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David Guy
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in Pittsburgh, PA, The United States
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I was born and raised in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, which in some way still seems like home, though I haven’t lived there for years. I attended Shady Side Academy, graduating in 1966, and enrolled from there in Duke University, where I studied with Reynolds Price and Wallace Fowlie, earning a BA and eventually an MAT. My first job was as an English teacher at Forsyth Country Day School in Winston-Salem. I moved back to Durham in 1976, and have lived here ever since, except for a two-year stay in Cambridge while my wife was in graduate school.
I was eleven years old when I first saw that there was something about language that fascinated me, fifteen when I decided—God help me—that I wanted to be a writer. Though I have worked in libraries and I was born and raised in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, which in some way still seems like home, though I haven’t lived there for years. I attended Shady Side Academy, graduating in 1966, and enrolled from there in Duke University, where I studied with Reynolds Price and Wallace Fowlie, earning a BA and eventually an MAT. My first job was as an English teacher at Forsyth Country Day School in Winston-Salem. I moved back to Durham in 1976, and have lived here ever since, except for a two-year stay in Cambridge while my wife was in graduate school.
I was eleven years old when I first saw that there was something about language that fascinated me, fifteen when I decided—God help me—that I wanted to be a writer. Though I have worked in libraries and taught at various schools and in different capacities, writing has been my true vocation. I have sometimes thought of it as the work I do, other times as a pastime, but it has always been the activity I most enjoy. In the decade beginning when I was 32, I published four novels, Football Dreams (1980), The Man Who Loved Dirty Books (1983), Second Brother (1985), and The Autobiography of My Body (1990). I also published articles in various publications during those years, and was active as a book reviewer.
In 1991, when my wife dragged me to a class at the Cambridge Insight Meditation Center, I discovered the spiritual practice that became central to my life, and grew interested in Buddhism. I think of myself as a “householder yogin” (in the words of Reginald Ray, quoting Chogyam Trungpa) and see “the sitting practice of meditation” as my “primary life commitment.” I have practiced in the Vipassana, Tibetan, and Zen traditions, but don’t consider those distinctions important. Since 1995 I have practiced with Josho Pat Phelan at the Chapel Hill Zen Center, with regular forays back to the Insight Meditation Society.
I worked with my first meditation teacher, Larry Rosenberg, on two books, Breath by Breath: The Liberating Practice of Insight Meditation (1994) and Living in the Light of Death: On the Art of Being Truly Alive (2001). I wrote for various Buddhist publications during those years, and published The Red Thread of Passion: Spirituality and the Paradox of Sex (1999).
In 2001 I began working at Duke’s Sanford School of Public Policy, teaching in both the MPP and Hart Leadership Programs. I retired in 2014, though I still work part-time for Hart Leadership. Working at Duke freed me to get back to narrative writing, and in 2007 I published Jake Fades: A Novel of Impermanence. I currently live part of the year in Durham and part in Asheville, and spend my time writing, reading, sitting, swimming at various pools, taking long walks, and getting together with friends.
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Jake Fades: A Novel of Impermanence
3.82 avg rating — 129 ratings
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2007
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5 editions
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Autobiography of my Body
3.43 avg rating — 61 ratings
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published
1991
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8 editions
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The Red Thread of Passion: Spirituality and the Paradox of Sex
3.70 avg rating — 37 ratings
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published
1999
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2 editions
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Football Dreams
3.93 avg rating — 15 ratings
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published
1980
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6 editions
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The Man Who Loved Dirty Books
3.83 avg rating — 12 ratings
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1983
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6 editions
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Autopilot Profit Formula: The Complete Step By Step System To Automated Income
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David Guy said:
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I’ve heard the name Jundo Cohen in Zen circles for years, and associated him with his teacher, Gudo Nishijima. Some time ago, I read a book that the two of them co-authored, A Heart to Heart Talk with Zen Master Gudo. Nishijima is a unique teacher, a
I’ve heard the name Jundo Cohen in Zen circles for years, and associated him with his teacher, Gudo Nishijima. Some time ago, I read a book that the two of them co-authored, A Heart to Heart Talk with Zen Master Gudo. Nishijima is a unique teacher, and I agree with some things he says, other things not so much. I knew that Cohen had an online presence with Treeleaf Zendo, intended as a place for people to practice who don’t have access to a nearby Zen Center. But I hadn’t read his writing.He caught my attention with, of all things, a post on Facebook, in which he answered a student’s questions about sex and Zen practice.[1] His response, I thought, was lighthearted, funny, and just about perfect; I didn’t disagree with a thing he said. So many Zen teachers get uptight and moralistic when this subject comes up and begin lecturing from on high with no reference to lives as they’re actually lived. Cohen seemed relaxed and down to earth.
I began nosing around on the internet and found various articles he’s written, including a whole slew on the Tricycle website.[2] Like Nishijima (and Nishijima’s teacher Kodo Sawaki), Cohen is an unabashed proponent of shikantaza, the zen of just sitting. When Dogen came back from China and wrote Bendowa and Fukanzazengi, he stated that zazen was a universal practice, suitable for everyone. His life and the political situation later made him a proponent of monastic practice, but I think he got it right the first time. If laypeople can spend twenty minutes a day chanting the Nembutusu or Myo ho ren ge kyo, they could just as easily sit zazen. It doesn’t require a monastery. It just requires a butt and a place to put it.
Cohen has the same attitude. Though he himself is a priest, the clergy in his lineage don’t make much of all the priest craft, or of the distinction between the priests and others. Sawaki and Uchiyama—teachers of the lineage Nishijima was in—faced the wall for zazen, and their services didn’t include bowing and chanting. They devoted themselves to zazen, where everyone is equal.
