Last week, I read two books recommended by readers of a magazine I subscribe to. This reminded me a little of my experiment two years ago, when I read lots of books from NPR's summer reading lists. I did something like that last summer, too, but blended recommendations from several sources. On the whole, I've decided that, despite coming across a few gems in these reading lists, I usually do better on my own when it comes to picking out books. I just know what I like.
I often find good titles when I'm looking for something else. I might be looking at books by an author I already know and notice something on the same shelf that calls out to me. Part of the fun of going to the library is the serendipity and the not really knowing what I'm going to walk out with. Sometimes, I'm in the mood for something in particular and walk out with a book within five minutes; other times, I know what I want but can't seem to find it.
When I went to the library the other day, I had a title in mind, but the library didn't have it, so I started browsing. I noticed several flyers on a display that someone in reader's advisory must have put together. They had titles like "If You Like Dan Brown . . ." or "If You Like Agatha Christie . . ." In my case, you almost have to be more specific: "If You Like Jane Smiley's Historical Novels But Not A Thousand Acres"; "If You Like Literary Adventures With Exotic Settings and Mythology"; or "If You Like Romances--With Humor--That Aren't Predictable," but to get something that close to the target, I'd have to write the list myself.
However, I flipped through several of the flyers and found some book descriptions that appealed. I started hunting and located a few of the books, including The Age of Desire, a novel about Edith Wharton, and Rules of Civility, a novel about upper-class New Yorkers in the 1930s. I almost picked the Wharton book, but something in the description made me think of Henry James's The Bostonians, and though this book may be nothing like that, I decided against it just in case it was. (This would be from my flyer, "If You Like Henry James and You Like Boston, but not The Bostonians.") Likewise, I might actually enjoy Rules of Civility, which is supposed to invoke a touch of F. Scott Fitzgerald, but my reverse snobbery kicked in just then and a novel about wealthy New Yorkers didn't appeal.
I perused three of the pamphlets and looked for at least 10 of the suggested titles before deciding that maybe the lists wouldn't work for me. I then tried the library's "New Books" shelf, but nothing grabbed me there either. This was turning into one of those contrary occasions when I didn't know exactly what I wanted, but I knew what I didn't want, and I wasn't finding what I wanted, but I didn't want to leave the library without a book.
I took one last look at the list called "If You Like The Night Circus" and saw a book called The Stockholm Octavo that I had somehow overlooked before. The description summarized a tale of love, intrigue, and a Tarot-like deck of divination cards set in 18th-century Sweden. What? How did I not see that before? I found it on the fiction shelf and was drawn to it right away because of the beautiful cover, which depicts the deck of cards, and the satisfying size--over 400 pages. I also noticed a blurb from an author I like on the back of the book, and that seemed promising.
The real test of a book, though, is to read the first few sentences. Then and there, you get the flavor of what the author is up to; a book that sounds fascinating in synopsis and is highly recommended is sometimes simply not your thing once you start reading, but this one began well: "Stockholm is called the Venice of the North, and with good reason. Travelers claim that it is just as complex, just as grand, and just as mysterious as its sister to the south."
OK, that's more like it! Right away, I'm intrigued because I've never thought of Stockholm as being like Venice at all. Throw in words like "complex" and "mysterious," and you've got my attention. A novel set in a northern city with the allure of an Italian one is probably going to be worth your while for the setting alone. And there's a seer! And a deck of mystical cards!
Why I ended up with the last book I considered, I don't know, but I walked out of the library happy. I'm about a fourth of the way through it, and somehow it's just what I had in mind, even though I didn't know what I had in mind when I walked into the library. Sometimes, you just know what you want when you see it.
Saturday, May 31, 2014
Friday, May 23, 2014
Palace of the Looking Glass
This week, we had a special treat in the re-opening celebration for a local treasure, the Kentucky Theatre. The evening featured a free showing of South Pacific, free popcorn, free leis, and an appearance by Nick and Nina Clooney, who had their first date at the Kentucky years ago for a showing of (guess what!) South Pacific. The Kentucky has been around since 1922; you can tell it's of a distinguished age by its neoclassical facade and elegant architectural details, but it embodies the phrase "aging gracefully" to the fullest. Rarely will you see a more beautiful theater, or one that is more beloved, as evidenced by its most recent renovation.
Based on my extensive moviegoing history at the Kentucky, I developed an idea some years ago about the real meaning of the experience. This was even before I entered graduate school to study myths; I'd been thinking about mythology in our culture for a long before I went to school for it. It seemed to me that going to a movie had a ritual quality that was something like the feeling you get by going into a cathedral or some other great spiritual house. The sequence of events is perhaps in a different order, but the elements of enactment are similar.
