Thus Spake George Jones

After last week’s post, a tribute to Greek tragedy as seen by a bot, I started thinking about some of the Greek tragedies that I myself have read. Last week’s brief sampling of a play written by a graduate student’s bot featured so many familiar motifs that I started thinking about the genre’s essential plot elements. I can tell you this: in plays by Aeschylus and Sophocles, family strife plays a major role. If it’s not a wife killing a husband, it’s a parent killing a child. There are grand passions, grand betrayals, clashes between affairs of state and private duty, reunions after long separations, acts of revenge, occasional acts of loyalty (which seemingly never go unpunished), matricides, filicides, parricides. In short, Greek tragedies can be gloomy affairs, no matter how great the themes they are exploring.

I’ve concluded that Greek tragedy was the country music of 5th-century Athens. You know it’s true. If there’s any species of high art more calculated to have you crying in your beer by the jukebox at intermission, it’s the works of the ancient tragedians. Some of you Generation X and Yers may be scratching your heads doubtfully, and in a way I don’t blame you, because regardless of your familiarity with the ancients, you may never actually have experienced country music the way I did while growing up. While the plays of Classical Greece may be frozen in time, coming to us across an immense expanse of time and distance, country music has changed since my youth. Back then, in the heyday of Conway Twitty, Buck Owens, Loretta Lynn, George Jones, Tammy Wynette, Porter Wagoner, and others, many of the songs I heard on country radio were painful to listen to. I don’t mean sad, I mean painful.

Those were the days of what I would call hard country as opposed to the soft country of today. I’m not an expert on country music but did grow up surrounded by it, as it was favored by both my parents. I often wondered why, because it seemed to me that if you were feeling OK to start with, listening to it would depress you, and if you were already depressed when you heard it, you’d soon feel infinitely worse. It was a mirror of things only half-understood that seemed to be happening around me, and why on earth would I want to listen to reality amplified as a form of entertainment? Not for me the ballads of unfaithfulness and Carroll County accidents—I gravitated as a moth toward a flame to the melodious soft rock of The Carpenters, Bread, Don McLean, and other gentle troubadours of the day.

I may have been absorbed in a romantic haze, but given the choice between that and the utterly too literal realities of the “Harper Valley PTA” variety, I feel sure I would make the same choice again. Nothing wrong with a little escapism in the midst of ugly realities, if escapism is your only choice. I think people do this as adults, too.

Nowadays, of course, a lot of country music is indistinguishable from pop music. Several times, while alone in my car on long trips, I have tuned into country music stations in places like Missouri and Ohio and been wrapped in a cocoon of love by various male baritones all singing of faithfulness and understanding in a way that would have made George Jones cringe. (I believe it was Mr. Jones who lamented the change in country music away from the adultery/murder/prison/drunkenness end of the county toward the kinder, gentler side of the district aspired to today. At least, he once did so in an interview.)

I will admit that some of today’s songs can be sappy (as opposed to starkly depressive as in the old days). Nonetheless, if I’m trying to get somewhere on the road, I’d rather by accompanied by a sympathetic chorus of we’ve-had-our-consciousness-raised good old boys, with an occasional renegade thrown in—mostly alluding to the nobler aspects of romance and human nature—than by a Conway Twitty dirge that might force me off the road into a ditch. It would probably take a listen to both sides of the first two Carpenters albums and a goodly dose of The Little River Band to set me right after that (and that still might not be enough).

Without a doubt, there are high culture advocates out there who see no connection at all between Greek tragedy and Johnny Cash and would sooner drink hemlock than admit they might be accessing the same dark strain of human experience. Personally, I wonder if the distinction between “high” and “low” art is a defense mechanism more than a valid division, but in any case, allow me just to say that Clytemnestra murdering both her husband and Cassandra had nothing on Johnny Cash singing “Delia’s Gone.” If you were in the bar at the intermission of Agamemnon and they started playing that song, you’d be out of the theater in a flash, Chardonnay unfinished, slamming your car door, spinning out, and searching desperately on the dial for a latter-day country music lullaby of the blandest variety to soothe your disordered senses. You might even be desperate enough for disco.

