This would have to be one of the most unusually good books I have read. It is not quite a novel and not quite a collection of short stories, organisedThis would have to be one of the most unusually good books I have read. It is not quite a novel and not quite a collection of short stories, organised in an unusual way. It is partly written in the second person (Jay McInerney's Bright Lights, Big City was my first second-person novel) and on several occasions, the author speaks directly to the reader (a literary technique known as "authorial intrusion"). The main story is structured using numbered chapters, interspersed with the beginnings of several books (with the relevant book names as chapter headings) that relate directly to the main story. It is rather complex in terms of its structure and I couldn't help thinking it is very much a "post-modern" novel. But it works. I am often surprised by the number of books that are about books and authors, a bit like 42nd Street - a musical within a musical. But this book is very clever. While at times I couldn't help thinking that Calvino had turned a number of "false starts" into a publication, it is too good to have been written so perfunctorily. Two stand-out parts work for me. First, Calvino addresses two types of writers (pp. 173-4):
One of the two is a productive writer, the other a tormented writer. The tormented writer watches the productive writer filling pages with uniform lines, the manuscript growing in a pile of neat pages. In a little while the book will be finished: certainly a best seller - the tormented writer thinks with a certain contempt but also with envy. He considers the productive writer no more than a clever craftsman, capable of turning out machine-made novels catering to the taste of the public; but he cannot repress a strong feeling of envy for that man who expresses himself with such methodological confidence... [The productive writer] feels [the tormented writer] is struggling with something obscure, a tangle, a road to be dug leading no one knows where... and he is overcome with admiration. Not only admiration, but also envy; because he feels how limited his work is, how superficial compared with what the tormented writer is seeking.
I certainly feel like each of these authors depending on the type of writing I am engaged in. That self-consciousness is part of the process is something that Calvino weaves into the plot perfectly. Second, Calvino picks up on how I read (p. 254):
Reading is a discontinuous and fragmentary operation.
What I find most interesting about this reflection is that Calvino's work, or at least the several of his works I have read so far, all seem to play to the discontinuous and fragmentary reader. The structure of this work, much like Invisible Cities and Mr Palomar, suits a style of reader who is unable to read in large chunks of time. While not being able to read long and uninterrupted is far from ideal, Calvino's work is presented in convenient and memorable chunks that suit the fragmentary and disrupted peace of the post-modern worker. There is still a little more of Calvino's work for me to read, but I have now covered his most famous works. And I am delighted to have "discovered" Marcovaldo in a Shanghai bookstore which introduced me to one of the greatest authors of the twentieth century only a few years ago....more
Jim Molan's book is provocative but also sets out some possibilities that are certainly not far-fetched. While I felt the future scenario description
Jim Molan's book is provocative but also sets out some possibilities that are certainly not far-fetched. While I felt the future scenario description was not quite in the same vein as Nevil Shute's On the Beach, it was certainly disturbing. Molan also mentions James Curran (p. 176), so I intend to read Curran's Australia's China Odyssey: From Euphoria to Fear. I was fortunate enough to attend Curran's book launch and I have a signed copy.
One of Molan's statements that struck me relates to the potential impact of AUKUS (p. 171):
Ironically, AUKUS increases both the likelihood that China can be deterred from taking military action, and the likelihood that a war will occur sooner.
Like many others, I had long hoped that Australia could manage our strategic relationships with the Untied States and China simultaneously, but China's "wolf warrior" diplomacy and its willingness to use trade as a "weapon" changed my tune pretty quickly. I was also concerned by the Morrison government calling out China on the origins of COVID-19 among other issues. But at the same time, teaching political leadership and considering the likes of Neville Chamberlain and his firm belief that appeasement was working only makes me glad that Morrison had the fortitude to call China out on its shenanigans.
On a more mundane level, the term "Contested Logistics" (p. 222) was new to me. One of the United States' major strengths has been its logistics capabilities. But Australia is not so well-regarded. For example, following the shortages of toilet paper and food in Australia on a whim during the pandemic, it is clear that Australia's capacity for basic logistics is lacking, which makes me wonder about our capacity for contested logistics. Molan discusses "national capacity" as the population's willingness to fight and win a war, and this is an area that bothers me the most.
In my most recent article in The Spectator Australia, I argued that universities following woke trends from the US are making us "harmless". Molan (p. 258) argues that universities (along with other institutions) have a key role to address "deficiencies in skills enhancement". But I think universities are not even close to having a meaningful impact on skills enhancement and we are encouraging neither "self-reliance" nor "resilience" (p. 268) in our students. In fact, I believe we are encouraging a fragmented society that neither could nor would be willing to win a war, even in self-defence. While I do hope I am wrong, and that the current woke trend will pass, Molan paints a picture that we should not ignore if we are to continue to live our rather blessed lives as we have done since the end of World War II.
This is an important book in that it raises a number of issues and scenarios that policymakers need to heed. But I do believe that policymakers in the national security sector are so institutionalised as to reinforce these very institutions through returns that reward sticking with the norm. Molan does suggest that Australia needs a national security strategy that is not just run by Defence.
But with interest groups in the Defence Industry sector so tightly entwined, I suspect we will have to suffer the initial losses that democracies tend to suffer at the beginning of wars as we have done in previous wars. Molan provides ample warning for this, but I really do worry that contemporary Australians would rather we became a "tributary state" than stand our ground or present a hard target.
Molan writes that when people ask him what we need to do, they immediately rattle off (p. 252):
B-21 bombers, F-22 fighters, conscription, reform of the Federation, nuclear weapons, a nuclear power industry...
I, too, have been guilty of looking to technologies rather than strategies. But at the same time, we do not have real policy debates where we focus on obtaining rigorous answers to difficult strategic questions. If we leave it up to the existing institutions, we get the same result. If we open it up to free and open debate, we are telegraphing our intentions.
