The too-rapid change in weather here from seasonably chilly to Indian summer over the past couple of days has wreaked havoc on my sinuses, rendering me sniffly, sneezy, and tired. I went to bed almost immediately after watching the season premiere of Supernatural last night and slept 11 hours, with the help of Sudafed. I've taken the day pills today, but I still feel out of it and tired. I dragged myself to school to get some books so I can stay home today and tomorrow and still have a hope of getting something accomplished. Later. Much later.
In the meantime, I came across this list from 2004 that the BBC compiled of the best-loved novels in Britain. Supposedly they said that the average person has read only six of 100, but I didn't see anything to that effect on their website. Anyway, despite not being British, I thought I would go through and see how many I've read.
1. The Lord of the Rings, JRR Tolkien: LOTR is seriously Britain's number 1 book? Hm. I found them rather dry, actually. This is one instance in which I can say I like the movie version better. (I'm thinking rather snidely of Francis Ford Coppola's maxim as regards the Godfather: "if you want to make a great movie, use a mediocre book.")
2. Pride and Prejudice, Jane Austen: One of my favorite books of all time!
3. His Dark Materials, Philip Pullman: Although a good series, I'm again surprised to see this so high up on the list. Do British people like sci-fi/fantasy a bit more than Americans? I cried so much at the end of the third book.
4. The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, Douglas Adams: I read all the Hitchhiker books at one go, after I confiscated Sean's collected works of Douglas Adams when he visited me in Italy in 2006. The first one is of course the best; they get progressively weirder and harder to follow. Adams wasn't much concerned with continuity, I don't think.
5. Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, JK Rowling: Need I say anything? Although I do wonder if I will love these books as much when I'm 40 as I did when I was 20. That's not a question I've ever asked myself of something like Pride and Prejudice, which has had the benefit of a few hundred years of popularity.
6. To Kill a Mockingbird, Harper Lee: This book interested me while I was reading it for a summer book list in high school, but once I was done with it I never regarded it with any affection. Perhaps it's time for a re-read.
7. Winnie the Pooh, AA Milne: Um, I've never read it so I guess I can't comment, but...really?
8. Nineteen Eighty-Four, George Orwell: Sean mentioned a plot point from this book on the phone the other night, and I realized quite frankly how little of this book I remember. I read it in high school, and what I chiefly recall was how much of its vocabulary--words like "doublespeak"--I began to notice as having been absorbed into our common speech and writing. Another book I should revisit.
9. The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, CS Lewis: This is the only book of the series I ever read, and that when I was in elementary school, I believe. I never really became attached to it, though I did have a strong desire to try marzipan based on its description in the book (until I saw what it looked like, and no thanks, I do not want fruit-shaped candy)
10. Jane Eyre, Charlotte Brontë: I got this book in Florence and really enjoyed it my first time through, but on successive re-readings I've found myself completely skipping the several hundred pages between Jane's flight from Thornfield and her return to the broken Mr. Rochester. The part about St. John bores me, frankly, and I never liked that the book's last lines are about him. Re-reading has also made me question the relationship between Jane and Rochester, which is unequal in so many respects, and I don't like the way he messes with her head for his own amusement. Also: Charlotte Bronte hated on Jane Austen's books, and she slides in my esteem for that!
11. Catch-22, Joseph Heller: I read this for a class I took on comedy in college, and then I re-read about half of it this past summer. It certainly is black comedy, but I think Heller sort of loses control of it about halfway through. Possibly that was the point. I don't remember.
12. Wuthering Heights, Emily Brontë: Given a choice to hang out with Jane Austen or the Bronte sisters for a day, there would be no contest. They had a rather bleak outlook on life, didn't they? None more so than Emily. I object to anyone who finds Heathcliff a romantic character in the 'dark and brooding' mold. He is an asshole. Plain and simple. People die and lives are miserable because he is an asshole. There's nothing romantic in that.
13. Birdsong, Sebastian Faulks: I'm not sure what this is...
14. Rebecca, Daphne du Maurier: I just read this book this summer. It's a decent thriller, but the plot was probably was much more novel in its day (1938) than it is now. The relationship between the main character (I thought I had forgotten her name, but nope, she's unnamed) and her new husband Max de Winter has a lot of parallels to the Jane/Rochester relationship, and not in a good way. This book is probably better in the film version, because I think the silent creepiness of Mrs. Danvers could be better appreciated visually than it is here.
15. The Catcher in the Rye, JD Salinger: Grumble. I did not love this book when we read it in high school. I found its protagonist irritating. Holden Caulfield is often held forward as epitomizing the struggle of young people to find themselves, but I didn't sympathize with him. Perhaps because I've always always had a fairly good grasp on my own identity? Or do young men find him more sympathetic than girls?