You Are Now Cereal

Phi Beta Kappa featured a post on its Facebook page the other day from Mr. Spencer Klavan, a graduate student who trained a bot to write a Greek play by having it watch many hours of tragedies. He stated that the excerpt in the post was only the first page, but to me, everything that needed to be said was right there on that page, rendering the rest entirely superfluous (though it was all excellent, I’m sure).

With a stage direction indicating that the setting is the exterior of a “Cursed Dynastic Palace,” you know you’re in the hands of a straightforward playwright who’s going to let you know exactly where you stand. And the rest of this one-page mini-play is just as carefully observed, with characters such as long-suffering wife Dyspepsia and chief god Stankrocles (in charge of mathematics and ancestral guilt, that double whammy of random but somehow meaningful jurisdictions) and an authentic Chorus that really knows its stuff: “Welcome home, Great King ! Watch out ! Everything is normal !”

The action is crisp and the verbs active. Dyspepsia carries a big knife, Stankrocles eats a sandwich, the Chorus dances, and Dundertron laughs. There are greetings, warnings, forebodings, dancing, and dead lions. And the climax, in which Stankrocles turns everyone into barley, is as satisfying as you could wish. What else is there to be said after that? You are now cereal. Deal with it. If you’ve been waiting for someone to tell it like it is, no holds barred (someone besides Wordplay), your search is at an end with Mr. Klavan’s bot. The sheer audacity of its storytelling and bold willingness to take risks in delivering a Greek tragedy attuned to our gainful (that is, grainful) times will dazzle you, make you laugh, and take your breath away.

As a drama that captures not only the spirit of an earlier age, but the nihilist zeitgeist of ours, this play cannot be beat. And besides . . . What? What are you asking? Catharsis? Well, what do you want that for? Are you feeling bad? All Wordplay can tell you is, if you don’t get catharsis from barley right now, you likely never will. It’s barley or nothing. And that’s some good fiber, too.

What I Found on the Shelves

Lately, I've had pretty good luck finding interesting books at the library, so this week's post will be a literary one. Popular culture is a bit of a minefield these days, in my opinion, and the simple wish to be entertained can result in being subjected to all kinds of schlock. The trick, of course, is to try and be discerning, as we have all been taught since we were little children--though I don't recall discernment being nearly so difficult an art when I was small. The reason is simple: the age of innocence has flown the coop on us.

It's been a few years since I reviewed anything by author Tracy Chevalier, but some of you may remember my review of her book The Last Runaway, the story of a young Quaker woman starting a new life in the wilds of rural Ohio in 1850. That book painted a vivid picture of the dangers of everyday life on the frontier, when a simple wagon trip through the woods--at a distance that would be as nothing in the age of interstate highways--was a frankly hazardous undertaking. Ms. Chevalier returns to 19th-century Ohio for At the Edge of the Orchard, a novel about a family working the land in the perilous Black Swamp of the state's northwest region. In actual fact, this book provides an even more harrowing portrait of frontier life than the author's previous book.

The Goodenough family is dysfunctional, which adds another layer to the nearly insurmountable difficulties they already face in making a living from the land. A dark tragedy leads to the breakup of the family and to the beginning of years of wandering for youngest son Robert. Although Robert travels widely and sees many wonders, even ending up in California in time for the Gold Rush, the story is not so much Mark Twain adventure as it is Aeschylus Greek tragedy. 

The Fates do indeed seem to pursue the members of this family; rarely, while reading the book, do you shake off a sense of being haunted. Although there are humorous episodes and characters (Robert's cigar-smoking landlady, Mrs. Bienenstock, is everything a Barbary Coast landlady should be), the novel imparts a feeling almost of claustrophobia. Rather than Manifest Destiny and a feeling of endless possibility, the horizons have shrunk; you get the sense that no matter how far Robert roams, he will never escape the events he is running from. The novel offers a darker view of this period of western expansion than you get from many tales of Western adventure, darker in plot as well as in tone. While it looks like 19th-century America, it feels like Greece in the Bronze Age, as if the House of Atreus had somehow crossed the sea and fetched up on foreign shores. America does not seem so much exceptional as it seems doomed to repeat the cycle of the past.