I think the same dynamics come into play in most movie theaters, but perhaps the lofty elegance of a place like the Kentucky makes it more apparent that you're entering a special place, one set apart from the everyday world. You stop at the ticket booth and make your offering, which entitles you to enter. There's a series of liminal spaces, from the entrance under the marquee (where you're still outside but in shadow, already experiencing the imaginal lure of the movies calling out from the playbills and movie posters surrounding you), to the first lobby (in the case of the Kentucky, a spacious hall of mirrors, the better to remind you that what you're about to see is yourself reflected, or possibly a different reality altogether than you've imagined before, as in Cocteau's Orphée), to the inner lobby, behind a second set of doors, where the concessions stand reigns supreme.
Popcorn, Goobers, Raisinettes, Candy Bars . . . these humble but nostalgic foods that look so enticing inside the big glass case, where they sparkle like jewels, are the ritual accompaniment to the main attraction, topped off not with communion wine but possibly a Cherry Coke. Healthy eating is not really the idea; self-indulgence is somehow innocent in a movie theater, if not actually necessary, possibly to lower your guard. You thought you were coming for an evening's diversion, when in reality . . . who knows what might happen up there on that screen and inside your head? Instead of incense, the seductive, earthy aroma of roasted popcorn envelops you, and not just today's freshly popped offering, but all those other batches of months and years past, permeating the fixtures at a molecular level, smelling of carnival and mystery, magic and darkness, as a theater lobby should.
With refreshments in hand, you pass yet another threshold, the door to the inner sanctum, the auditorium itself. In the Kentucky, the large open space above your head, the stained glass, and the ornate architectural flourishes draw your eye up, as if toward heaven. You feel a little bit like Dante before he starts ascending. For many people, there is a distinct difference between a spiritual and a secular setting, but I think in this case, considering the imaginal and transformational potential of moviegoing, the distinction is somewhat blurred. You sit in the dark, suspend your disbelief as a series of images plays out on the screen like a dream, and are sometimes profoundly changed by what you see, shaken, inspired, exhilarated, saddened, enlarged. You have probably been entertained, but sometimes you've gotten a glimpse of something you weren't expecting, and it makes a difference.
When the movie's over and the lights come up and you retrace your steps to the outside world, it often takes a few seconds to adjust to being in the ordinary everyday once again. I remember attending a showing of A Touch of Evil one rainy summer night at the Kentucky and walking to my car afterwards through a town that seemed different from the one I had left a few hours earlier. I had somehow carried the noir mood out with me, and the familiar streets now looked like a scene from Orson Welles, as if God had somehow assumed the persona of the great director.
I lost the feeling by the time I got home, but it's worth remembering. Was it possibly an opening to realizing that the shadow world and the surface world are not as far apart as they seem? Don't good films often reveal that in one way or another? Isn't a movie theater a portal to the unknown, what the Celts called a thin place, but with good seats and popcorn? I think the answer to all of these questions is yes.
Based on my extensive moviegoing history at the Kentucky, I developed an idea some years ago about the real meaning of the experience. This was even before I entered graduate school to study myths; I'd been thinking about mythology in our culture for a long before I went to school for it. It seemed to me that going to a movie had a ritual quality that was something like the feeling you get by going into a cathedral or some other great spiritual house. The sequence of events is perhaps in a different order, but the elements of enactment are similar.
I think the same dynamics come into play in most movie theaters, but perhaps the lofty elegance of a place like the Kentucky makes it more apparent that you're entering a special place, one set apart from the everyday world. You stop at the ticket booth and make your offering, which entitles you to enter. There's a series of liminal spaces, from the entrance under the marquee (where you're still outside but in shadow, already experiencing the imaginal lure of the movies calling out from the playbills and movie posters surrounding you), to the first lobby (in the case of the Kentucky, a spacious hall of mirrors, the better to remind you that what you're about to see is yourself reflected, or possibly a different reality altogether than you've imagined before, as in Cocteau's Orphée), to the inner lobby, behind a second set of doors, where the concessions stand reigns supreme.