Neither solution is adequate, and while Molan provides some of the important questions, he does not provide the solutions (nor could one person). Nevertheless, this is quite a thought-provoking work and it is well worth a read as it provides an important starting point for an Australian national security strategy.
I've met the author a couple of times and we follow each other on twitter. I bought this memoire on Kindle recently and once I started, I couldn’t stoI've met the author a couple of times and we follow each other on twitter. I bought this memoire on Kindle recently and once I started, I couldn’t stop. I usually write notes on my blog about every book I read but this one made me double-check. It was only yesterday when talking to my students about developing a professional online presence and I mentioned how Gemma Carey had gone against the academic grain with her book that I realised how courageous she is in publishing this story. While it was far less courageous, B.F. Skinner took a similar approach decades ago and was admonished for writing a novel (Walden Two), despite its own type of brilliance.
I think the book is very courageous and has challenged my thinking on multiple levels. I don’t know where to go from here, but I suppose that is the importance of the book. After days of reflection, I am still at a loss as to “where to from here?” But I hope my perplexity honours the work sufficiently for now....more
Spoiler Alert: This novel is about how to die. Forget the reviews that wonder how people could conduct themselves so serenely and not go off like craz
Spoiler Alert: This novel is about how to die. Forget the reviews that wonder how people could conduct themselves so serenely and not go off like crazed rats. If I had the knowledge that I - and everyone else - would be extinct in a matter of weeks, how would I want the end to be?
I finished reading this novel last night with a powerful rush of emotion followed by involuntary tears and a horrible feeling of powerlessness. I tried to shake this off with a start on some absurd Nabokov (Despair) but it didn't work. All night I dreamt about how I would die in this situation.
In the first dream, everyone was scrambling into a cave. I was following a loved one. Deeper and deeper into the earth we burrowed. I wanted to stop and go back but I also wanted to be with the one I love. They went on. The effects of radiation began to tell on me and I wanted to be near my loved one but not in the dark, buried under ground. We died there and I felt so disappointed that I hadn't gone my own way. I awoke in a state, realised it was the novel and a dream.
My subconscious wasn't satisfied, so back into the dream state I go and the dream runs again. And again. And again. Finally, I wake and realise that life is not so serious. Dying well is more important than running on the rollercoaster of others' ideas. Trust the process. And off into the deepest sleep I go.
No art has ever affected me so. Arriving at this novel and discovering such powerful emotions was a fortunate accident of circumstance. Dilectio Libertas et Doctrina. Love, Freedom, and Learning. Such a powerful way to live.
My choice of books is often a result of random events that open an entirely new world of thought. On a recent road trip, my girlfriend selected the podcast The Cold War Vault, and we listened to the episodes about the Net Evaluation Subcommittee and how it painted an increasingly gloomy picture of the United States' ability to win a nuclear war in the late 1950s.
In 1983, Carl Sagan's warnings of a nuclear winter following even a limited nuclear war would ramp up the scientific debate about the end of the world. But Nevil Shute, a Brit-turned-Aussie (and author of A Town Like Alice and Beyond the Black Stump), had set it out already in On the Beach.
I had no idea about Nevil Shute. The connection to Australia came out in the Cold War Vault podcast, which referred to the film and "Anthony Perkins' non-existent Australian accent". I was intrigued and the next thing I notice, the book is staring at me in Elizabeth's Bookshop in Newtown.
These random connections in my various readings are wonderful. Even while writing this up, I looked for a link to Nabokov's Despair and discovered that it, too, had been made into a film starring Dirk Bogarde. Much like Shute, I knew nothing of Bogarde until I read Thomas Mann's Death in Venice and watched the 1971 film. I've since read several of Bogarde's autobiographical stories, opening up another world of French gardens and country living.
Back to On the Beach, unlike the horror of dying from radiation exposure as thousands of people did after the United States bombed Hiroshima and Nagasaki, Shute tells of the various approaches to death taken by the characters left in Melbourne as nuclear fallout following the short World War III in the northern hemisphere slowly engulfs the rest of the planet.
The hopelessness of it all is symbolised by a trip in a nuclear submarine to test an optimistic theory that radiation levels are decreasing closer to the north pole and to investigate the origin of random morse code transmissions from near Seattle. Yeoman Swain escapes the submarine off the coast of his hometown and is later seen in his boat with an outboard motor fishing. He refuses to die in a strange land in a few weeks' time, preferring to die in a few days at home. It's the individual choices that make this story so vividly disturbing.
One character decides to remain faithful to his dead wife (unlike Gregory Peck in the movie version!). Another buys a Ferrari race car and pushes himself to the limit in scenes where several drivers die brutally in an ad hoc Australian Grand Prix. He takes his prescribed suicide tablets (provided free by the local pharmacy) while sitting, victoriously, in his well-preserved car.
A couple and their daughter decide to just get it over with. A farmer worries about his cattle and makes sure they have enough feed. The naval officer goes down with his ship outside of territorial waters, and Ava Gardner's character gets sloshed and takes her suicide pills just as Gregory Peck's character (she doesn't shag him in the novel) sails off into the sunset and before diarrhea strikes her again. She's on the beach. Hence the name.
This novel demonstrates how stupid it all is - going through the motions because we don't know how to live, let alone die. I am still disturbed when I think about the novel, but differently than in my first nightmare last night.
Much like my literary idol Professor Harold Bloom said, as we age we read against the clock. But we might also prepare to die well. That starts now. And that, I believe, is what Nevil Shute was trying to say.
I was surprised to stumble upon this guide to Australia for American servicemen during World War Two. I was looking at slang from the Royal Military CI was surprised to stumble upon this guide to Australia for American servicemen during World War Two. I was looking at slang from the Royal Military College, Duntroon, Australia's army officer training institute apparently modelled on the USA's Westpoint, or at least according to this book! ...more
It's sad that it's taken me this long to read another book. But it's clear there's light at the end of the tunnel, and reading this book has been insp
It's sad that it's taken me this long to read another book. But it's clear there's light at the end of the tunnel, and reading this book has been inspirational. I've been working with the author of this book for the last few weeks looking at how to get all of my "parts" to work together, instead of having a free run, an experience that hasn't worked at all before.