16. The Wind in the Willows, Kenneth Grahame: Well this is embarrassing: I thought I had read this, but it turns out I was thinking of the book Frog and Toad Are Friends. Whoops. That...is probably not considered great literature, since it's like for 5-year-olds. "The Lost Button," anyone?
17. Great Expectations, Charles Dickens: I started to read this once, but never finished it. In fact, the only Dickens I've read in full is a Tale of Two Cities, which I'm always meaning to re-read. I've also read David Copperfield, if you count the Great Illustrated Classics versions...
18. Little Women, Louisa May Alcott: Never read it.
19. Captain Corelli's Mandolin, Louis de Bernieres: Nope.
20. War and Peace, Leo Tolstoy: Another one I started and didn't get into. I read Anna Karenina, though! I should get points for slogging through one Tolstoy at least.
21. Gone with the Wind, Margaret Mitchell: This is a very long book, from what I remember (which is not much, since I got the book from the library when I was a kid after having spent an entire Saturday afternoon on the couch watching the film version).
22. Harry Potter And The Philosopher's Stone, JK Rowling: Love.
23. Harry Potter And The Chamber Of Secrets, JK Rowling: Love.
24. Harry Potter And The Prisoner Of Azkaban, JK Rowling: Love.
25. The Hobbit, JRR Tolkien: Meh. Again, Tolkien just doesn't grab me. And it's not that I don't like fantasy novels; I do, or least I was much more into them at the same age when I read this.
26. Tess Of The D'Urbervilles, Thomas Hardy: No, although I remember Sara reading this when we were in middle school. Also, I frequently mixed it up in my mind with The Hound of the Baskervilles. Yeah, that's a Sherlock Holmes story (another book I re-read this summer).
27. Middlemarch, George Eliot: No.
28. A Prayer For Owen Meany, John Irving: No. I read another of his books, Life According to Garp, on the advice of--believe it or not--Dr. Eliasoph. I didn't really like it.
29. The Grapes Of Wrath, John Steinbeck: Nope.
30. Alice's Adventures In Wonderland, Lewis Carroll: Yes, but meh. This is really one of people's favorite stories? I envision favorite books as something you can return to again and again with renewed enthusiasm. Lewis Carroll, like JM. Barrie, doesn't attract me now like he once might have (but even as a child I wasn't a huge fan, it was a little too absurdist).
31. The Story Of Tracy Beaker, Jacqueline Wilson: I've never heard of this before.
32. One Hundred Years Of Solitude, Gabriel García Márquez: No, but it's on my "read when I have time" list!
33. The Pillars Of The Earth, Ken Follett: I love historical fiction, but I shy away from the kind that spans decades and generations because you know from the outset that your favorite characters are all going to die. That said, I did try to read this, and couldn't get into it, despite many people's assertions that it is the Best Book Ever.
34. David Copperfield, Charles Dickens: yes, via Great Illustrated Classics (along with books like Ivanhoe, Around the World in 80 Days, The Prince and the Pauper...my mom was a big fan of those books!) I'm going to say that I probably didn't get the full effect.
35. Charlie And The Chocolate Factory, Roald Dahl: One of my favorites! Even though it's children's lit, I can come back to this and other Dahl books over and over again. Neither Gene Wilder nor Johnny Depp will ever capture Mr. Wonka for me; I will always picture him as the little goateed man he is in the book's illustrations.
36. Treasure Island, Robert Louis Stevenson: Yes, when I was quite young (meaning it probably wasn't the original version), and I don't remember it. My grandfather used to call me Long John Silver because I was taller than him.
37. A Town Like Alice, Nevil Shute: No.
38. Persuasion, Jane Austen: No, surprisingly enough.
39. Dune, Frank Herbert: No. Greg and his mom were really into this series, though.
40. Emma, Jane Austen: When I first read this book, I disliked the character of Emma immensely; I thought she was a selfish, immature busybody, and I hated her paternalistic attitude towards Harriet. Remarkably, what changed my mind was not the book itself but the recent BBC miniseries (which I happened to be re-watching last night, actually). Romola Garai's Emma is winsomely effervescent and over-eager at the beginning, but she sobers quite a bit by the end after she realizes how mistaken she's been. Rereading the book after watching the series, I was much more impressed by the novel as a whole. Also, I think Clueless is one of the greatest translations of classical literature into modern cinema!
41. Anne Of Green Gables, LM Montgomery: I've loved these books (and the attendant films) since I was a little girl and I think I'll love them when I'm 80. Even though I am, by personality, probably more of a practical Diana Barry than a manic-pixie-dreamgirl like Anne, I love Anne Shirley and the world of Avonlea. Also, Gilbert Blythe is my perfect man (though Sean comes close).
42. Watership Down, Richard Adams: It's a book about rabbits. Honestly, I was expecting a little more. I read this because it was one of Greg's favorite books, and at the end I thought "That was nothing compared to Brian Jacques." His Redwall series, which is set in a medieval Britain populated by anthropomorphic animals, probably wouldn't captivate me quite as much now as it did then, but it was a darn sight more exciting (and insightful) than these rabbits.