As a man who has lived in Japan for many years and works as a Japanese translator, Cohen is not afraid to take on Dogen. He actually makes sense of him. He believes Dogen wrote about Zen the way (hold on to your hats) John Coltrane played the saxophone, that a lot of the time he was doing variations on a theme and not worried about making rational sense. (It’s a good thing, because rational sense he did not make. And pardon me, but I’d rather listen to Coltrane than read Dogen.)
You can see Cohen’s down-to-earth attitude when he speaks of the Buddha’s enlightenment, which most writers make into a mysterious event:
“Long ago, Sakyamuni Buddha tried all kinds of practices and all manner of intense meditations in order to find true peace and wholeness in his heart. He tried deep meditations leading to radically altered states of consciousness. He pursued philosophical and intellectual understanding. He even starved himself, trying to punish his body in order to find freedom. But then one day, after all those many years of effort, the Buddha-to-be sat cross-legged under a tree. He saw the simplicity and completeness of the morning star rising naturally on the distant horizon and gave up all fighting, striving, and resistance. He realized that the star, the world, and himself [sic][3] were just what they were, whole and complete. In that moment, he was freed of the need to fight or to run toward his desires and away from his aversions. He put aside all judgments and accepted the world on its own terms. In doing so, the hard borders and feelings of separation and alienation between him and all his life softened and dropped away. Thus he experienced an abiding wholeness and peace. He remained in this world with all its divisions, complications and troubles, yet also saw through them into wholeness.”
The Dogen fascicles that Cohen translates and comments on in this book are the classic ones, the heart of Dogen’s writing: Fukan Zazengi, Genjo Koan, Zanmai-O-Zanmai, Ikka Myoju (One Bright Pearl), Uji, and Shoji and Zenki. I personally like the first two and the last two, places where Dogen speaks most practically; I inevitably get lost in a piece like Uji, where Dogen presents his view of time and eternity. I’m more interested in the practice than in the discoveries it leads to.
Essentially, Cohen sees the Buddhist path (in the metaphor of the large book, he calls it How to Dance) as twofold:
“The first step is no step, sitting upright and very still. This is zazen, seated Zen, in which we assume a balanced and stable posture, breathe deeply and naturally, and just sit. . . . we let go of tangled thoughts and judgments as best we can. . . . We sit in equanimity, beyond judging good or bad, with a sense that this sitting is the one and only act that needs to be done in this moment.
“Master Dogen’s next lesson is the sacredness of all things and activities. Getting up from the sitting cushion, we return to a life of goals and tasks . . . Master Dogen said we should not separate life and practice, but instead see everything and all moments as sacred practice.”
That, to me, is a simple and effective prescription for how to live one’s life. It isn’t just for medieval Japan, where you poured the water back into he stream after using it and made sure you had enough mud balls before you went to the outhouse. It works just as well right now, when we pour water down the drain and make sure we have toilet paper.
As for Being-Time, that devilishly difficult piece about which whole books have been written (I’ve read one), it comes down to holding two things in the mind at once: seeing each moment as entirely itself, not to be compared with any other (when you are, for instance, and arthritic and sometimes befuddled 76-year-old, don’t compare it to the good old days when you were supposedly happier—you weren’t—but completely accept being 76 and arthritic and befuddled, because that’s the moment you’re in); and realizing, at that same time, that each moment of your life includes every other moment, not only of your own life, but of all human history (people speak of my past lives, but in what way, exactly, is it yours. Your present life isn’t even yours).
Cohen actually takes on Dogen’s more annoying statements, like when he says that not only does time flow from the past to the future, it also flows from the future to the past (when I read that I wanted to say, C’mon, man. Be real). But as Cohen points out, what about a situation where you thought one thing happened, and years later you discover that you had the facts wrong and something completely different happened? The person you thought you were dealing with wasn’t that person at all. Isn’t that the future flowing into the past?
Makes sense to me. Dogen actually makes sense. Can this be?
Jundo Cohen thinks so.
[1] You can see this post here https://www.facebook.com/jundo.cohen by scrolling down to February 15th.
[2] https://tricycle.org/author/jundocohen/
[3] That word should be “he,” but I’ll allow Cohen one grammatical slip. He generally writes well.
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In the late seventies, when my writing career was getting started, I followed the literary world the way other men follow the sports pages, and I vividly remember the event that put Jim Harrison on the map: Esquire published the entirety of one of hi
In the late seventies, when my writing career was getting started, I followed the literary world the way other men follow the sports pages, and I vividly remember the event that put Jim Harrison on the map: Esquire published the entirety of one of his novellas in a single issue, and promised to publish another in an upcoming one; that book of three novellas, Legends of the Fall, brought Harrison fame and fortune. My impression was that he was (as a college friend used to say) one of the tough guys of American literature, like Harry Crews, Larry Brown, Norman Mailer for that matter. I wasn’t interested in such people. I was reading a lot of women’s literature at the time. I didn’t think the world needed one more hairy-chested male. But when I got a part-time job at the Regulator Bookshop and began discussing books with fellow employees, I found that a couple of the hardcore feminists counted Harrison as one of their favorite writers. I was startled. Dell was bringing out a uniform edition of all his books in paperback, and though he looked tough in his photos (his squinting left eye, which he had lost in an accident when he was a child, added to the feeling), he was lying in the grass with his daughter, which added a touch of humanity. I also loved the looks of those editions. You can’t tell a book by its cover, but sometimes I like the damn cover. I picked up one of the early novels, I think it was Sundog, and was immediately hooked. I started reading everything he had written, and through the years he became the one person whose book I would buy as soon as it appeared in the bookstore. I didn’t give a damn what the reviews said. I have a bookcase which houses favorite writers, and Harrison occupies the top shelf, his books ranging all across it. I’ve read every book on the shelf, many two or three times. What I loved about Harrison had nothing to do with macho or not macho, male or female (though my favorite of his novels, Dalva, has a female narrator). I loved his offhanded way of delivering information, his idiosyncratic prose, which seemed somehow intimate and personal in a way that other writers are not. It’s hard to describe what I’m talking about, but it never fails to be true, in his novels, novellas, even in a lot of his poetry. I’m not a big poetry reader, but I read all of his, and it had the same quality I find in the prose. It’s not that he was writing autobiographically; I don’t think he usually was, but he was writing from a unique sensibility, and you had a feeling of knowing the person. And he admitted to his worst foibles. He was gluttonous, drunken, drug-added, horny and apparently (it seemed) unfaithful to his wife (I used to wonder what she thought). He put it all down on paper. I loved his honesty. He said in various places that he read Henry Miller—another writer with similar qualities—to get a jolt of real life from him. I felt the same way about Harrison.