Some four years of working on Stoic philosophy has been useful but there have been parts that don't work for me. I suspect that Stoicism's physics, stemming from Heraclitus, has an element of sadness in its resignation to fate. Epicureanism, on the other hand, with its focus on happiness, stems from Democritus' physics. Philosophical adversaries, to be sure, but even Seneca would accept the lessons of his rivals if the lessons are useful.
Journalling is my major vehicle for practising Stoicism. I wrote about the approach I have used in the past here. While reinforcing the foundational principle of Stoicism, best captured in the first page of Epictetus' Enchiridion, I also created a chronicle of evidence that continually "stacked up" with a clear message: I wasn't happy. Even though I was much calmer and more at peace with the world, I wasn't happy. The end result was a major crisis that disrupted my otherwise disciplined journalling ritual.
I don't regret my experience of journalling and practising Stoicism over the last four years, but after the first three years it became a struggle. Only recently have I been able to get back into my journalling practice, but it is substantially different from my previous practice.
Now, I am learning to incorporate other aspects of Eastern philosophy and religion, especially Buddhism, and more recently, Classical Indian Philosophy in the form of the Yoga and Siva Sutras.
After a trip to Brunei in May last year the idea of the Chakras opened up a whole new world of healing, especially for my body which has long been neglected over the last twenty years while I pursued study and an academic career. Turning to Stoicism was the first step in a much broader awakening to life outside of the mind.
My first step was to do two Rapid Transformation Therapy (RTT) sessions and then a tarot reading. I had some Bowen, Reiki, and Kinesiology sessions, too. A key theme has been the relationship of the body to the mind. As a former soldier, the only real relationship these two parts of me have had was that my mind pushed my body as far as it could go.
The therapy I have been having with Richard has been useful in recognising the different parts of me that act and react on my behalf. A key part of the technique, known as Eye Movement Desensitisation and Reprocessing (EMDR), has been enlightening and brought to light a number of issues I have buried for many years.
The approach is similar to Napoleon Hill's concept of the Cabinet of Invisible Counselors, except that the counselors are different parts of me, rather than other individuals. I am hopeful that the approach will help me develop a better sense of self and to become better at establishing and maintaining healthy boundaries.
I stumbled upon Reclaiming your Inner Harmony: A Practical Guide while checking out Richard's website. I found the book easy to read and quite practical. The basic approach is that, to achieve inner harmony, one must balance the mind, body, feelings, and gut instinct. Disharmony is caused by one of these parts dominating the others.
For me, gut instinct is something I have buried for a long time. I think that Stoicism, which is clearly a form of ancient psychotherapy, is much easier to subscribe to for a soldier-turned-scholar. But it doesn't make any connection to the body. In fact, it tends to dissociate the body from the mind, in that it is not something that one can control. This makes sense in terms of illness or injury, but it seems to ignore the fact that my mind exists because of my body. I must admit to a feeling of dissociation which has only recently begun to retreat.
I found this short book useful despite my first attempt at using the tools leading to my gut instinct going for an off-leash run. Like the EMDR therapy, the point is to enable all parts of oneself to "check in".
Much like Stoic philosophy (and religions, but that's another story), it takes practice to reinforce the habit, through use of the chain method, if you will. And that is where my journalling has found a new purpose.
My journey, which began with my mind before finding practical application in the form of Stoic philosophy, neglected the feelings, body, and gut instinct that I have rediscovered. It has given me a perspective that I think I initially buried, inappropriately in hindsight, and then suppressed further with Stoicism.
The last time I felt the connection with my body was in training before going to Duntroon. I was practising Tai Chi at the time. Like Seneca, I can choose to use whatever works for me rather than trying to be a purist in everything I do. Given the obvious health and wellbeing benefits, it makes sense.
And while many things and people have assisted me on this latest stage of my journey, this book has given me a logical framework for connecting with my different parts while also guiding me to develop my own, unadulterated, sense of self.
I am a fan of Ryan Holiday's work. I tell my students in my leadership and politics classes, "Be like Ryan". Read, write, think about your future. DevI am a fan of Ryan Holiday's work. I tell my students in my leadership and politics classes, "Be like Ryan". Read, write, think about your future. Develop a philosophy - rules to live by. Establish your purpose - what a colleague calls one's ikigai.
Ryan Holiday reads books. He is well-read. He writes books. He lives on the land. He is doing in his early thirties what I am still not quite able to do in my fifties. But that's not the point.
As Theodore Roosevelt warned, "comparison is the thief of joy". I know all about my own circumstances, not somebody else's. Better to judge myself by my own principles and standards.
I have read many self-improvement books and I take something away from each one I have read. But I am also conscious of the marketing behind such works. I recall accompanying one of my in-laws to an event. It turned out to be Amway. I bought Dale Carnegie's famous book but I was wary of every time a colleague asked me, "I'd like to talk to you about a business opportunity".
I found myself becoming a little wary of Holiday's approach to this book about one third of the way through. I felt it was formulaic and repeating old ground from his earlier works. But I have been following his work from the early days of the simple Reading List email newsletter, so I acknowledged my concerns and pushed on.
I think it is the way the book builds. The end of each chapter gives a few short sentences of encouragement. I was experiencing the elevation at the end of each chapter much like one does when reading Carnegie. Frowning often while reading, it wasn't until the last few pages that my faith in Holiday was restored.
In "Act Bravely", one of the final chapters, Holiday discusses Albert Camus' The Fall. I am nodding in agreement and I thought, "I know this story, I've read most of Camus". I had to check my blog and there it was, "La Chute".
It struck me again that Holiday is really well-read. My faith restored, I went back and examined what had been going on for me.