Popcorn, Goobers, Raisinettes, Candy Bars . . . these humble but nostalgic foods that look so enticing inside the big glass case, where they sparkle like jewels, are the ritual accompaniment to the main attraction, topped off not with communion wine but possibly a Cherry Coke. Healthy eating is not really the idea; self-indulgence is somehow innocent in a movie theater, if not actually necessary, possibly to lower your guard. You thought you were coming for an evening's diversion, when in reality . . . who knows what might happen up there on that screen and inside your head? Instead of incense, the seductive, earthy aroma of roasted popcorn envelops you, and not just today's freshly popped offering, but all those other batches of months and years past, permeating the fixtures at a molecular level, smelling of carnival and mystery, magic and darkness, as a theater lobby should.
With refreshments in hand, you pass yet another threshold, the door to the inner sanctum, the auditorium itself. In the Kentucky, the large open space above your head, the stained glass, and the ornate architectural flourishes draw your eye up, as if toward heaven. You feel a little bit like Dante before he starts ascending. For many people, there is a distinct difference between a spiritual and a secular setting, but I think in this case, considering the imaginal and transformational potential of moviegoing, the distinction is somewhat blurred. You sit in the dark, suspend your disbelief as a series of images plays out on the screen like a dream, and are sometimes profoundly changed by what you see, shaken, inspired, exhilarated, saddened, enlarged. You have probably been entertained, but sometimes you've gotten a glimpse of something you weren't expecting, and it makes a difference.
When the movie's over and the lights come up and you retrace your steps to the outside world, it often takes a few seconds to adjust to being in the ordinary everyday once again. I remember attending a showing of A Touch of Evil one rainy summer night at the Kentucky and walking to my car afterwards through a town that seemed different from the one I had left a few hours earlier. I had somehow carried the noir mood out with me, and the familiar streets now looked like a scene from Orson Welles, as if God had somehow assumed the persona of the great director.
I lost the feeling by the time I got home, but it's worth remembering. Was it possibly an opening to realizing that the shadow world and the surface world are not as far apart as they seem? Don't good films often reveal that in one way or another? Isn't a movie theater a portal to the unknown, what the Celts called a thin place, but with good seats and popcorn? I think the answer to all of these questions is yes.
Friday, May 16, 2014
The Sense of Place
Do different places express different archetypes? The question has interested me for several years, and I actually considered working on it for my dissertation. I think the answer is yes, but it's easy to fall into oversimplification when you try to identify what those archetypes are.
I'm especially intrigued by comparisons of urban environments. Is it possible to identify predominant archetypes in a city as expressed in its image, economy, physical environment, and the people it attracts? Can you characterize Seattle as being more like Hermes and San Francisco as being more like Aphrodite? Is Washington D.C. a city of Athena? Does Boston, with all its colleges, have more of a heady Apollo energy? Any city obviously has multiple faces, subcultures, nuances, and shadows, but predominant themes often seem present.
I've read books by people who have addressed these issues either as depth psychologists or from other perspectives, and they seem to agree that different places represent noticeably different aspirations and "personalities." I spent a lot of time a few years ago trying to identify the main archetypes of the place I live in, wanting to understand what it excelled in and what it lacked, especially in comparison to other places. When I first started thinking about it, I found this hard to do, probably because I'd been here so long and couldn't see things from the outside. Having been around a bit more since then (I traveled a lot in 2011), I have more of a basis for comparison now and can articulate what I know.
There's a calmness about Lexington, an orderliness that's in noticeable contrast to, say, Los Angeles, which is much more venturesome -- even chaotic. Part of it's a size difference, of course, but I think there's also a difference in underlying dynamics. Lexington is in many ways a settled place, centered on families, it seems to me, so that it has a feeling of Hestia, hearth, and home. L.A. and San Francisco (and many other places) are also much more hedonistic than Lexington. Hedonism, unless it's of a sedate variety, just doesn't seem to play well here.
I've found Lexington to be both comfortable and confining. I've always thought it was a probably a better place to raise a family than to live in as a single woman, and it all has to do with that homely quality. I've often felt out of my element here, as if standing out too much in any way was always going to be a problem. I felt that I might thrive in a more adventurous environment, a place with more variety not only in cultural and occupational opportunities but also in the people I would meet. I finally addressed this frustration when I commuted to graduate school out of state, an arrangement that let me stay in place but experience the stimulus of an entirely different environment.
My home and even my job were rife with Hestian qualities of order and caretaking; I needed an infusion of a different kind of energy, more Aphrodite, more Apollo, and more Hermes (for a feeling of movement and lightness).