[1] These characters reached their apotheosis in one named Brown Dog, who was the protagonist in novellas that Harrison regularly published as books of three (one Brown Dog story per book), and eventually merited his own collection, a 525 page volume. Brown Dog was a walking Id. He did exactly what he wanted, when he wanted, and if that involved eating some massive amount of food with several gallons of alcohol, then making an awkward pass at the closest woman within reach, so be it. But I have to say—and my self from twenty years ago would have been stunned to hear this—I eventually grew tired of it. Behavior that seems funny and painfully honest when a character is 35 or 40 can seem willfully stupid when he passes age sixty, then seventy. It’s one thing to admit to your foibles when you’re young, another to continue that behavior into old age, by which time you might think a man would acquire some wisdom. Also, frankly (I say this at age 77), a man in his seventies who’s still making passes at women in their twenties and thirties is not funny, he’s embarrassing. At some point a heavy drinker is just a drunk. And as for still being a glutton, when it involves a lunch that includes 37 courses, with multiple wines, it seems a bit over the top. I also felt that, in his later novels, Harrison fell into the familiar trap of parodying himself. A Jim Harrison character had to do Jim Harrison things, and at some point you want to say, I believe I’ve read this before. He seemed to keep writing in order to keep living—I understand that impulse—but he wasn’t letting the tank fill after he finished something. And the mystery novels he wrote at the end of his life were painful to read. He had adopted a new genre, but it hadn’t adopted him. All that having been said, I anxiously awaited the biography that I knew must be in the works, and I was delighted to find that Todd Goddard has done an excellent job of reporting on Harrison’s life. He mentions things I suspected but didn’t actually know. For one thing, Harrison considered himself first and foremost a poet, all of his life, even though his vast fame came from his novels. He kept writing poetry until the end (and had just written one when he died, of an apparent heart attack, at age of 78). He did love his wife and his family, but spent most of his life apart from them; he had the same kind of wanderlust that Peter Matthiessen had, but for a different reason; Matthiessen seemed to be looking for some utopian ideal, while Harrison seemed to be running from something. He had plenty to run from. A little girl had poked out his eye with a broken bottle when he was seven years old, and his father and sister, both of whom he loved dearly, were killed in an accident with a drunk driver when he was just getting started as a poet. In a way he never got over those things, despite years of therapy, and often struggled with depression. He seemed to face his pain squarely in his writing, but in his life just kept running. It’s amazing that he accomplished as much as he did So I have mixed feelings about the man, even though he’s still on the top shelf of that bookcase. I think Dalva is a great novel, along with The Road Home, a kind of sequel. I would actually recommend nearly all of his novels; he just fell off toward the end. The poetry too, though I’m hardly a judge of poets, but it’s very much the work of Jim Harrison. And the many occasional essays, including lots of those about food, which you can read until you feel stuffed. (One essay, not on food, bore one of the all-time great titles: “Ice Fishing: The Moron Sport.”) I wish he had settled into a more comfortable old age, the way Henry Miller himself did: he never renounced his early books, but he took up other subjects. But Harrison was who he was, and he occupies a huge space in my reading life. I’m glad he found a worthy biographer. [1] Miller is on the second shelf of that bookcase. www.davidguy.org ...more |
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Feb 12, 2026 07:38AM
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I can’t remember ever being as exasperated by a book that I basically liked as I was by The Magus. What I read—after my enthusiastic reading of The French Lieutenant’s Woman—was that, while that was considered his greatest novel, The Magus was his mo
I can’t remember ever being as exasperated by a book that I basically liked as I was by The Magus. What I read—after my enthusiastic reading of The French Lieutenant’s Woman—was that, while that was considered his greatest novel, The Magus was his most popular, and had its own set of fans. It was actually the first novel he set out to write, and he spent years on it, though he published The Collector first. I was hooked when I saw in the front pages that it had been enthusiastically reviewed by both Brian Moore and Guy Davenport, who said, “What makes the book so unabandonable is its ability to surprise, and never twice in the same way. . . . Thoroughly enjoyable all the way through.” It’s interesting, at least to me, that Davenport raises the possibility of abandoning the book (and creates a new word in the process), something I almost never do. The book is, like The French Lieutenant’s Woman, beautifully written; we’re in the hands of a prose master, and that’s normally enough for me. But the novel’s basic premise is that there is a man, or perhaps, even a collective of people, who believe they have a right to stand in judgment of another human being and set about changing his character and behavior. They do so by altering reality in weird ways, staging scenes, creating hallucinations, getting him to the point where he doesn’t know if he’s observing reality or something these folks have created. I find such an attitude arrogant in the extreme, and I certainly don’t admire the people who have it. I say that even though I don’t basically disagree with their judgment of the person. The man in question, Nicholas Urfe, is a literate and adventurous Englishman who has graduated from university and, not sure what he wants to do, heads to Greece for a year to teach English and live in an entirely new landscape (which he loves, and describes beautifully). The job taxes him, but not overly much (his students know basic English and are just trying to increase their fluency). He winds up spending weekends with a wealthy and fascinating man named Maurice Conchis, who has hosted