To cut a long story short, I suffer from self-doubt in the way of Steven Pressfield. It can be crippling. Writing this right now is part of my preparation to write something else that I wish would just go away. But it won't and I have a job to do.
Holiday discusses the idea of stillness in the context of looking after oneself. I noted that many of the tips and tricks he mentions for maintaining stillness in one's life, I have used since I can remember.
Albert Camus struck me the same way when he discussed suicide. (I am not advocating suicide but I went through the philosophical exercise as the Stoics do without realising it had been done by others. This is a major reason to read according to Harold Bloom and Italo Calvino.) Ryan Holiday introduced me to the Stoics and they had the same view of suicide as a legitimate philosophical option.
Reading Stillness is the Key revealed to me the extent of my self-doubt. Not only about myself and my academic work, but also about the processes I use and how I defend my inner citadel from nonsense, how I do things like writing this blog post as a hobby and how I might prioritise doing so on this long weekend holiday instead of doing other work that is always there and can take up all my time when I let it.
And there it is - Ryan Holiday has done it again. All writing follows a formula, but that doesn't necessarily mean it is formulaic. Indeed, Aristotle's formula was original once!
The trouble with him was that he was without imagination. He was quick and alert in the things of life, but only in the things, and not in the significances.
To be formulaic in writing is to lack "the significances". In these, Ryan Holiday lacks nothing....more
On the way to Berlin, Dresden, and Hann. Münden. Vonnegut, a second generation American of German descent seemed to be a good choice for the flight. IOn the way to Berlin, Dresden, and Hann. Münden. Vonnegut, a second generation American of German descent seemed to be a good choice for the flight. I usually find it easy to knack over a Penguin paperback on a long-haul flight, but not this time. I've been struggling to read deeply since a major life event early last year has shifted the focus of my spare time.
I purchased a Penguin Vonnegut at the airport for some light reading but didn't manage to finish until some months later. I found Vonnegut's work to be interesting but a little far-fetched - it smacked of a Woody Allen style of science fiction (see the trailer for "The Sleeper") that was somehow banal yet allegorical in a mildly interesting way.
Much of the social commentary was lost on me. I suppose for a conservative reader of the early 1960s the foot-touching free love may have been a bit out there, but for me it was all old hat. I had the feeling of the 'thirteen days' and the Bay of Pigs fiasco.
Usually I am a fan of history but Vonnegut is rather economical with his contextual elements - an Animal Farm kind of focus on the sociological order rather than the 'iceberg' cerebral development approach. It was interesting today that I listened to a podcast on Jack London's literary style.
This sent me on a quest to look back at some of my previous readings of several of London's works. One thing I found was that I have been critical of London's racism (poignant in the wake of the Black Lives Matters protests beginning in the US and now happening in solidarity but focused on Indigenous deaths in custody here in Australia).
But I was also pleased to note that I had picked up on the problem (Jack London's To Build a Fire): The trouble with him was that he was without imagination. That's how I felt about Vonnegut's work. Until the meaning of the title came to my attention. The cat's cradle.
It's a child's illusion. It requires one's imagination. One flick of the hands and the cradle is gone. It doesn't exist.
I am usually way off but occasionally, like with Jack London, I am on the mark.
I found in Cat's Cradle the Stoic technique of the "bird's eye view". Once we view the world from above, we realise two things.
First, the insignificance of our petty existence. The arguments of today, the idiot tailgating me on the Hume highway last night, flashing his lights and sounding his horn. All nothing. I remember noting too, with flying, that once you are above the clouds it is always a perfect day, It is all a matter of perspective.
Second, we are all in this together. I am currently reading Ryan Holiday's Stillness is the Key. He mentions Edgar Mitchell's famous words upon viewing the world from space: You want to grab a politician by the scruff of the neck and drag him a quarter of a million miles out and say, 'Look at that, you son of a bitch.’ It is interesting that just this week, Mitchell's words have resurfaced in what has been called the world's first political protest in near space, but targeted at Donald Trump.
In the above musings, and almost two months after I finished reading Cat's Cradle, I realised Vonnegut's genius. It is all an illusion. There are hands, there is string, there is imagination. The cat's cradle is made up of reality and intangibles. Neither works without the other.
Fake news, The Guardian versus The Australian and all of the left versus right is more of the same nonsense. It is not imagination, it is not creative, it is dogmatic, divisive, and dodgy. Yet the people believe.
This is what I get from Vonnegut. It is not the illusion, but that we make sense out of the world through our "bounded rationality" combined with our sense of imagination. Not fake or make-believe, but creative and expressive and from the depths of our intellect.
Regrettably, Kurt Vonnegut reminds us that without imagination (the creative as opposed to the conspiratorial kind), we are doomed to an inevitable end. Like London's "everyman" in To Build a Fire, we are not reflecting on our mortality in the face of nature, but rather imagining ourselves to be something more significant and smacking of hubris. For London: The trouble with him was that he was without imagination. He was quick and alert in the things of life, but only in the things, and not in the significances.
But London, too, was a fan of eugenics. Vonnegut was subtler, less egotistical, more realistic. If I had to sum up Cat's Cradle, I would say that London had too much imagination, whereas Vonnegut is the Goldilocks' little bear version of "just right".
P.S. It's a shame that The Three Bears was originally written by Robert Southey and not the Grimm Brothers to fit my German theme. And the original Goldilocks was an old woman and the three bears were bachelors. But you can use your imagination! I visited the Grimm Brothers Museum in Kassel, Germany, on 3rd December 2019....more
This is the third of the Dover "Wit and Wisdom" series I have read, following on from Poor Richard (Benjamin Franklin) and Mark Twain. While the latteThis is the third of the Dover "Wit and Wisdom" series I have read, following on from Poor Richard (Benjamin Franklin) and Mark Twain. While the latter two were certainly witty in the humorous sense of the word, its use in relation to Lincoln is one more of quick intelligence, sans humour.