43. The Great Gatsby, F Scott Fitzgerald: I must be the only person who didn't have to read this book in high school! By the time I read it, a year or two ago, I'd already read The Beautiful and the Damned, and so knew I liked his writing style. Gatsby brings the tragedy to its close much more swiftly, but his evocation of a particular class, and the individuals in that class, is terrifyingly acute. The world is still full of Daisys and Toms, and probably, sadly, Gatsbys as well.
44. The Count Of Monte Cristo, Alexandre Dumas: Yes, although I don't have a particularly strong recollection of it. I was very into Dumas one summer during college, and I read several of the books about the Three Musketeers plus this one.
45. Brideshead Revisited, Evelyn Waugh: No. This strikes me as one of those books that is very British--boarding school vacations and the old moneyed class, etc. I've read only one Waugh book, Scoop (which I enjoyed) but it was entirely different in subject and tone.
46. Animal Farm, George Orwell: When I first read this I was probably in seventh grade or so, because Jen was reading it for a class in high school. I liked it, although I had no idea that it had an allegorical meaning about socialism and Communism! I remember being very surprised when I found that out, although I can't remember if Jen told me or if it was later.
47. A Christmas Carol, Charles Dickens: Hm, I'm really not sure if I've ever read this, actually. I suppose with the plethora and film and cartoon adaptations it's one of those things you feel completely familiar with without ever having read. I think I'll always associate it most with the Disney version--Scrooge McDuck as his namesake, Goofy as Jakob Marley, and Mickey's son as Tiny Tim. On another note, the Christmas episode of Doctor Who this season is supposed to be related to A Christmas Carol, and since they've already met Charles Dickens, I'm interested to see where they'll take it.
48. Far From The Madding Crowd, Thomas Hardy: No, but we read The Mayor of Casterbridge in high school. Thomas Hardy really knew how to write a depressing story, didn't he?
49. Goodnight Mister Tom, Michelle Magorian: No idea.
50. The Shell Seekers, Rosamunde Pilcher: Nope.
51. The Secret Garden, Frances Hodgson Burnett: Yes (there's quite a bit of children's lit on this list, isn't there?)
52. Of Mice And Men, John Steinbeck: This is such a sad story in the end. Steinbeck and Hardy would have gotten along so well!
53. The Stand, Stephen King: No.
54. Anna Karenina, Leo Tolstoy: This book is about so much more than the figure of Anna herself, but my intense dislike for her colored what I thought of the rest of the book. Her absolute shock at finding out that no, you can't just divorce your husband in 19th-century Moscow and then expect all your society friends to keep treating you the same way when you start running around town with your military boytoy was so irritating! I was eager for her to quit her melodramatic hissy fits and just throw herself under the train already.
55. A Suitable Boy, Vikram Seth: No idea.
56. The BFG, Roald Dahl: Another Dahl book! Yes! BFG was one of my favorite; so favorite, in fact, that I borrowed and lost no less than three successive copies of this book from the Windsor Public Library. I had to work off the cost (what was it, like $4?) in chores for my mother each time.
57. Swallows And Amazons, Arthur Ransome: No idea.
58. Black Beauty, Anna Sewell: I read this, but it was in an easy-reader format when I was in third grade, along with The Little Princess. I wanted a monkey.
59. Artemis Fowl, Eoin Colfer: The first book in this series was quite good, and promised wonderful things that I'm not sure the remainder of the series carried through. I'm sure it suffered by the inevitable comparisons with Harry Potter, especially since the main character, a super-brilliant billionaire's son with a flagrant disregard for all authority, is hardly sympathetic.
60. Crime And Punishment, Fyodor Dostoyevsky: I tried to read this in high school, but I couldn't get all the way through. Is it an unfair assessment to say that Russian literature is just dark?
61. Noughts And Crosses, Malorie Blackman: no idea.
62. Memoirs Of A Geisha, Arthur Golden: What I love most about this book is its evocation of a time and a place that is so far removed from my experience: the exotic elegance of the geisha world. I don't enjoy the last quarter or so as much as I do the rest; in narrative terms, that's where the story has to go, of course, but post-war Gion is just such a sad shadow of its former glory. (Also, the idea that the Chairman has been interested in her since she was what, 11? is just a little too weird for me).
63. A Tale Of Two Cities, Charles Dickens: One day I will re-read this. One day.
64. The Thorn Birds, Colleen McCollough: This is a long book, on the scale of Gone with the Wind. I saw part of the miniseries on TV in high school and found the book at my grandfather's house, but I never got all the way through.