English language instructors from the school in the past (a couple of them have given Urfe veiled warnings, but weren’t terribly specific). Conchis is himself well-educated (though he has abandoned novels, and claims to have burned every novel he owned), wealthy to the point where he doesn’t need to worry about anything, aging (he claims to have had a couple serious heart attacks), and a marvelous storyteller. He sets about telling Nicholas the story of his life. That’s when he begins altering reality. If I had to give a name to what he’s doing, I’d call it a mind fuck. Conchis describes a love affair he once had with a young woman named Lily. Then he absents himself, and a woman who looks exactly like Lily appears. Nicholas sees through the ruse, eventually corners her and gets her to admit it’s all an act, then proceeds himself to fall for her, and she for him. Except that, as we soon find, she’s not falling for him at all, but playing him along. She also has an identical twin sister, just as beautiful, who becomes part of the charade. And so on. These aren’t spoilers because they don’t begin to describe how elaborate the set-up is. As we get into the novel and begin to understand, our big question is why would anyone do this? Just as a pastime? The epigraphs to the three sections of the novel are from the Marquis de Sade (they’re in French; my French isn’t up to them), and what Conchis and his compatriots are doing seems to be, literally, sadistic. At one point, toward the end of the novel, a woman calls it the God-game. That’s an apt description. Except that it’s being done by a human being, who says he doesn’t believe in God. He doesn’t have all-knowing wisdom. There were nevertheless scenes in this novel that stopped me cold, and sent me off looking for a pen so I could underline and come back to them, something I rarely do. For instance, as he was describing his experience of trench warfare in World War I (something which, eventually, we’re not sure he even did), of looking death right in the eye, he says this, about spending the night in a fetid trench: “But what I thought was fever was the fire of existence, the passion to exist. I know that now. . . . But I possessed that night an almost total recall of physical sensations. And these recalls, of even the simplest and least sublime things, a glass of water, the smell of frying bacon, seemed to me to surpass or at least equal the memories of the greatest art, the noblest music, even my tenderest moments with Lily. . . . To be able to experience, never mind that it was cold and hunger and nausea, was a miracle. Try to imagine that one day you discover you have a sixth, till then unimagined new sense—something not comprehended in feeling, seeing, the conventional five. But a far profounder sense, the source from which all the others spring. The word ‘being’ no longer passive and descriptive, but active . . . almost imperative. “Before the night was ended I knew that I had had what religious people would call a conversion. . . . But I had no sense of God. Only of having leapt a lifetime in one night.” That certainly sounds authentic. Somewhat later—a hundred pages in book time—Conchis, with Nicholas’ permission, hypnotizes him; he may also put him under the influence of a drug. Not many descriptions of drug experiences seem to work, but this one does. It’s a long passage, and I won’t include all of it, just the place where he arrived. “An enormous and vertiginous sense of the innumerability of the universe, an innumerability in which transience and unchangingness seemed integral, essential and uncontradictory. . . . A condition of acute physical and intellectual pleasure, a floating suspension, a being perfectly adjusted and related; a quintessential arrival. An intercognition.” In a later episode, Conchis speaks of another experience that shakes his world. He had been a scientist, a physician (or so he said); now he saw something more to human experience. “But in a flash, as of lightning, all our explanations, all our classifications and derivations, our aetiologies, suddenly appeared to me like a thin net. That great passive monster, reality, was no longer dead, easy to handle. It was full of a mysterious vigour, new forms, new possibilities. The net was nothing, reality burst through it. Perhaps something telepathic passed between Heinrich and myself. I do not know. “That simple phrase, I do not know, was my own pillar of fire. For me, too, it revealed a world beyond that in which I lived. For me, too, it brought a new humility akin to fierceness. For me too a sense of the vanity of so many things our age considers important. I do not say I should not have arrived at such an insight one day. But in that night I bridged a dozen years. Whatever else, I know that.” These passages kept me reading avidly in a novel whose overall conceit both bored and annoyed me. Inasmuch as we ever come to see why Conchis is conducting this mind fuck, we eventually find out that it is because Urfe seduced a woman and led her on (though she was perfectly compliant) then dropped her, perhaps because he was afraid of intimacy. At the time, I thought Nicholas was making a mistake, but it’s hardly an unusual one for a young man. Eventually, though, Conchis sets that incident in a larger context. And I did find what he said to be interesting. He begins by saying, “What I am now about to tell you may help you understand why I am bringing your visits to an end tomorrow,” a statement which proves not to be true (for the umpteenth time. That’s a major part of what I found annoying. The guy was never straight with people). He goes on, “I should like you also to reflect that its events could have taken place only in a world where man considers himself superior to woman. . . . “That is, a world governed by brute force, humourless arrogance, illusory prestige and primeval stupidity. Men love war because it allows them to look serious. Because they imagine it is the one thing that stops women laughing at them. In it they can reduce women to the status of objects. That is the great distinction between the sexes. Men see objects, women see the relationship between objects. Whether the objects need each other, love each other, match each other.” With this statement, Conchis is connecting various episodes we have gone through. He makes a final connection powerfully. “It is an extra dimension of feeling men are without and one that makes war abhorrent to all real woman—and absurd. I will tell you what war is. War is a psychosis caused by our inability to see relationships. Our relationship with our fellow men. Our relationship with our economic and historic situation. And above all our relationship to nothingness. To death.” That statement bowled me over, connected much that had happened throughout the novel, and, for me, summed everything up. Unfortunately, it was on p. 413 of a 563-page novel, and there were various other highjinks still to go through. I got tired of them. And it seems to me that there’s a vital plot element that’s full of holes. I will say, however, that I found the final pages of the book, and the ending, excellent, and quite appropriate. I still think The Magus is a major novel, by a superb novelist. But this book takes self-indulgence to a new level. www.davidguy.org ...more |