There are many familiar quotes in this book, two at least from popular culture. The first from Bob Dylan's "Talkin' World War III Blues" (p. 29):
You can fool some of the people all of the time, and all of the people some of the time, but you can't fool all of the people all of the time (29 May 1856).
The other quote is from Saving Private Ryan, a letter of condolence to a Mrs Lydia Bixby. Lincoln believed that Bixby had lost five sons in the war. The book suggests this was what Lincoln believed at the time, but it was a mistake - she had lost two (p. 78). I decided to delve into this a little more.
While there is much controversy about the actual letter, ranging from opinions that the wording of the letter is greater than the Gettysburg Address, to that it wasn't written by Lincoln but by his assistant personal secretary, John Hay.
What is even stranger is that Bixby may well have been a Confederate sympathiser and operated a house of ill repute! Still, that doesn't take away from Lincoln's eloquence.
There isn't much in the way of humour other than a mild form of self-deprecating humility. My favourite story about Lincoln is his decision to grow a beard, based on the suggestion of an 11 year-old girl, Grace Bedell, in a letter of 15 October 1860 (p. 14). My great, great grandfather, James Beasley Percy, born in 1866 near Armidale, wore the same beard.
But there is one thing that Lincoln was famous for, not so much what he wrote but what he didn't send. On 14 July 1863, Lincoln wrote a scathing letter to General George G. Meade for letting Robert E. Lee's forces escape following the Battle of Gettysburg (p. 86). Lincoln referred to these as "hot letters" to let off steam. I suppose it is easier not to post a letter, much less so with a "flaming" email!
While quotes are easy to come by on the internet, and not all are adequately attributed, I find reading the "Wit and Wisdom" series useful in that the quotes are themed around important events or activities. Reading a person's thoughts, letters, and speeches in this way provides a richer idea of the trials and tribulations they faced, rather than the glossy bits that are seen in a simple meme or online quote.
Lincoln appears to be much more serious than Twain or Poor Richard. Indeed, responding to a cabinet minister wondering why Lincoln was reading a humorous book (p. 44), Lincoln replied:
With all the fearful strain that is upon me night and day, if I did not laugh I should die.
And he was under enormous strain. In responding to a reported death threat, Lincoln remarked on 4 April 1865 (p. 16):
I cannot bring myself to believe that any human being lives who would do me any harm.
When I sat down to write about my first reading of this collection of poetry, I drew a blank. I knew nothing of Ted Hughes until he was mentioned in aWhen I sat down to write about my first reading of this collection of poetry, I drew a blank. I knew nothing of Ted Hughes until he was mentioned in a comment about my reading of T.S. Eliot's The Waste Land, along with Sylvia Plath. I'd heard of Plath!
I didn't hate the poetry, nor did I like it. But it seemed strange. I knew it was about animals, but that was the extent of the experience of my first reading. So I took to some research and made some enlightening discoveries.
Hughes was the UK's Poet Laureate, just like Alfred, Lord Tennyson. There had to be something I was missing.
In an interview with The Paris Review from 1995, Hughes mentions a number of issues concerning "The Art of Poetry", such as the differences in drafting verse in handwriting versus typing. In response to the question "Is a poem ever finished?", Hughes mentions a struggle he has had with the singular or plural in the middle of the poem, "Hawk Roosting". Neither worked satisfactorily.
So I start there:
My feet are locked upon the rough bark. It took the whole of Creation To produce my foot, my each feather: Now I hold Creation in my foot
And he's right. Swap feet for foot and back again, and neither works grammatically. But it works as it is in the poem.
I tried another poem, "Urn Burial". On the first reading, my mind was clouded by seeing some of the oldest remnants of human urn burials in Bahrain on a visit during my sabbatical in 2009. All I could picture were the skeletal remains curled up in the large stone urns. No animals in sight.
Then, like a 3D picture, the symbolism became clear: Oh, it's a weasel! (It even reads "weasel", but I was off in another dimension.) It started to make sense.
This was not entirely my own doing. I had to digress with Hughes' ars poetica, "The Thought Fox". Hughes basically tells me how to read his poetry. It's very clever, but maybe a little more academic than I was expecting.
Hughes' fascination with animals came from his childhood experience. His older brother, ten years his senior, loved to hunt. Hughes acted as his older brother's retriever and this continued for something like twenty years. Hughes is also famous for his children's books.
Like many readers these days, I had fallen victim to the general decline in reading poetry for fun. (Except epic and didactic poetry such as Homer, Virgil, and Hesiod.)
This year I have read Frank O'Hara, Sir Walter Ralegh, T.S. Eliot, and Alfred Lord Tennyson, and I am now a convert. I also read Nietzsche's The Gay Science and I am currently reading Harold Bloom's The Anxiety of Influence, both works about poetry. It makes more sense to read poetry more than once, and with some study in between. (Hughes said this in his Paris Review interview, too.)
Had I not read up about Hughes, I would have been none the wiser. And I would certainly be missing out.
The icing on the cake was the name of the collection, Lupercal, is derived from an ancient Roman pastoral or fertility festival, Lupercalia, held annually on my birthday. This made more sense of the numerous classical references that had confused me in my first reading.
After reading Evelyn Waugh's A Handful of Dust, the title of which is derived from T.S. Eliot's modernist poem, The Waste Land, I was compelled to reaAfter reading Evelyn Waugh's A Handful of Dust, the title of which is derived from T.S. Eliot's modernist poem, The Waste Land, I was compelled to read the poem and to learn more about Eliot. Up until today, my knowledge of Eliot was limited to what I had gleaned from Woody Allen's Midnight in Paris.
I have read all around Eliot, including Djuna Barnes (whom Eliot admired)1, Ernest Hemingway, Scott Fitzgerald, Gertrude Stein, Sherwood Andersen, Ford Madox Ford, and Virginia Woolf. But I have shied away from poetry until only recently.
After reading the poem, I listened to the BBC's In Our Time podcast episode, "The Waste Land and Modernity". There was much interesting discussion about the original book version of Eliot's poem. Apparently, the poem itself was too short to be a book and the publisher asked Eliot to pad it out.