65. Mort, Terry Pratchett: Nope.
66. The Magic Faraway Tree, Enid Blyton: Nope.
67. The Magus, John Fowles: Nope--I've never heard of a bunch of these books!
68. Good Omens, Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman: Thi.s is a great book.
69. Guards! Guards!, Terry Pratchett: British people are serious Pratchett fans. Nope.
70. Lord Of The Flies, William Golding: I've always wondered how the events of this book would have played out if it had been a group of girls stranded on the island. Also, has anyone ever figured out why they say "Sucks to your asmar" as an insult?
71. Perfume, Patrick Süskind: No.
72. The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists, Robert Tressell: No.
73. Night Watch, Terry Pratchett: No.
74. Matilda, Roald Dahl: Not my favorite Dahl (where is The Witches on this list?)
75. Bridget Jones's Diary, Helen Fielding: Another book I liked less than its film. The diary format makes you like Bridget less, I think, because she comes off as a bit of a narcissist. Each entry starts off with a tabulation of her weight, number of cigarettes smoked, and number of drinks consumed. By rights I'm shocked she wasn't dead by the end of that book.
76. The Secret History, Donna Tartt: No.
77. The Woman In White, Wilkie Collins: No.
78. Ulysses, James Joyce: Shudder. No.
79. Bleak House, Charles Dickens: No. Jen got this book on Amazon and was surprised to discover it was depressing. Gee, the title was too subtle?
80. Double Act, Jacqueline Wilson: No.
81. The Twits, Roald Dahl: British people love Dahl, I guess.
82. I Capture The Castle, Dodie Smith: No; I saw the movie, and it was very strange.
83. Holes, Louis Sachar: No.
84. Gormenghast, Mervyn Peake: Never heard of it.
85. The God Of Small Things, Arundhati Roy: No.
86. Vicky Angel, Jacqueline Wilson: Never heard of it.
87. Brave New World, Aldous Huxley: Ironically, I read this book for my comedy class, same as Catch-22.
88. Cold Comfort Farm, Stella Gibbons: I saw the movie version of this first, and was a little freaked out by it because I didn't realize it was supposed to be a slightly over-the-top satire. Once I read the book I appreciated it much more.
89. Magician, Raymond E Feist: No.
90. On The Road, Jack Kerouac: Maybe it's because I'm not a man, or because I'm not edgy and interested in trying a lot of drugs to access other planes of consciousness, or...whatever. This book alienated me like three pages in.
91. The Godfather, Mario Puzo: I'm very surprised to see this on here, because it's usually considered a pretty mediocre book, as Coppola would tell you. The structure is different than the movies, because this book starts with Corleone in his youth in Sicily, then documents how he came to the US and rose to power. I don't even remember if Michael plays a role in it. Tommy went to college with a girl who was Puzo's granddaughter; she said all his grandchildren were discouraged from reading his books until they were 18, when he gave them each a complete set.
92. The Clan Of The Cave Bear, Jean M Auel: Hm, I think I read parts of this when I was a kid, but I'm not sure.
93. The Colour Of Magic, Terry Pratchett: No.
94. The Alchemist, Paulo Coelho: Some people talk about this book like it's some kind of gospel. I didn't see that in it at all; it's part fable, part magical realism, yes, but it didn't change my life.
95. Katherine, Anya Seton: Never heard of it.
96. Kane And Abel, Jeffrey Archer: Ditto.
97. Love In The Time Of Cholera, Gabriel García Márquez: No.
98. Girls In Love, Jacqueline Wilson: No.
99. The Princess Diaries, Meg Cabot: I am...very surprised that this is on this list. I did read the book because I liked the movie, and it's a fine example of YA lit, I guess.
100. Midnight's Children, Salman Rushdie: No. I read The Satanic Verses and couldn't quite come to terms with the unorthodox narrative structure; however, I quite enjoyed The Enchantress of Florence.
Saturday, September 25, 2010
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Michel de Montaigne
I finished The Modern Mind a couple of days ago. I have to admit that I noticed a progressive weakening of my interest as the book--and the century--went on; I'm not quite as captivated by the developments of the last quarter of the 20th century as I am by what happened in earlier three-quarters. Now I've moved on to the Essays of Michel de Montaigne, a book that's been on my "to read" list since I read Jane Kramer's article about him in the New Yorker last year, which begins thusly:
He's also quite humorous, and capable of talking about sex in a manner that is both frank and wry--again, something I haven't seen before in Renaissance literature. In one of his essays, he muses for a while about the various psychosomatic causes of impotence, and then launches into a mock-legal defense of the penis:
"We are right to note the licence and disobedience of this member which thrusts itself forward so inopportunely when we do not want it to, and which so inopportunely lets us down when we most need it; so imperiously contests for authority with our will: it stubbornly and proudly refuses all our incitements, mental and manual. Yet if this member were arraigned for rebelliousness, found guilty because of it and then retained me to plead its cause, I would doubtless cast suspicion on our members for having deliberately brought a trumped-up charge, plotting to arm everybody against it and maliciously accusing it alone of a defect common to them all."