I told a friend before I started at Pacifica that I hoped it would help me figure out either how to leave here or how to stay. During the three years I was commuting to Southern California, I was pretty much in the "leave" mode; the question was where, when, and how. But a funny thing happened somewhere along the way, because once released from three years of what was definitely a labor of love but gave me no free time, I was at leisure to rediscover my own town. Somehow, despite its drawbacks, Lexington suddenly seemed to offer more than I remembered.
I re-discovered the Gallery Hop; there seemed to be more places to have brunch on Saturdays; I had time to attend Woodsongs Old Time Radio Hour at the Kentucky Theatre (on the night I attended, I was having dinner in a nearby restaurant when it was announced that a European opera singer was in the house and would give a brief performance); a couple of weeks later, I saw a play by Samuel Beckett in the theatre of the same small restaurant. Lexington had perhaps changed and expanded a little, but what seemed really different was me. My graduate program, and what it took to see it through, had enlarged me, so that I felt more confident in my own skin, wherever I happened to be. Perhaps my vision had also become more acute so that I was now able to seek out those touches of Aphrodite and Apollo and Hermes wherever they happened to be.
Kentucky is, of course, very land-locked, so that the spirit of Uranus, the ocean, is not much felt here. I like the feeling of having land all around me; it's nice to able to move in any direction. But when I was in California, spending so much time between the mountains and the sea, I think I developed an expansiveness partly in response to the intellectual and social climate and partly in response to the physical environment. Looking up at the mountains and out over the ocean must have trained my eye, without my knowing it, to seek further and to see more. I think it's difficult to stay settled in your ways when you spend a lot of time next to the ocean, which presents such a challenge to ideas of solidity. I must have needed a little of that moisture, that fluidity, and that sense of things loosening up. And maybe the mountains raised my sights a little higher.
I miss the beauty of those California interludes, but I think in the end they did their job and became a part of me. Some sort of rebalancing took place that was partly to do with my studies and partly to do with the different energy I experienced on the West Coast. Never underestimate the power of place.
I'm especially intrigued by comparisons of urban environments. Is it possible to identify predominant archetypes in a city as expressed in its image, economy, physical environment, and the people it attracts? Can you characterize Seattle as being more like Hermes and San Francisco as being more like Aphrodite? Is Washington D.C. a city of Athena? Does Boston, with all its colleges, have more of a heady Apollo energy? Any city obviously has multiple faces, subcultures, nuances, and shadows, but predominant themes often seem present.
I've read books by people who have addressed these issues either as depth psychologists or from other perspectives, and they seem to agree that different places represent noticeably different aspirations and "personalities." I spent a lot of time a few years ago trying to identify the main archetypes of the place I live in, wanting to understand what it excelled in and what it lacked, especially in comparison to other places. When I first started thinking about it, I found this hard to do, probably because I'd been here so long and couldn't see things from the outside. Having been around a bit more since then (I traveled a lot in 2011), I have more of a basis for comparison now and can articulate what I know.
There's a calmness about Lexington, an orderliness that's in noticeable contrast to, say, Los Angeles, which is much more venturesome -- even chaotic. Part of it's a size difference, of course, but I think there's also a difference in underlying dynamics. Lexington is in many ways a settled place, centered on families, it seems to me, so that it has a feeling of Hestia, hearth, and home. L.A. and San Francisco (and many other places) are also much more hedonistic than Lexington. Hedonism, unless it's of a sedate variety, just doesn't seem to play well here.
I've found Lexington to be both comfortable and confining. I've always thought it was a probably a better place to raise a family than to live in as a single woman, and it all has to do with that homely quality. I've often felt out of my element here, as if standing out too much in any way was always going to be a problem. I felt that I might thrive in a more adventurous environment, a place with more variety not only in cultural and occupational opportunities but also in the people I would meet. I finally addressed this frustration when I commuted to graduate school out of state, an arrangement that let me stay in place but experience the stimulus of an entirely different environment.
My home and even my job were rife with Hestian qualities of order and caretaking; I needed an infusion of a different kind of energy, more Aphrodite, more Apollo, and more Hermes (for a feeling of movement and lightness).
I told a friend before I started at Pacifica that I hoped it would help me figure out either how to leave here or how to stay. During the three years I was commuting to Southern California, I was pretty much in the "leave" mode; the question was where, when, and how. But a funny thing happened somewhere along the way, because once released from three years of what was definitely a labor of love but gave me no free time, I was at leisure to rediscover my own town. Somehow, despite its drawbacks, Lexington suddenly seemed to offer more than I remembered.