Eliot added a bunch of notes to the poem, many of which turned out to be superfluous. The poem had also been cut down considerably by Ezra Pound, which took away the various signals of the several stories that emerge in the poem.
I listened to a reading of the poem on YouTube, partly read by Eliot. In the In Our Time discussion, they mentioned that the poem was published at the same time BBC Radio began, so in many ways the poem lends itself to a radio reading. It is interesting how listening to the poem being read makes the different voices more obvious, whereas this is somewhat obscured in a first reading (to oneself).
In sum, an issue that constantly strikes me is that the more I read, the less I know. And in many ways, based on my reading around The Waste Land, and from the discussions on the In Our Time podcast, Eliot meant to show how we don't or can't know everything; indeed, we may not need to know everything.
Even the different interpretations by American versus English critics revealed different interpretations of common English sayings highlighted in the poem. And of course, there are many references to the classics and so on which I hope to discover by obtaining a copy of the original (pre-Pound) version of the poem, and also the published version with the superfluous notes added by Eliot.
The poem apparently took Eliot one year to write, and he was quite upset by the paltry sum first offered to him for its publication. Yet it is now regarded as the most influential poems of the twentieth century.
Like all great works, the poem deserves several readings. But if you want to really hear the different voices, the recital of the poem will bring this to the fore....more
As the end of the year approaches and I am on track to achieve my reading goals, I have been reading some pop psychology books. I do like Mark Manson'As the end of the year approaches and I am on track to achieve my reading goals, I have been reading some pop psychology books. I do like Mark Manson's work, even though its crassness makes it somewhat less scholarly than most of the books I have read thus far.
Manson writes how I sometimes speak, so I am not taking the moral high ground here, but it does mean that I tend to take his content less seriously. As I approach 50 I can reflect on my own experiences from my twenties and early thirties, and I must say I am impressed by the depth of reading of the likes of Mark Manson, Ryan Holiday, and Paul Colaianni and their ability to explain how they think about values, virtues, and finding the logic to guide their daily practice and actions.
But I have some concerns about what I call "literary entrepreneurship", and whether my time would be better spent on the classics.
I have recently been thinking about the idea of "endlessness". During my long service leave last year, I experienced a sense of endlessness where there were no deadlines (at least until the next semester of teaching began) and I could do whatever I wanted each day. I chose to journal, read, and blog, and this enabled me to establish a daily routine which I maintain to this day. I started with Homer, and I have been slowly working through the great books and works by the likes of Camus, Calvino, and Nietzsche. I often get nervous about wasting time on contemporary books when I have so much to learn from the past.
Because of my own reading program, Manson's examples from literature were all familiar, including Bukowski, Buddha, Tina Gilbertson's idea of "constructive wallowing", the Milgram experiment, and so on. But I wonder whether these pop psychology books (for want of a better term) have sufficient depth?
Many of the self-improvement books I have read refer to historical and personal examples, and there is much to learn from how others think about the same problems I face. For example, Manson's approach to determining one's values fits well with what I gained from my reading of Paul Colaianni and Tina Gilbertson.
But I also see how these books are commercial products with a particular aim in mind. I often get the feeling that the authors are reading as a form of "mining" for information, much like the approach I might take when writing an academic paper (sans the referencing).
From my own experience, a complete, cover-to-cover, slow reading of each work brings to light much which is lost through simply mining the content. So I wonder how much value I gain from reading Manson, compared to, say, reading Benjamin Franklin? (Of course, Franklin had his own financial reasons for lecturing and writing.) But when I read Franklin, for example, there was much that escaped me in the detail, and further reading revealed much of what I could not gain from the original text.
When I reflect on my reading of the likes of Manson, I often wonder how much I can gain from such literary entrepreneurs. Not that I don't like the book, but I wonder if I gain as much from this book as I might if I had prioritised my reading of Plato's The Laws, for example.
So when I sum up the lessons learnt from Manson, much of these are in the reiteration of things I already know: if in doubt, act (p. 157); achieving meaning in one's life requires the rejection of alternatives (p. 165); excess is not good for me (p. 165); but establishing boundaries is good for me (p. 174).
One part I enjoyed is where Manson discusses the idea of endless values (p. 151) and mentions the "honest expression" of Pablo Picasso. The idea of honest expression is to provide a metric (p. 74), or a way to measure the implementation of one's values, in a way that does not "end'. For example, if one wanted to achieve "freedom" through work, once a job that provided such "freedom" had been achieved, then there is a sense that the value is "accomplished" and there is no sense of motivation. An "endless" value such as honest expression is something that can be achieved repeatedly - it never ends.
However, as I know for a fact that I don't know everything, I did learn some key lessons about defining personal values and better ways to measure (metrics) these values; the paradox of choice (and how this promises the good life, but leads to inconsistency and confusion); and a better relationship with the idea of death (Quoting Mark Twain, p. 202):
The fear of death follows from the fear of life. A man who lives fully is prepared to die at any time.
I also have a better understanding of "unconscious resistance", which often gets in the way of me doing things I believe I actually want to do.
My "struggle" (see "suffering" p. 208) with my reading is best summed up by Harold Bloom (How to Read and Why, p. 21):
It matters, if individuals are to retain any capacity to form their own judgments and opinions, that they continue to read for themselves. How they read, well or badly, and what they read, cannot depend wholly upon themselves, but why they read must be for and in their own interest... but eventually you will read against the clock... One of the uses of reading is to prepare ourselves for change, and the final change is universal.