One of his more well-known essays is "On the Cannibals," in which he discusses the practice in Brazil of killing and eating prisoners of war. His enthusiastic description of how close these "primitives" are to nature in some ways anticipates the 18th-century concept of the "noble savage," yet he also realizes that we have no absolute standard by which to judge the customs of others: "I find that there is nothing savage or barbarous about those peoples [he's not referring to the cannibals just yet], but that every man calls barbarous anything he is not accustomed to; it is indeed the case that we have no other criterion of truth or right-reason than the example and form of the opinions and customs of our own country. There we always find the perfect religion, the perfect polity, the most developed and perfect way of doing anything!"
Later he observes, strikingly, that Europeans have no right to decide who is and who is not barbaric: "It does not sadden me that we should note the horrific barbarity in a practice such as theirs; what does sadden me is that, while judging correctly of their wrongdoings we should be so blind to our own...we can indeed call those folk barbarians by the rules of reason but not in comparison with ourselves, who surpass them in every kind of barbarism." Montaigne was writing from direct experience of the French Wars of Religion, which saw atrocities committed by both the Catholic and Huguenot forces. Torture, he says, is one crime that makes his "civilized" nation no better than the barbarians, a contention no less applicable today.
So far I'm really enjoying the book, as you may be able to tell. It's huge--1200 pages--but the nice thing about the essays is that they're mostly fairly short, and you don't feel constrained to read them all in order, or even to read all of them! It's also offering me a different perspective on the 16th century, which I'm used to looking at from the lens of Italy. I'll admit that my knowledge of the history and politics of late 16th-century France has mostly been shaped by one of Judith Merkle Riley's historical fiction novels, The Master of All Desires (to be fair, Riley is a PhD, albeit one of political science, not history). So it's good to get some exposure to the transalpine Renaissance culture!
One last funny bit, quoted by Montaigne:
Socrates was told that some man had not been improved by travel. "I am sure he was not," he said. "He went with himself!"
Montaigne's tone is candid in a way that I've never encountered in 16th-century literature. Actually, I can't think of anything that's quite this accessible until the 19th century (not that I'm anything like an expert). It's the kind of authorial tone that immediately puts you at your ease with the writer; he's not preaching, he's not arguing, he's just trying to work out his thoughts on a particular topic. He doesn't pull any punches, either; for example, despite his high connections to the court, he's clear about his distaste for court life and its ridiculous ceremonial: "...in my home I have cut out all formalities. Does anyone take offense? What of it? It is better than I offend him once than myself all the time--that would amount to servitude for life! What is the use in fleeing from the slavery of the Court if we then go and drag it back to our lairs?"
He's also quite humorous, and capable of talking about sex in a manner that is both frank and wry--again, something I haven't seen before in Renaissance literature. In one of his essays, he muses for a while about the various psychosomatic causes of impotence, and then launches into a mock-legal defense of the penis:
"We are right to note the licence and disobedience of this member which thrusts itself forward so inopportunely when we do not want it to, and which so inopportunely lets us down when we most need it; so imperiously contests for authority with our will: it stubbornly and proudly refuses all our incitements, mental and manual. Yet if this member were arraigned for rebelliousness, found guilty because of it and then retained me to plead its cause, I would doubtless cast suspicion on our members for having deliberately brought a trumped-up charge, plotting to arm everybody against it and maliciously accusing it alone of a defect common to them all."
One of his more well-known essays is "On the Cannibals," in which he discusses the practice in Brazil of killing and eating prisoners of war. His enthusiastic description of how close these "primitives" are to nature in some ways anticipates the 18th-century concept of the "noble savage," yet he also realizes that we have no absolute standard by which to judge the customs of others: "I find that there is nothing savage or barbarous about those peoples [he's not referring to the cannibals just yet], but that every man calls barbarous anything he is not accustomed to; it is indeed the case that we have no other criterion of truth or right-reason than the example and form of the opinions and customs of our own country. There we always find the perfect religion, the perfect polity, the most developed and perfect way of doing anything!"
Later he observes, strikingly, that Europeans have no right to decide who is and who is not barbaric: "It does not sadden me that we should note the horrific barbarity in a practice such as theirs; what does sadden me is that, while judging correctly of their wrongdoings we should be so blind to our own...we can indeed call those folk barbarians by the rules of reason but not in comparison with ourselves, who surpass them in every kind of barbarism." Montaigne was writing from direct experience of the French Wars of Religion, which saw atrocities committed by both the Catholic and Huguenot forces. Torture, he says, is one crime that makes his "civilized" nation no better than the barbarians, a contention no less applicable today.