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Feb 12, 2026 07:35AM
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Feb 12, 2026 07:30AM
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Rachel Kushner is a writer who is so riveting line by line that you forget to step back and ask yourself what you’ve been reading. Then your wife asks and you say, it’s about an art student in New York named Reno (named for the city she’s from). She
Rachel Kushner is a writer who is so riveting line by line that you forget to step back and ask yourself what you’ve been reading. Then your wife asks and you say, it’s about an art student in New York named Reno (named for the city she’s from). She arrives utterly alone and has trouble getting by (it’s the mid-seventies, when New York was more dangerous than it is now), meeting people and finding places to live, but eventually hooks up with an older artist named Sandro Valera, who takes care of her. He’s wealthy because his family owns a motorcycle manufacturing company in Italy (chapters in the present alternate with chapters from the past which show how the business came about, through Sandro’s father), and that’s a lucky coincidence, because not only does Reno love motorcycles and the sheer fact of speed, she wants to go to the salt flats of Utah and try to set a speed record there, then photograph her tracks as an art project. The straight line that her tires will make. Not sure how interesting an art work that will make, but hell, it was the seventies and people were doing a lot of weird things. We see her begin this quest, but she has a horrific crash (quite early in the novel). I, at least, was afraid there wasn’t much left of our protagonist. Crashing a motorcycle at close to 200 miles an hour? But she only sustains a leg injury, and subsequently sets a woman’s speed record for driving in a car, something around 300 mph I believe, though the car itself was designed for a male racer and capable of much more (?). Eventually she makes it back to the city, and Sandro has her crashed cycle put back together so she can make her way around town. Money seems to be no object for the man. It’s only when you’re telling all this to your wife that you realize how wildly unlikely it sounds. When you’re reading it doesn’t seem that way at all. This power couple continues to function in the New York art world, interacting with various patrons and other artists. Sandro is the black sheep of his family because he has abandoned the business to go off and be an artist, and he doesn’t share their conservative politics. We don’t notice—at least I didn’t notice—that there are any number of women in New York who seem friendly with Sandro and seem to know him well. Someone other than Reno might have been suspicious. Eventually Sandro has to return to Italy for a Board meeting, and Reno decides to go along. That was maybe her first mistake, but it was also a path to self-knowledge. Or at least knowledge about Sandro. There was a lot of labor unrest in Italy at the time. In fact, there was about to be a nationwide strike. But the Valera family is oblivious to that, or at least contemptuous of it; they feel they’re protected and don’t give a damn. Sandro’s mother—to whom he feels some loyalty, because his father is dead—is condescending and venomous to Reno, not even a good hostess. Reno endures a number of days with this woman, and the time crawls by. Soon a female cousin shows up, and though she isn’t all that attractive, she is sexy and provocative, and has known Sandro since they were young. The whole family goes to the board meeting and Reno stays back, which seemed like a good move at the time, then she changes her mind and gets a chauffeur to take her to Rome, where the meeting is happening. There, by chance, she sees something she shouldn’t have, and is so disgusted, and furious, that she goes with the chauffeur back to his place, where he is a major part of the labor unrest. It’s dangerous, potentially violent stuff. But those folks are more Reno’s people than the Valera family. If all this happened in chronological time, it might not have worked, but Kushner stages the episodes in such a way that we only discover the background details eventually, finding out that Sandro wasn’t the faithful person Reno had thought he was. By that time she’s back in New York, doing everything she can to inhabit the art world while avoiding Sandro. But as we eventually realize, the real suspense of the novel has to do with something that happened with the chauffeur, a man named Gianni, when Reno went off with him. And the ending of that part of the plot is a desolate one indeed. It makes things that happened in New York look trivial. I don’t know if this sounds like something you want to read, but believe me, it is. Line by line it’s a page turner, however unlikely it all sounds. And in an afterward, Kushner lets us know that her initial impulse was to write a novel about the year 1977, one I remember well[1]. I must say, though, I was oblivious to a lot that was happening in my country and around the world, if this novel is any indication. So who are The Flamethrowers, since we’re on that subject? They were men who, during World War I, could visit death on the enemy in a unique way, by shooting flames at him from a tank they carried on their backs. On the one hand, they were lethal. On the other hand, they were sitting ducks for marksmen with rifles, so they could do a lot of damage if they could get in position, but often they couldn’t. They were the favorite World War I fighters of Sandro’s father, who had a collection of toy soldiers made out of paper. But his older brother, as older brothers will, made fun of his preoccupations, doused the paper soldiers with gasoline, and lit them on fire. The flamethrowers went up in flames. Why did Kusher choose that title for her novel? I’m still trying to figure that out. [1] I had just decided to leave a teaching job that I’d had for six years in order to give myself more time to write. My first novel had not been published, but I was persevering. That second one would be published three years later as Football Dreams. www.davidguy.org ...more |
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Dec 15, 2025 08:25AM
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The French Lieutenant’s Woman was one of the favorite novels of my friend Levi, who had read it multiple times. In fact, I believe he gave me the copy I have, for my birthday or for Christmas; like most book lovers, he gave his favorite books. I’m al