As it happens, I followed this book up with another one with a California setting, María Dueñas's The Heart Has Its Reasons. I greatly enjoyed Ms. Dueñas's The Time In Between, a novel about a Spanish dressmaker who gets involved in the resistance during World War II, and I was curious to see what she would do with a strong female character in a contemporary setting. The Heart Has Its Reasons is the story of a woman who, after the breakup of her marriage, flees her university job in Spain for a stint as a visiting professor at a Northern California college. The ingredients for a great story--a woman making a new start, a picturesque setting, and an academic mystery entangled with personal tragedy--are all there, but I was thrown off by something in the storytelling itself, an awkwardness that was absent from Ms. Dueñas's previous book.

I at first wondered if something had been lost in the translation, since the style seemed little like what I remembered from the previous novel, not that every book by an author needs to sound exactly the same--though you don't expect one to be assured in tone and the next to be a little off-center. While I enjoyed the story and was intrigued enough to keep reading, I was distracted by a certain roughness in the prose. There is a scene early on in which the main character is looking at photos of the long-dead professor whose papers she is organizing when, for unexplained reasons, lickety-split, she is suddenly outside in need of fresh air. Wait . . . how did that happen?

It is as if some bridge between the two scenes, a connection supplying the reasons for Professor Perea's sudden exodus, is missing. I found it surprising that a writer as accomplished as Ms. Dueñas would write a scene that way, but whether the explanation is typographical, translational, or purposeful I cannot say. Did the character undergo a fugue state? Did she step into a wormhole? Later in the novel, there is a confrontation between Professor Perea and another academic in which she seems to overreact to the revelation that he's behind the fellowship that brought her to America. I didn't think the news quite warranted throwing him out of her apartment, much less her life, and it also seems inconsistent with her previous behavior--yet another example of something that doesn't quite fit in the story.

Overall, I did enjoy the book, though, and was reminded occasionally of my own experiences in California, both as a visitor and as a student. Ms. Dueñas certainly has the setting down to a T, and she knows the world of academia to boot. It's just that the storytelling itself seemed to raise mysteries, almost in the manner of a poem whose letters and lines are placed in an unexpected way on the page, pointing to something beyond what's in the words themselves, if I am not imagining it.

This is the beauty of browsing: I had been looking for some time for a book set in the Gold Rush era of California history, which seems to me a fascinating time, and I found one by luck just by poking around in the shelves. I'm also interested in the history of California missions, which plays such a critical role in Ms. Dueñas's book, and I came across that one by accident as well. Serendipitous finds like that are always fun, even if you don't quite get what you're expecting. NoveList is a wondrous thing . . . but there's nothing like finding a book yourself.

Iphigenia's Lament

Last week, I wrote about the theatrical quality of much of what passes for news these days. This week, events surrounding the debate in the U.S. Congress on the renewal of expiring Patriot Act provisions have been in the headlines. The episode itself, despite all the drama accompanying it, seems all too serious and real, without the need for anyone to inject rhetorical flourishes.

What bothers me is that the debate over Section 215, important as it, falls short of addressing privacy issues that are outside its scope (for example, Section 702 of the Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Amendments Act, which has been used to scoop up email content and Internet searches, among other things, is a separate law). I've seen assorted opinions expressed on the "USA Freedom Act," what will happen if Section 215 sunsets, and whether various provisions in the Patriot Act actually enhance security in any way. The more I learn, the more I see the need for serious reform. The gag orders associated with production of data, the secrecy of the FISA court's workings, the relative ease with which the government has been able to command vast amounts of personal information--all of these are troubling.

I know that the USA Freedom Act is considered a small but positive first step by many privacy advocates, but forgive me for saying that if the intelligence community and the Obama administration are OK with it, I assume it can't be strong enough. Some have argued that expiration of Section 215 might be the best thing that could happen, since it practically ensures a re-evaluation of the program, and I'm not sure that I don't agree. Certainly this seems preferable to trying to cobble together a compromise at the last minute on a deadline. The law is too complex, and the issues are too important, for that to be wise. Apparently, some lawmakers complained after 9/11 that they were railroaded into approving the Patriot Act without a complete understanding of what it entailed. There's no excuse for that to happen again.

The potential for abuse in the collection of personal data in the name of security is no mere fantasy. "Metadata" sounds so abstract but reveals more than you might think it could at first glance. (As one NSA official put it, "If you have enough metadata, you don't really need content." As it is, intelligence agencies have broad powers to obtain both.) With so much secrecy around the workings of the NSA and other agencies, how is it even possible to know what the information gathered is used for? How do we know that someone's concept of national security doesn't include spying on those who disagree with him or on people he wants to make trouble for? We don't, not at all.