So far I'm really enjoying the book, as you may be able to tell. It's huge--1200 pages--but the nice thing about the essays is that they're mostly fairly short, and you don't feel constrained to read them all in order, or even to read all of them! It's also offering me a different perspective on the 16th century, which I'm used to looking at from the lens of Italy. I'll admit that my knowledge of the history and politics of late 16th-century France has mostly been shaped by one of Judith Merkle Riley's historical fiction novels, The Master of All Desires (to be fair, Riley is a PhD, albeit one of political science, not history). So it's good to get some exposure to the transalpine Renaissance culture!
One last funny bit, quoted by Montaigne:
Socrates was told that some man had not been improved by travel. "I am sure he was not," he said. "He went with himself!"
Monday, September 06, 2010
More from "The Modern Mind"
Going into this book, I knew that my knowledge of 20th-century history was much stronger in the first half of the century than in the second, but the chapters I read today, on the 1960s and early 1970s, made me realize how vague my understanding has been of some of the major forces to shape our world. Case in point: China's Cultural Revolution. I knew of it, I didn't really know about it. Beginning in 1966, it was a brutal purge of all cultural institutions and objects that the Communists considered tainted by Western/capitalist influence. It lasted ten years and claimed the lives of 400,00 people.
Mao, already the Chairman of the Communist party, saw the opportunity in 1966 to consolidate his power after a play opened that indirectly criticized him. He whipped the revolutionary fervor of the youth to a violent intensity, encouraging high school and university students to form the vicious "Red Guards" who would carry out the purge (this year saw the publication of his "Little Red Book," which became their Bible). His wife, Jiang Qing, directed their attention first to their teachers (the "scholar-tyrants"), and then to anyone and anything that didn't meet with Communist approval. The Red Guards attacked the universities, destroyed books, and held bonfires of 'degenerate' Western objects like artwork, dresses, and jazz records. By Mao's own order, the police were not to interfere with Red Guard activities, lest they be labeled "counter-revolutionaries." And it didn't stop there: "Coffee bars, theaters, and circues were closed down, weddings forbidden, even holding hands and kite flying...by the second half of 1966 virtually every important cultural institution in China was under army control. On 12 December that year many 'public enemies,' who included playwrights, actors, film and theatre directors, poets, and composers, were marched to the Workers' Stadium before 10,000 people, each with a wooden placard around his or her neck." The scale of this event is hard even to encompass; it forms the foundation for contemporary China, the nation that is one of the most important players on the world stage today, and yet we learn so little about it in the West.
I knew a little more about the darkest part of the history of another major nation, the gulags of Stalinist Russia. When I was in high school we read Solzhenitsyn's One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich, and I also read the Gulag Archipelago, which is a blood-chilling, factual account of the violence perpetrated by Stalin against his own people. Years later, what I remember most from the book was the sheer absurdity of it all--under a gulag system that ran on monthly quotas of "enemies of the state," you could spend a decade or more in Siberia because ignored a Communist party flyer, because you made a passing reference to Stalin getting older, or--most absurd of all--because you went out to get groceries and ran across official who needed more criminals for his monthly shipment. It might take years for your family to find out what camp you had been sent to, and years more for them to find out you were already dead.
More than 14 million people went through the gulag system between 1930 and 1953. About 1.6 million people died there, with many more dying after their release from what they suffered. The gulags weren't death camps, not in the way the Nazis had built them, and in some ways that makes it so much worse. The Nazis attacked the groups they considered to be inferior to the Aryans--Jews, Catholics, gypsies, homosexuals--while Stalin perpetrated the horrors of the gulags against his own people, for nothing more than political reasons. This is another epochal event that I think is too-little-known in the West today, and it has ramifications just as powerful as those of the Cultural Revolution. Russia is becoming more and more conservative and repressive (cf. the repeated assassinations of journalists and reporters in recent years). Putin may not be Stalin, but it's important to know about an era that is still deeply stamped on the Russian collective mentality.
When Heather visited me earlier this year, she brought a copy of a magazine that had an article in it about re-reading the Gulag Archipelago (naturally, I remember neither magazine nor author, so I can't link it). The author's conclusion was that the book is still important today not only because it reminds us that totalitarianism is evil, but because it reminds us that we need to fight against it. He wrote that reading about Stalin's crimes against humanity changed his mind about American intervention in places like Afghanistan, because it is wrong to sit back and let people suffer and die under the whims of an totalitarian government--whether that government is predicated on religious or political authority.
This is a tough issue, because it requires us first to claim moral authority, and then to assert ourselves on foreign soil. In a case like the gulags, it's clear where the moral authority lies, but less so in the Middle East, with its powder keg of religious extremism and (often deserved) hatred of the West. And who is "us"? The US? The democratic nations? What if China wanted to step in and help eradicate the Taliban, would we let them?