The French Lieutenant’s Woman was one of the favorite novels of my friend Levi, who had read it multiple times. In fact, I believe he gave me the copy I have, for my birthday or for Christmas; like most book lovers, he gave his favorite books. I’m always four or five books behind on my to-read list, which keeps expanding, and it somehow never included this novel, which has sat on my shelf at least since Levi’s death in 2017. I’ve now finally read it. I should have started it the day he gave it to me. It’s a great book. It is essentially a 19th century novel written by an author with a 20th century sensibility. Weirdly, and disconcertingly, that author sometimes steps into the story and comments on it. He even once sits on the train in which the protagonist is traveling, the way Hitchcock appeared in his own movies. I would say also that the novel is about a 20th century woman—one of the most intriguing women in English literature—trapped in a 19th century world, and situation. Most of the people around her, with their quaint Victorian prejudices, seem mildly nuts. She seems the sane one. The story is simple. Sarah Woodruff, while living in Lyme Regis, Dorset, is seduced and abandoned by a man who had been shipwrecked there, the French Lieutenant of the title. He told her that, after returning to France, he would come back to get her, but he never did, and she later found out he was married and never intended to return. It’s the old sad story, of an unprincipled man and a common woman who has no recourse once she has been used in that way. As the novel opens, she haunts the seacoast and stares out to sea, as if expecting his return any minute. At least that’s the story the townspeople tell each other. She is discovered there by a man named Charles Smithson, who is in a carriage with his fiancé, a young woman named Ernestina Freeman who has heard the story the townspeople tell. Charles is worried that Sarah is in peril and goes to help her; she rebuffs him with a gaze that goes right through him, and tells him she doesn’t need his, or anyone else’s help. That stands in contrast to most young woman in Victorian England. He is intrigued. Charles is a landowner and aristocrat who has not exactly fallen on hard times, but who has limited capital. Ernestina is the daughter of an extremely successful merchant, and will bring a large dowry and eventually inherit all that her father has. In that sense Charles is marrying beneath himself, perhaps with an eye on his bank account. But he genuinely loves Ernestina, and after having spent his early adulthood traveling all over the continent and having various adventures, he’s ready to settle down. But he can’t get Sarah out of his mind. He also can’t get her out of his life, because on his various expeditions around the countryside—he has a strong interest in archaeology—he keeps running into her, and her intensely mournful countenance. Eventually he consults a local physician, Dr. Grogan, about the matter, and he says Sarah is suffering from melancholia. He believes it might help to tell her story to a sympathetic listener. Sarah has suggested as much to Charles, and sympathetic listeners aren’t readily available, in Dorset or anywhere else. The doctor does begin to suspect that Charles’ interest in the woman isn’t just therapeutic and warns him to be cautious for that reason. Charles ignores that part of his advice. The reader has long since realized, maybe even since that first chapter, that Sarah is the woman for him. The way all these things come about involves a complicated and suspenseful plot that has us on the edge of our seat at the same time that we want to read slowly because of the beauty and power of the prose. One stunning moment comes when—in contrast to what the townspeople believe—Sarah says that the French Lieutenant didn’t take advantage of her. “I gave myself to him.” She also seems amused by a romance that is going on between Charles’ servant Sam and a woman who waits on Ernestina. She seems to approve, in a society that says she should frown on it. This reads like a truly great Victorian novel—with the occasional unsettling intrusion of our 20th century narrator—and winds up in a place that suddenly does seem modern. It’s not a happy ending, but our characters have made a huge leap in self-awareness. Sarah still stands as an enigma but also as her own woman, who will live the way she wants to. It seems at times to be a novel about Charles. But in the end it’s Sarah who stays with us. www.davidguy.org ...more |
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I am constantly amazed by Anthony Burgess. Using the evidence of the surviving poetry, especially the sonnets, and what is known about the chronology of the plays, Burgess has spun an utterly credible narrative of Shakespeare’s early life. More astou
I am constantly amazed by Anthony Burgess. Using the evidence of the surviving poetry, especially the sonnets, and what is known about the chronology of the plays, Burgess has spun an utterly credible narrative of Shakespeare’s early life. More astounding to me is the way he recreates the atmosphere of England in the sixteenth century; the story teems with detail. And then there’s the language. The man who did studies of both Shakespeare and Joyce really cut loose with the words in this novel; I guess he figured that if they could do it, he could do it. The result is an intoxicating mix of rich language, historical detail, and small bits about the poems and plays. It’s not a quick or easy read. But it’s worth the effort we put into it. Take the opening of the fourth chapter: “It was this sonnet, then, copied in a good hand with no blot, that nestled snug in his breast that warm evening of May as, with S. Brailes, Ned Thorpe and Dick Quiney, he walked or slued (a skinful of ale to enthrone boldness) westward to Shottery. These were good brown laughing fellows who knew little of bookish learning or of poesy either, but they dearly loved a jest, especially if it entailed sore hurt for others, as for example, skull-cracking, jibing, making skip the rheumy ancientry, thieving, wenching and the like.” They almost sound like the droogs from A Clockwork Orange, in Elizabethan England. When I took a class in linguistics in grad school, our professor told us that Joyce had the third largest vocabulary of any writer in English, Milton the second, and Shakespeare the first.[1] I honestly wonder where Burgess would rank. You could say he’s not at the same level as those writers in terms of talent, and I wouldn’t dispute that. But for sheer variety of style, he ranks with almost anyone. A number of his early novels (like One Hand Clapping) employ utterly simple diction. But this book, along with A Clockwork Orange, explodes. The novel is divided into two parts, the first covering late adolescence and early adulthood, until 1587, the second from 1592-99, by which time Shakespeare had written a number of famous plays but not his greatest tragedies, which scholars date after 1600. The young Shakespeare that Burgess portrays is not an aspiring writer, especially. He does feel constrained by provincial life in Stratford, longing for something larger, and has an overwhelming wish to be a gentleman. His father is a glover, but his mother came originally from a prominent family. Shakespeare works for his father for a time, learning the trade, but also making connections. It is while he apprentices with another man that he first encounters a prostitute named Fatimah, who will become the Dark Lady of the sonnets, but he can’t get involved with her then, as much as he wanted to; he doesn’t have the money. Young WS—as Burgess refers to him—does have an eye for the ladies, and isn’t terribly particular. One early affair was with an older woman named Anne Hathaway, the most experienced and ardent lover he’d come across. Unfortunately, he gets her pregnant—an occupational hazard for a young rake—and her family forces him to marry her. I thought she was a catch at the time, level-headed and more experienced, very much in love with the young man. She moves in with his family in Stratford—his father, mother, and