothing material to gain from this meddling, one can only conclude that he had acquired a savior complex. Maybe so much time at sea just got to him. In any case, this series of missteps resulted in his death during a totally unnecessary battle. His body was hacked to pieces and was not returned to the Europeans.
While it is, perhaps, tempting to view Pigafetta as just a bystander or even an early precursor to anthropologists, his account shows that he was an active participant in many of the ugliest episodes of the expedition: burning villages, capturing slaves, and outright murder. His interest in other languages and cultures did not, it seems, make him able to see them as fully human. One sympathizes, then, with Enrique of Malacca, Magellan’s slave. Though Magellan promised to free Enrique upon his death, the subsequent captain refused to honor this bequest. At the next banquet with the local Filipino king, all of the attending Europeans were slain, but Enrique was not. As the only one who spoke the local language, it seems quite plausible that he told the king a story which prompted the massacre. After that, he may have even been able to return to his home in Malacca, which would make him the actual first person to circle the globe. Go Enrique....more
One of the first book I truly loved was an illustrated collection of Greek myths, told for children. Even in a simplified and sanitized version, the sOne of the first book I truly loved was an illustrated collection of Greek myths, told for children. Even in a simplified and sanitized version, the strangeness of an ancient mythology fascinated my young mind. Unlike stories written for children—or even for young adults—these myths were full of morally ambiguous characters and real tragedy. The good guy did not always win, did not always get the girl, and was not even necessarily good. And the tricks, powers, and battles of these mythological figures were far stranger and more compelling than the superheroes I was familiar with.
I was happy to find, then, that my early fascination with mythology remains unabated. These Old Norse poems are as full of wonderful images, memorable tales, inspiring heroes, and complex villains as their Greek counterparts. Though written down sometime in the 13th century, the poems originated from a much earlier, pagan tradition—that of the Vikings. Much like Homer’s Greeks, this was a heroic society, wherein craftiness, strength, and valor were the highest values, and the concepts of honor and shame occupied the place of our notions of altruism and fairness. One can see this clearly, albeit humorously, in the Lokasenna, in which Loki walks into a party and insults the other gods in astoundingly lewd terms. His accusations of sexual impropriety are not just punchlines, but serious matters that might upset the moral order.
Thor is, of course, present in these poems, just as mighty as he is in the comic books, and just as dense as he is in the movies. Odin is a surprisingly interesting character—a frightening and mysterious being, wise but not necessarily benevolent. The advice attributed to him in the Hávamál is one of the high points of the book. I found the poems about heroes to be rather less interesting than those about the gods—the plots less focused, the characters less memorable—but they do give a clearer picture of the people who originated this mythology. Not being able to read the original, and not having read any other translation, all I can say is that I found Jackson Crawford’s version to be quite readable....more
This is an intriguing little novel. It concerns Adam Gordon, an American living in Spain (difficult for me to relate to), who is supposed to be writinThis is an intriguing little novel. It concerns Adam Gordon, an American living in Spain (difficult for me to relate to), who is supposed to be writing a long poem about the Spanish Civil War, but who is instead busy abusing substances and pursuing Spanish women.
On one level, the book seems to be a character study of a man who, if not quite sociopathic, seems to aspire to be. Though he has pangs of conscience and moments of vulnerability, for the most part he is so concerned with making other people believe certain things about himself that he cannot spare a moment to really care about them as people. He seems to be suffering from a kind of existentialist disorder, thinking that everybody is a phony, including himself, but that he is perhaps superior for knowing that he is acting in bad faith. He is incapable of believing that somebody simply means what they say. Every tone of voice, facial twitch, or gesture becomes a sign to analyze for the deeper meaning. This paradox of both caring deeply about what people think while not caring about them as people—of being both genuine and fake, or genuinely fake—dooms the character to miserable anxiety.
On another level, the book is a meditation on language. Lerner brilliant captures the sensation of speaking, socializing, making friends, and having relationships in a foreign language—how the barrier of language can both foster and negate intimacy, both reveal and hide one’s personality. This is weaponized by the protagonist, who uses his inability to communicate fluently as a way of convincing others that his thoughts are too deep to be expressed, or as an excuse not to have to say his real opinion, or as a reason to utter sphinxlike pronouncements. (Though like most of the narrator’s attempts at manipulation, other people see right through it.)
A poet before he was a novelist, Lerner includes some more philosophical reflections on the nature of language and poetry—specifically, about how poetry ceases to be about anything external to it, but a pure experience of language itself. It occurs to be that this theory of poetry, if tweaked, is an apt psychological description of his protagonist, who cannot relate directly to anything in his surroundings, but whose mind is always lost in a maze of self-referential worrying.
Considering that Lerner was himself a poet who lived in Madrid on a Fulbright Grant, I think it is reasonable to suppose this book contains a fair amount of autobiography (though I hope he is not much like his character). One of the novel’s minor pleasures is Lerner’s ability to evoke the feeling of an American seeing Spain for the first time—the cities, the art, the food, the people—which made me feel nostalgic for my first year in the country. Even if that were not the case, however, I would say that this is an intelligent and enjoyable novel about a rather pathetic man....more
It is difficult, when reviewing a book about a historic person or event, to review the book itself rather than what it describes. This is doubly true It is difficult, when reviewing a book about a historic person or event, to review the book itself rather than what it describes. This is doubly true with regards to the so-called “Final Solution,” which is so overwhelmingly horrible that questions of style seem rather absurd by comparison. But this book is not just another piece of eyewitness testimony; it is very much a work of art. Somehow, by paring down an 800-page manuscript to barely more than an eighth that size, Wiesel’s experience was sublimated into a kind of artform—a book that, rather than reporting on a nightmare, creates the sensation of one through its fragmented and concentrated narrative. To call it gripping hardly does it justice....more
I remember reading, somewhere, that to understand the Divine Comedy one simply must read La Vita Nuova. Though such categorical statements are almost I remember reading, somewhere, that to understand the Divine Comedy one simply must read La Vita Nuova. Though such categorical statements are almost always empty pomposity, this assertion nonetheless lived on in my memory and, eventually, led me here. I do see why the statement was made. So much of Dante’s great poem consists of a marriage of the personal and the cosmic, of the romantic and the divine, of the contemporary and the historical; and we can see the beginning of this impulse in this little book of poems.
This is very much a young man’s book—Dante’s The Sorrows of Young Werther. But of course, Dante was a very different man than Goethe, and his culture of courtly love bear little resemblance with the Sturm und Drang of the Romantic age. Thus, a story that could have been a tragic tale of heartrending sorrow, told in gushing prose, becomes a carefully anatomized series of events recounted in meticulous sonnets. Dante’s love for Beatrice—so idealized and stereotyped as to be bloodless—is sublimated into a kind of personal religion, which was certainly a bold idea.
Amusingly, Dante felt the need to pause and analyze every one of his poems before moving on to the next section of his story, which gives this book a curiously detached and academic feel. Perhaps as a budding author, he wished to demonstrate his poetic virtuosity. In any case, to a modern reader, the emotional whiplash of moving from intimate confession, to rhetorical melodrama, to dry dissection, makes the book more of a historical artifact rather than a living pleasure—which is certainly not the case for his masterpiece....more
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