As for involvement on foreign soil, the problem with totalitarian governments is that they don't respond to external forces. You can't sanction them out of existence, you can't scold them from the pulpit of the UN (see North Korea). That just turns them even more inward. Sometimes, like in the case of the USSR, they crumble from within. Other times, direct intervention is the only option. For example, I think we have a responsibility to prevent the Taliban from keeping the Afghans in bondage for another fifty years, even if that requires our own troops, and our own losses. In fact, I think our responsibility is greater there than anywhere else at the moment, precisely because we've already helped them achieve a little bit of freedom. To allow the Taliban to reassert its control now, to force the Aghans back into the darkness of the cave after they've seen the sun (to use the Platonic metaphor), would be the worst kind of betrayal. Maybe one day the fight against totalitarianism will be in the purview of strengthened United Nations, but for now, we can't just leave those who are too weak to defend themselves to the mercy of the wolves. Look where that has gotten us before.
Mao, already the Chairman of the Communist party, saw the opportunity in 1966 to consolidate his power after a play opened that indirectly criticized him. He whipped the revolutionary fervor of the youth to a violent intensity, encouraging high school and university students to form the vicious "Red Guards" who would carry out the purge (this year saw the publication of his "Little Red Book," which became their Bible). His wife, Jiang Qing, directed their attention first to their teachers (the "scholar-tyrants"), and then to anyone and anything that didn't meet with Communist approval. The Red Guards attacked the universities, destroyed books, and held bonfires of 'degenerate' Western objects like artwork, dresses, and jazz records. By Mao's own order, the police were not to interfere with Red Guard activities, lest they be labeled "counter-revolutionaries." And it didn't stop there: "Coffee bars, theaters, and circues were closed down, weddings forbidden, even holding hands and kite flying...by the second half of 1966 virtually every important cultural institution in China was under army control. On 12 December that year many 'public enemies,' who included playwrights, actors, film and theatre directors, poets, and composers, were marched to the Workers' Stadium before 10,000 people, each with a wooden placard around his or her neck." The scale of this event is hard even to encompass; it forms the foundation for contemporary China, the nation that is one of the most important players on the world stage today, and yet we learn so little about it in the West.
I knew a little more about the darkest part of the history of another major nation, the gulags of Stalinist Russia. When I was in high school we read Solzhenitsyn's One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich, and I also read the Gulag Archipelago, which is a blood-chilling, factual account of the violence perpetrated by Stalin against his own people. Years later, what I remember most from the book was the sheer absurdity of it all--under a gulag system that ran on monthly quotas of "enemies of the state," you could spend a decade or more in Siberia because ignored a Communist party flyer, because you made a passing reference to Stalin getting older, or--most absurd of all--because you went out to get groceries and ran across official who needed more criminals for his monthly shipment. It might take years for your family to find out what camp you had been sent to, and years more for them to find out you were already dead.
More than 14 million people went through the gulag system between 1930 and 1953. About 1.6 million people died there, with many more dying after their release from what they suffered. The gulags weren't death camps, not in the way the Nazis had built them, and in some ways that makes it so much worse. The Nazis attacked the groups they considered to be inferior to the Aryans--Jews, Catholics, gypsies, homosexuals--while Stalin perpetrated the horrors of the gulags against his own people, for nothing more than political reasons. This is another epochal event that I think is too-little-known in the West today, and it has ramifications just as powerful as those of the Cultural Revolution. Russia is becoming more and more conservative and repressive (cf. the repeated assassinations of journalists and reporters in recent years). Putin may not be Stalin, but it's important to know about an era that is still deeply stamped on the Russian collective mentality.
When Heather visited me earlier this year, she brought a copy of a magazine that had an article in it about re-reading the Gulag Archipelago (naturally, I remember neither magazine nor author, so I can't link it). The author's conclusion was that the book is still important today not only because it reminds us that totalitarianism is evil, but because it reminds us that we need to fight against it. He wrote that reading about Stalin's crimes against humanity changed his mind about American intervention in places like Afghanistan, because it is wrong to sit back and let people suffer and die under the whims of an totalitarian government--whether that government is predicated on religious or political authority.
This is a tough issue, because it requires us first to claim moral authority, and then to assert ourselves on foreign soil. In a case like the gulags, it's clear where the moral authority lies, but less so in the Middle East, with its powder keg of religious extremism and (often deserved) hatred of the West. And who is "us"? The US? The democratic nations? What if China wanted to step in and help eradicate the Taliban, would we let them?
As for involvement on foreign soil, the problem with totalitarian governments is that they don't respond to external forces. You can't sanction them out of existence, you can't scold them from the pulpit of the UN (see North Korea). That just turns them even more inward. Sometimes, like in the case of the USSR, they crumble from within. Other times, direct intervention is the only option. For example, I think we have a responsibility to prevent the Taliban from keeping the Afghans in bondage for another fifty years, even if that requires our own troops, and our own losses. In fact, I think our responsibility is greater there than anywhere else at the moment, precisely because we've already helped them achieve a little bit of freedom. To allow the Taliban to reassert its control now, to force the Aghans back into the darkness of the cave after they've seen the sun (to use the Platonic metaphor), would be the worst kind of betrayal. Maybe one day the fight against totalitarianism will be in the purview of strengthened United Nations, but for now, we can't just leave those who are too weak to defend themselves to the mercy of the wolves. Look where that has gotten us before.