two brothers—and somehow there is a strain from the start. I honestly didn’t understand what the problem was. I think it was more provincial life than Anne herself who bothered him. He longed to get away. He begins composing verse in a desultory way, sonnets and also longer narrative poems (it’s hard to see Venus and Adonis as a casual pastime). One way for a young man to get ahead was to find a royal patron, and he discovers that Henry Wriothesley, the Earl of Southampton, has a love for language and verse similar to his. The man is wildly enthusiastic, happy to become Shakespeare’s patron, and eventually the men become lovers. Wriothesley is good-looking, slightly feminine, and quite sensual. Soon WS was consorting with theater people and beginning to compose plays, which enabled him to live in London and support the family back in Stratford. Burgess by that time is in full-bore speculative mode, finding ways for the known plays of that time to correspond with moments in WS’s life, also his various interests. Eventually Fatimah comes back into his life—she is seen as a rare beauty among the aristocrats—and Wriothesley grows interested in her too. WS contracts syphilis from the woman—another hazard of the day—and Burgess seems to suggest that the mental changes the illness brings about account for the more imaginative later plays. I don’t know if I buy that, but Burgess details the progress of the disease in painful detail. My writing mentor, Reynolds Price, once told us in class that Tolstoy knew as he was writing his great novels that he was one of the great writers in world history. Milton knew. Wordsworth knew. I wondered about that. The William Shakespeare that Burgess portrays has no idea if his early narrative poems have any worth at all; he isn’t sure if his dedication to Wriothesley might be presumptuous. And the older Shakespeare just works assiduously, trying to make a living, with no particular understanding that Romeo and Juliet and Henry IV Part I are among the finest things ever penned in English. There’s also the question of where it all came from. How did this son of a glover, who never attended university, have such a gift of language and knowledge of humanity? Of that, I’m afraid, Burgess doesn’t have clue. But how could he? It’s inexplicable. Just as inexplicable as his own vast talent. [1] Modern estimates dispute that. They put Joyce first and Shakespeare second. www.davidguy.org ...more |
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Dec 15, 2025 08:21AM
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The basic premise of this book is that Albert Einstein’s life’s work stemmed from an essentially religious feeling of awe and wonder at the workings of the universe. Kiernan Fox cites an early moment when one of Einstein’s uncles gave him a compass w
The basic premise of this book is that Albert Einstein’s life’s work stemmed from an essentially religious feeling of awe and wonder at the workings of the universe. Kiernan Fox cites an early moment when one of Einstein’s uncles gave him a compass when he was five, and the young man was amazed that, no matter where he went, the needle always pointed to North. He wanted to understand the force behind a fact like that. Another intriguing fact is that Einstein’s most famous discovery, didn’t originate in a process of thinking, but in another use of the mind altogether. “It is not easy to talk about how I reached the idea of the theory of relativity,” he said. “There were so many hidden complexities to motivate my thought.” He also said, “I come close to the conclusion that the gift of imagination has meant more to me that my talent for absorbing absolute knowledge.” He referred to his process as “thought experiments,” and Fox tells us that his “best-known vision occurred at just sixteen years old, when he imagined himself traveling through the vacuum of space at the same speed as light itself. He soon forged this thought experiment into a formal theory that revolutionized physics: special relativity.” People spoke about such understanding in religious terms. Even a famous atheist like Bertrand Russell said that, “For all who were inspired by Pythagoras,” mathematics “retained an element of ecstatic revelation.” It seemed to resemble an enlightenment experience, and Einstein spoke of it just that way. “He who finds a thought that lets us penetrate even a little deeper into the eternal mystery of nature has been granted a great grace.” I had the vague notion in my head that Einstein spent most of his time pondering physics. I got that idea from an anecdote I once read. A friend who was supposed to meet him for lunch somewhere got held up and arrived late. He apologized for keeping Einstein from his work. Einstein said something to the effect of, “I can work here as well as anywhere.” He didn’t need particular surroundings. He was always “working,” by which he meant, I assume, contemplating the universe. Actually, he was a prolific reader, and when he died had a library of 2400 books. Kiernan Fox had access to these books, and pored through them to see what interested the man. One part of his collection centered on Eastern philosophy, including works on Taoism, Hinduism, and Buddhism. He found much of what he read to be in agreement with his view of things, which was that the universe was powered by what he thought of as an “arch-force,” not a personal God but an overwhelming source of creation and destruction. Einstein also traveled all over the world meeting religious figures of all kinds, including Buddhists in Japan and, in India, Rabindranath Tagore, who had several long conversations with him. He was intrigued by the vision of reality of these people but was never persuaded to undertake their kind of spiritual practice. He encountered the vastness of the universe through his work. One name that keeps recurring in this book is Pythagoras, about whom not much is known but who has also acquired a variety of legends around him. He too seemed to believe that the universe could best be explained mathematically and saw its harmony in mathematical terms. He felt that music also expressed the essential harmony of things (Einstein was an amateur musician, and thought that if he hadn’t been a scientist, he might have devoted himself to music), and he did apparently engage in various spiritual practices, perhaps something resembling Buddhist meditation (he lived at roughly the time of the Buddha). Subsequent thinkers had a similar bent. Einstein also had a strong interest in Spinoza, and said on various occasion, when asked if he believe in God, that he believed in the God of Spinoza. Like Pythagoras, Spinoza’s way of explaining things verged on being mathematical, or at least technical, and Einstein seemed to have read his work thoroughly. Another thinker in the same vein was Schopenhauer, who was similarly influenced by Eastern thought and by Spinoza’s view of things. Einstein and the physicists who followed him—especially Wolfgang Pauli—seemed to believe that the universe could somehow be “known” scientifically, that it would be possible to extend human knowledge in such a way that it could take everything in. That seems to me to be the major difference with Eastern thought, at least the Buddhism I’m familiar with, which suggests that you can experience reality but not know it: you can’t see it, but you can be it. In fact, Don’t Know Mind, or Beginner’s Mind, is seen as a possible virtue. The scientific approach is another way altogether. The question is: is it really possible to “know,” that is to understand, the workings of the universe? Einstein toward the end of his life seemed to be having doubts. I think that he saw the theoretical possibility while not really believing in the reality. Though some of his discoveries led to the branch of physics known as Quantum Mechanics (this part of the discussion left me in the dust), he ultimately thought the Quantum physicists were on the wrong track and would have to abandon that perspective to achieve real progress. They thought he was just a (brilliant) old guy who was out of touch. In a way it seems like the way Buddhists talk about “perfect and complete enlightenment” (a phrase which people threw around at the Insight Meditation Society). Is there really such a thing? I used to think. If the universe is infinite, do you really ever get to the end of it?