When I read the work of the present generation of literary entrepreneurs, I really feel that clock ticking. But after reading Manson, and despite my "unconscious resistance", I think there is some value in reading about how others think about philosophy, and then applying that approach to my own thinking. Even if it is an exercise in thinking, rather than a definite plan for action....more
I have a copy of Jacques Derrida's Writing and Difference sitting on my bookshelf waiting for me to get to it. I also had this introductory text layinI have a copy of Jacques Derrida's Writing and Difference sitting on my bookshelf waiting for me to get to it. I also had this introductory text laying around. I am glad I went for the easy option first, as this text saved me from learning the hard way. I am not ready for Derrida - I have to start with Hegel and work my way through to Heidegger first.
I am not averse to reading introductory texts, but this one is a little different, in that it is more like a comic book. Or, indeed, it is very similar to the style Alain de Botton has adopted for The School of Life (but this book predates the YouTube series).
But the book is not too basic. Even after reading this introductory text, I am little the wiser.
I see Derrida's idea of "deconstruction" as an attempt to critique logo-centrism, where Western philosophy tends to privilege one thing over another in a binary either/or paradigm. For example, speech tends to be privileged over writing; philosophy over literature, men over women (traditionally), and so on.
Deconstruction is helpfully explained using the example of a zombie. Zombies are neither dead nor alive - their status is "undecidable" (see also the pharmakon (p. 73):
To embrace the curious logic of this writing, we have to be willing to sign up to it, to subscribe to it the task it takes on: the creation of destabilizing movements in metaphysical thinking.
Had I set out to read Writing and Difference, I would have been lost in Derrida's writing, which this text suggests can be "puzzling, infuriating, and exasperating", p. 73). It would be better to tackle his three major works on "structuralism and phenomenology" in order: Speech and Phenomena, Writing and Difference, then Of Grammatology.
However, the reading list at the end of the text sets out a reading plan to ease into Derrida's work gradually, beginning with Peggy Kamuf's Derrida Reader: Between the Lines. Sound advice.
It would seem that I must also go right back to Plato for a closer reading of his work so I can engage with Derrida's Plato's Pharmacy.
What all this means is that I am completely out of my depth! Whereas with Albert Camus and even Nietzsche I was able to struggle through, with Derrida I will have to tackle post-modernism (Derrida didn't necessarily think of his work as "post-modern"). I suppose it is time.
This text was a good place to start. I also found the School of Life's video (see the video "Jacques Derrida") useful. I must admit to being pleased to find an area of my knowledge that is so completely lacking as to require considerable thought - especially in approaching Derrida. At the same time, the task is quite daunting and it may have to wait until some time later next year if I am to do it any justice....more
Recent period-drama television series closely resemble soap operas but with a twist: there is much to learn from deliberate literary, cultural, and hiRecent period-drama television series closely resemble soap operas but with a twist: there is much to learn from deliberate literary, cultural, and historical references. I first became aware of Mad Men while reading a post on The Art of Manliness about Don Draper's haircut. Much has been written about the series on respected media websites, including the Wall Street Journal,The Conversation, and The Guardian. (Another of my favourite period-dramas, Downton Abbey, has a similar following in terms of literary, cultural and historical references.) I purchased this book to delve deeper into some of the cultural references appearing in the series. I have been pleasantly surprised by some of the more obvious references, such as Frank O'Hara'sMeditations in an Emergency, Palisades Amusement Park, the story of Park Avenue Armory, Penn Station, and other historical sites. The New York Public Library has also compiled a Mad Menreading list and a series of 1960's fashion illustrations. What I didn't know was that most of this book is available on The Guardian's website. The book itself is formulaic, and only covers the first three seasons. Aside from some interesting essays on the various sociological aspects of the show, the general format is a description of each episode, commentary on the social and cultural references, and comments by a number of the participants on the original blog. It wasn't riveting stuff, and at times I felt that almost anyone with the right institutional backing could produce such an easy (lazy?) book. Having said that, I discovered much that I had missed on my several viewings of the series. Like Downton Abbey, so much of the background research that went into writing the drama is far from self-evident, and there is much to be gained from lifting the lid on the research. Even the anachronisms and historical errors (usually stemming from poetic licence) are sources of fascinating knowledge. Matthew Weiner's work is first-class, and I must admit to a tinge of envy that someone could know so much and write for the screen. Of course, this is no ordinary person, but it was interesting that one of the blog commentators noticed in the credits that a mental health expert had been employed in the making of one episode. I took some solace in the fact that such big productions are the work of many people. (Until I discovered that Matthew Weiner has written a novella, too. Now I will have to read it - and that's how my reading process works!) I have often struggled with the idea of not finishing books that I do not like, but then I often end up discovering something interesting in even the worst of books. Not that this book is so bad, but when the formula for the final episode of the book ends, so does the book. It is followed by a list of the music featured in each episode. (Check out Spotify's Mad Men playlist - the soundtrack is great!) I often get a bit snobbish about the value of a television series in comparison to literature. But the same could be said of my favourite computer game, Sid Meier's Civilization, which has been referred to as a form of "edutainment". In many ways, I find television series, particularly period-dramas, a useful form of Netflix bingeing with a mild excuse of having some educational value. For example, after finishing both Mad Men and Downton Abbey, I looked for the "best" television series to start on next. Consistently, Breaking Bad rated as the best television series of all time. But after a few episodes, I found the show rather empty and I abandoned it soon after. Recently, Grimm had me hooked, and it has sent me off to learn all about the Black Forest and the Grimm brothers. I daresay learning from Breaking Bad would not lead to the type of education I am seeking! But I digress. I learnt much from this book, but it is obviously dated, and I am in no rush to read up more about Mad Men any time soon. But I will continue to delve into the many literary, cultural, and historical references from the series (and this book), but I really must be a little more critical with my reading choices and not rely on a brand name (no pun intended) when going off the beaten track....more