Beginnings
The semester has certainly started off with vigor, if the volume of reading for my three seminars is any indication. Both Dr. Hall and Dr. Cooper decided they wanted us to come up with general topics for our semester projects by this week, which is not something I've ever seen them ask before, especially one week into the semester! Dr. Cooper's course is on Caravaggio, since it's the 400 anniversary of his death this year; she already informed me that she wants me to work on the Venetian artist Giorgione, who's celebrating his 500th anniversary and who has some links to Caravaggio in terms of themes and innovations. But...what about Giorgione am I doing, exactly? I don't know. I looked at a recent catalog raisonee in the library the other day, and nothing clicked. As for Dr. Hall, whose course is Art, Music and Theater in Renaissance Italy, I will also be doing something Venice-related. I sent her an email with a couple of topics today: the figure of the peasant in Ruzante's plays, theater in the Veneto, and the relationship of the pastoral mode of painting (a prime developer of which just happens to have been Giorgione himself) to the pastoral mode of drama, which didn't develop until decades later.
For Dr. Braddock's historiography seminar, I have to choose a work of art I want to repeatedly analyze through different theoretical lenses over the semester, culminating in a very short paper in which I summarize the prior literature on the object and offer a new interpretation. Not too bad, except that for preliminary-exam-related reasons I'd like to choose an object related to Venice, and the PMA's pickings in that regard are woefully slim. I'm not sure there's an object in that gallery that would stand up to analysis by Marx, Hegel, Freud, Lacan, and the host of other art historical worthies we'll be discussing, while still leaving me room to generate a fresh interpretation. The one painting that seems to have enough "meat," Bronzino's portrait of Cosimo I as Orpheus, is a little too well-treated in the literature (it's also Florentine, but I would be almost willing to overlook that because of its awesomeness). The image I thought of initially, and which I may use, is Titian's portrait of Cardinal Filippo Archinto:
I'm just not sure if this offers enough interpretative scope for the semester! Argh.
The historiography class starts this week with Plato, Aristotle, and Vasari. I've read "The Allegory of the Cave" a bunch of times, but I've actually never read Aristotle. Considering his reputation, though, I wasn't surprised to find him lucid and eminently readable, with plenty of concrete examples thrown in for illustration. Ah, empiricism. I like Aristotle for his style as well as his substance, like his observation of the relationship of poetry to history:
"The difference between a historian and a poet is not that one writs in prose and the other in verse--indeed the writings of Herodotus could be put into verse and yet would still be a kind of history, whether written in meter or not. The real difference is this, that one tells what happened and the other what might happen. For this reason poetry is something more scientific and more serious than history, because poetry tends to give general truths while history gives particular facts."
Isn't that fascinating? When have you ever heard poetry called "scientific" at all, much less "more scientific and more serious" than history? And yet here is one of the forefathers of modern science saying exactly that.
For Dr. Braddock's historiography seminar, I have to choose a work of art I want to repeatedly analyze through different theoretical lenses over the semester, culminating in a very short paper in which I summarize the prior literature on the object and offer a new interpretation. Not too bad, except that for preliminary-exam-related reasons I'd like to choose an object related to Venice, and the PMA's pickings in that regard are woefully slim. I'm not sure there's an object in that gallery that would stand up to analysis by Marx, Hegel, Freud, Lacan, and the host of other art historical worthies we'll be discussing, while still leaving me room to generate a fresh interpretation. The one painting that seems to have enough "meat," Bronzino's portrait of Cosimo I as Orpheus, is a little too well-treated in the literature (it's also Florentine, but I would be almost willing to overlook that because of its awesomeness). The image I thought of initially, and which I may use, is Titian's portrait of Cardinal Filippo Archinto:
I'm just not sure if this offers enough interpretative scope for the semester! Argh.
The historiography class starts this week with Plato, Aristotle, and Vasari. I've read "The Allegory of the Cave" a bunch of times, but I've actually never read Aristotle. Considering his reputation, though, I wasn't surprised to find him lucid and eminently readable, with plenty of concrete examples thrown in for illustration. Ah, empiricism. I like Aristotle for his style as well as his substance, like his observation of the relationship of poetry to history:
"The difference between a historian and a poet is not that one writs in prose and the other in verse--indeed the writings of Herodotus could be put into verse and yet would still be a kind of history, whether written in meter or not. The real difference is this, that one tells what happened and the other what might happen. For this reason poetry is something more scientific and more serious than history, because poetry tends to give general truths while history gives particular facts."
Isn't that fascinating? When have you ever heard poetry called "scientific" at all, much less "more scientific and more serious" than history? And yet here is one of the forefathers of modern science saying exactly that.