For a mythic parallel, consider the Greeks on the eve of the Trojan War, desperate to sail from Aulis but unable to get favoring winds. To placate a goddess, Agamemnon sacrificed his own daughter, Iphigenia. Agamemnon, Clytemnestra, and Iphigenia may seem far removed from the workings of the U.S. federal government and the NSA, but what strikes me is the irrationality and ruthlessness of the action, the willingness to give up something precious that can't be replaced. It's not unlike the day the Patriot Act became law, Iphigenia standing in for our Fourth Amendment rights.

Stories say the weather did change after that, although those favorable winds, fickle things that they were, carried many of the Greeks to their deaths in Troy. And it's certain that Agamemnon brought about his own fall through his act, long delayed though it was. So much followed on the all-consuming desire to leave Aulis at any cost and get those war drums going. Beware the quick, unreasoned action.

When Midas Came to Town

Over the holidays, I read a Jane Smiley book I really liked called Good Faith. The wonder of it is that I liked it so well considering it was actually about bad faith, greed, dishonesty, and infidelity, but I think that's a tribute to the author's talents. She seems to have a knack for looking at human weaknesses without losing her sense of humor, and she writes so well that you're entertained just by dipping into her sentences. I admit that I didn't enjoy her Pulitzer Prize winner, A Thousand Acres, which was rather grim, but I've found some of her other work to be very rewarding.

Good Faith is about Joe Stratford, a small-town realtor in an unspecified mid-Atlantic state who has a good though unexciting life when the story opens. He's good at his job, conscientious, and well regarded by others in the community, most of whom he's known his entire life. He's divorced but neither bitter about it or in a hurry to get remarried. He's a devoted son. His circle of friends includes a developer who is something of a father figure to him and whose family is like an extension of his own. He enjoys his work.

Things begin to change when a newcomer to the community, Marcus Burns, breaks into Joe's circle and shakes up business as usual with some rather ambitious ideas about real estate development and other investments on a grand scale. With his impeccable attire, smooth manner, and winning ways, he's soon able to convince Joe and his partners that they can all get rich if they'll only start thinking "big" and forget about the way they've always done things. It's entertaining but sad to see the way they let go of their doubts, one by one, and succumb to his get-rich-quick schemes despite knowing little about him and even entertaining doubts as to his credibility.

The reader can both foresee the likely result and also understand some of the reasons Marcus succeeds in getting others to invest in his schemes. He's a consummate motivational speaker and has just enough knowledge (along with oratorical ability) to lend conviction to risky projects simply by suggesting that times are changing and that ways of doing business must change along with them. Winning over Joe is a big part of his strategy, since everyone trusts Joe and believes that if he's involved in something, it must be OK. Joe is so intrigued and entertained by his new friend that he manages to stifle his own doubts, especially as most of those who voice concern about risky new real estate ventures are people he considers out of touch.

Without fully realizing what they've gotten into until it's too late, Joe and his partners end up taking a wild ride fueled by visions of the billions of dollars they're assured are theirs for the taking. Joe gambles away nearly everything on the charismatic nature of his new friend and takes several of his old friends down with him.

I think the story appeals because it's about people who seem quite human and ordinary; I feel that I've known people very much like the ones in the book and, without exactly wanting to be them, could step into their world without much strain to the imagination. In addition, the microcosm of the story mirrors larger events in our country's economic history. While set against the S & L catastrophe of the 1980s, it's also a reminder of more recent economic disasters that resulted from throwing all caution to the wind. It's a bit of an "emperor has no clothes" story.

Although things end rather badly for some of the characters, Smiley inserts a bit of optimism at the very end after you've stopped expecting it. Having lost a lot of other things he once had, Joe finally finds love. I liked the way Smiley has Joe describe this experience in terms his very religious mother always used but that he never really understood as "grace acting in the material world." His epiphany seems to make the sun come out once again after a sad season of greed and loss without seeming at all like a sentimental or maudlin conclusion.

Reading this story is a little like watching the unfolding of a Greek tragedy in which hubris plays a large role, except that the ending is more optimistic. It's classic tragedy by way of American optimism, maybe. The characters in Greek drama rarely seem to get a second chance, but in America, if they persevere long enough, sometimes they do.