At the International Political Science Association's World Congress 2018 in Brisbane this July, I stumbled upon the market stand for Japan Library, a At the International Political Science Association's World Congress 2018 in Brisbane this July, I stumbled upon the market stand for Japan Library, a Japanese publisher focused on translating great Japanese books into English. Not knowing what to expect, I bought two hardcover books priced at $25 each. I have read a few translations of various novels and I am rarely disappointed, but this book seems more along the lines of Harold Bloom's and Italo Calvino's works on classic literature, but with a focus on Japanese poetry written by Buddhists monks in medieval and pre-industrial Japan. The physical book is beautifully presented with a hardcover, dust jacket, ribbon book marker, and paper that is of obvious high quality. The readability of the translation by Juliet Winters Carpenter is superb, and although there may be some things lost in translation, to an amateur like me, you couldn't pick it. What I enjoyed most about the work is that Kōji is humble yet powerful in awakening me to classic Japanese literature. Recently, I have had a similar experience with classic Japanese art and music, and I now enjoy the art of Katsushika Hokusai (1760–1849) and listening to the koto music of Yatsuhashi Kengyo (1614–1685). I discovered these two from Sid Meier's Civilization VI, of all places. But that is not unusual - I discovered my most favourite composer, John Adams, as part of the soundtrack of Civilization III. (It is the only computer game I ever play. If anyone is willing to let me work on the cultural/historical aspects of future releases of the Civilization game series, do let me know! I first played Civilization in 1994 and have occasionally played it ever since. I have learnt more about art, music, architecture, science, warfare, and history from that game than almost any other source. If only I could incorporate the game into my teaching, I could find an excuse to play it more often.) I hoped this work would give me a similar experience; and it did. The text flows in straight-forward prose, outlining the work of six Japanese literary greats, interrupted by poetry from each of the authors, with commentary by Kōji that never "got on my goat". If anything, Kōji's explanations and personal observations enrich what is already a very rich literary experience. (Kōji was 77 years old at the time this was published. An interesting aside - I know someone who gives their age as the year they are living, rather than the most recently past year. Apparently, it was Japanese custom to give the age of a child as 1 year old in their first year, so I have been forced to accept that this person, who went to primary school in Japan, is not incorrect!) There is so much conveyed in this work, it is difficult to give a summary without writing a series of maxims that would rival La Rochefoucauld's. Suffice it to say, my favourite poet from the collection is Saigyō. At first, I was not impressed by how the moon and cherry blossoms sent his heart off into the ether, only to return of its own will some time later. I thought this all a bit over the top, but then (p. 173):
Master Mongaku despised Saigyō... If he ever ran into him, he often said, he'd break his skull.
One day, Saigyō turned up at Master Mongaku's temple. His disciples worried what he would do to Saigyō, but the meeting went cordially. Afterwards, Mongaku's disciples asked why their master had gone back on his word:
"You idiots!"Mongaku scolded. "Was that the face of someone I could possibly beat up? It was the face of someone who could beat me to a pulp!"
I, too, was surprised that this ex-warrior, samurai turned Buddhist monk, could be such a poet. It just seemed to be the work that belonged to a sickly, weak yet beautiful man who couldn't hurt a fly. This is what makes Saigyō's literature more remarkable, and Kōji presents the work and the backstory in such a way that the book resonates long after the reading is over. I also learnt much about traditional Japanese poetry. The haiku is familiar to most people, but I knew nothing of the other traditional forms, many of which appear in this work, including the various haikai and waka forms. If I were to take a crash course in Japanese literature and Zen Buddhism, this book would be the place to start. Of particular interest is Tsurezuregusa or Essays in Idleness by Yoshida Kenkō. The ideas about happiness, solitude, life and death, and, most importantly, the Buddhist concept of the "here-now" were enlightening. What I like most is that Nakano Kōji learnt about his own culture late in life, after focusing on Western literature (particularly Kafka), and has an ability to make comparisons of Japanese thought and philosophy with the ideas I am more familiar with. This made it easy to appreciate the wisdom of the various Buddhist monks without needing a solid grounding in Buddhism to make sense of it. Indeed, the works are far from religious, but are certainly "spiritual" in a universal sense. I daresay I will be returning to Japan Library to discover more classic Japanese literature, and I am inspired to try a Japanese novel (translated into English, of course) soon. My next Japan Library work is Self-Respect and Independence of Mind: The Challenge of Fukuzawa Yukichi, a biographical work on the Meiji Restoration-era intellectual....more
I was surprised by Mark Twain's views on women. I have become accustomed to nineteenth-century authors verging on the misogynistic, but Twain, at leasI was surprised by Mark Twain's views on women. I have become accustomed to nineteenth-century authors verging on the misogynistic, but Twain, at least from this collection of quotes, would appear to be the exception to the rule. For instance (p. 6):
No civilization can be perfect until exact equality between man and woman is included.
This is a bit rich, of course, because Twain relied heavily on his wife, Olivia Langdon Clemens, although he seems to have worked hard to keep the family financially afloat. Twain writes (p. 6):
There is only one good sex. The female one.
Yet Twain was critical of humans (p. 5):
Such is the human race. Often it does seem such a pity that Noah didn't miss the boat.
There are many other quotes on religion, nationalism, the liberal ideal (as it relates to monarchy versus a republic), and socialisation. For example (p. 54):
We have no thoughts of our own, no opinions of our own: they are transmitted to us, trained into us.
Yet his pithy sayings are usually humorous (p. 54):
Noise proves nothing. Often a hen who has merely laid an egg cackles as if she had laid an asteroid.
I did not know that Twain had to declare bankruptcy in 1894. I had assumed that he was successful and that was that. But his ironic wit may well have been a result of his financial trials and tribulations: he went on an international lecture tour to make ends meet (p. 46):
To be busy is man's only happiness.
It makes me wonder how he maintained his sense of humour when things went awry. Maybe that his wife owned the rights to his work helped, hence his admiration for her. He was also experienced in the attitudes of the world (p. 50):
The man with a new idea is a crank until the idea succeeds.
I have now read a few of these Dover Thrift Editions of The Wit and Wisdom of..., and although they are quite short, and are not truly "books", there is much to learn from an intense immersion in the highlights of the greats of the past, and Twain is no exception....more
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