[1] There are those who say that, in some other realm, the Buddha is still practicing. It seems that scientists will be practicing their method forever as well. Both approaches seem equally religious to me. [1] And if it’s infinite, how do you ever know where you are in terms of enlightenment? If there’s no end, there’s no other marker. www.davidguy.org ...more |
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Dec 15, 2025 08:19AM
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In the early seventies, there were three movies that took violence in cinema to a whole new level: The Wild Bunch, Straw Dogs, and A Clockwork Orange. My wife and I saw Straw Dogs, which portrayed Dustin Hoffman as a confirmed pacifist who was dealin
In the early seventies, there were three movies that took violence in cinema to a whole new level: The Wild Bunch, Straw Dogs, and A Clockwork Orange. My wife and I saw Straw Dogs, which portrayed Dustin Hoffman as a confirmed pacifist who was dealing with a home invasion and discovered he had an inner warrior after all. That movie was so extreme, and such an assault on the senses, that we weren’t tempted by the other two. A Clockwork Orange, in particular, had a reputation for shocking and gratuitous violence. I skipped the movie, and though I soon became a Burgess fan (his short early novels were perfect for a new teacher who didn’t have a lot of reading time), I didn’t read this most famous of his novels because of the violence, also because I read somewhere that the thugs in this novel had a secret language all their own, and that the book was slow going. Burgess was, among other things, a startlingly inventive linguist. I would have to say that A Clockwork Orange is a linguistic marvel, a book in which you often don’t know what the words mean, but the syntax lets you know what’s going on. Burgess relates in his second memoir, I Had the Time, that he had begun to study Russian for a trip he and his wife were making, and that language inspired him in inventing the language for this gang of thugs, who call themselves droogsb. The interesting thing is that the language, because it’s all a little vague, has the effect of cushioning the violence; you don’t quite know what it’s saying, or it at least takes you a while to figure it out, so it isn’t as vivid as plain English would be. Almost any paragraph serves as an example. “So we scatted out into the big winter nochy and walked down Marghanita Boulevard and then turned into Boothby Avenue, and there we found what we were pretty well looking for, a malenky jest to start off the evening with. There was a doddery starry schoolmaster type veck, glasses on and his rot open to the cold nochy air. . . . He looked a malenky bit poogly when he viddied the four of us like that . . .” I would have to say, though I was young once, and though I knew a few rough characters, at least by reputation, I don’t get the motivation of these young men, especially in the first two chapters. They seem just to be destroying things for the sake of destruction, beating people nearly to death not for any good reason—not to steal money for instance, though they do that—but just for the sake of doing it. And though I understand the anger of young adolescents—I was angry myself, for various specific reasons—I don’t get this. The first night I read the novel—just two chapters, as I remember—it was total mayhem, and as much as I admired the writing, I wasn’t sure I could continue. I had to read something else for a while before I went to bed. But by the third chapter, our protagonist and narrator, Alex, had gone back home, where he led a half-normal life (though his parents often wondered what he was up to) and even spoke the King’s English, which he could do. And not too much further on, he and his buddies did a home invasion—they seemed to be trying to up the ante—and went a little further than they’d intended. The old lady who lived in the house died, and Alex, the only droog left behind, was charged with the killing. The story then takes up the criminal justice and prison system, which seem about as bad and perilous as they are everywhere. Alex manages to hold things together in prison for a couple of years, but he finally gets the opportunity to get out if he will undergo a special kind of conversion therapy. Without especially knowing what that is, he agrees. And that leads us to the novel’s moral heart. I thought they were going to give him a lobotomy, but the book is classified as science fiction, and a doctor has invented a new form of therapy in which he injects the patient with some unknown substance, then forces him to watch scenes of violence, very much like those Alex has been committing. He can’t look away; he’s strapped into a chair, and his eyelids are forced open (?). He undergoes this therapy day after day, for many hours a day, while the doctors test his reaction. In time he is released, and we see how the therapy has worked. The moral question—and it’s a good one—is whether the state has the right to so alter a human’s psyche that he, in effect, no longer has free will. He can’t be violent because it’s too painful. That means he can’t fight back when he’s attacked. It also seems that he feels pain at strong emotions of any kind. Alex becomes a test case, with the two sides arguing the case, and winds up becoming a political football. He also runs into some of the former droogs, who are now involved in, you guessed it, law enforcement. They haven’t really changed; they’re just on the other side of the law. The British version of this novel—as Burgess explains in a forward to this later edition—had 21 chapters, the American just twenty. That 21st chapter, which Burgess considered vital to the story, takes Alex into an adulthood in which he has settled into his new self. That’s the ending that Burgess intended, but the Americans apparently preferred to leave things ambivalent. I agree that the twenty-first chapter is vital. And though Burgess wrote the book in that first year of breathless writing, after being diagnosed with a brain tumor, it is among his best. The man had a stupendous verbal gift. www.davidguy.org ...more |
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Dec 15, 2025 08:16AM
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