I re-discovered the Gallery Hop; there seemed to be more places to have brunch on Saturdays; I had time to attend Woodsongs Old Time Radio Hour at the Kentucky Theatre (on the night I attended, I was having dinner in a nearby restaurant when it was announced that a European opera singer was in the house and would give a brief performance); a couple of weeks later, I saw a play by Samuel Beckett in the theatre of the same small restaurant. Lexington had perhaps changed and expanded a little, but what seemed really different was me. My graduate program, and what it took to see it through, had enlarged me, so that I felt more confident in my own skin, wherever I happened to be. Perhaps my vision had also become more acute so that I was now able to seek out those touches of Aphrodite and Apollo and Hermes wherever they happened to be.
Kentucky is, of course, very land-locked, so that the spirit of Uranus, the ocean, is not much felt here. I like the feeling of having land all around me; it's nice to able to move in any direction. But when I was in California, spending so much time between the mountains and the sea, I think I developed an expansiveness partly in response to the intellectual and social climate and partly in response to the physical environment. Looking up at the mountains and out over the ocean must have trained my eye, without my knowing it, to seek further and to see more. I think it's difficult to stay settled in your ways when you spend a lot of time next to the ocean, which presents such a challenge to ideas of solidity. I must have needed a little of that moisture, that fluidity, and that sense of things loosening up. And maybe the mountains raised my sights a little higher.
I miss the beauty of those California interludes, but I think in the end they did their job and became a part of me. Some sort of rebalancing took place that was partly to do with my studies and partly to do with the different energy I experienced on the West Coast. Never underestimate the power of place.
Thursday, May 8, 2014
Reading Trollope for Fun and Profit
I haven't figured out whether Anthony Trollope is a Low High Victorian or a High Low Victorian (and anyway, does it signify?), but whatever he is, he's entertaining. Last year I read the first of his Palliser novels, Can You Forgive Her?, a seriocomic tale of love, marriage, and politics in 19th-century Britain. The independently wealthy protagonist in that novel is urged by her cousin to marry the cousin's brother, an unscrupulous sort with designs on a seat in Parliament, while the man who really loves her tries to save her. Complications ensue, and despite the novel's length, it's lively from beginning to end.
I picked up the second Palliser novel, Phineas Finn, the other day and initially found it slow going. It concerns a young Irishman convinced by his friends to stand for a seat in Parliament, to the chagrin of his father, his law mentor, and even his landlady's shrewd husband, who all believe he should settle down to a legal career instead of throwing himself away as an MP (Trollope apparently thought very little of politicians). In the initial chapters we see Phineas thinking things over, deciding to stand for his district, and winning the seat. I wasn't bowled over by any of this, probably because several of the characters think so poorly of the enterprise that it's hard to get excited about Phineas's success. He seems to be in for a dull time of it.
Things only get lively when romantic feelings start to affect Phineas's decisions, and he begins to pursue the lovely but apparently unattainable Lady Laura Standish. Her n'er-do-well brother, Oswald, is in love with the charming and intelligent Violet Effingham, Lady Laura's great friend, who is smart enough to have turned him down three times by the end of Chapter 19. Trollope does not bring Lady Laura onstage until Chapter 4, and Violet appears a bit later. I'm trying to figure out his delay in bringing them out, as the story drags until the factors of love and attraction come into play. I'm still reading the novel, so I should probably hold off on an opinion, but it almost seems that, despite trying to write about politics, Trollope finds his interest in intimate relations between people more compelling.
As in Can You Forgive Her?, Phineas Finn's female characters are full of complicated and conflicting emotions; unable to satisfy their own political ambitions, they strive to find a scope for their abilities through the men in their lives. Despite the constricted roles society allots them, the women are fascinating, fully formed characters, making the best (or worst) of their chances within their own sphere. Phineas is shown to be quite in awe of Lady Laura, deferring to her suggestions over and against the advice of seasoned men like his own father. Yet Lady Laura, in choosing an advantageous match over romance, soon finds herself in a stifling marriage (the type of mistake narrowly avoided by Alice Vavasor in Can You Forgive Her?). While Trollope's heroines are likable and sympathetic, they are not all-wise and all-seeing; both his men and women make serious blunders that sometimes hurt others.
Lady Laura and Kate Vavasor (Alice's cousin) are maddeningly blind to the faults of beloved but unworthy brothers whose ambitions they promote at the expense of their own happiness and the happiness of their friends. Violet and Alice are both pressured to marry the brother of their closest friend even though doing so offers a good chance of misery for the prospective wife. Even Oswald seems more aware of his unworthiness to have Violet than his sister is, despite her affection for her friend. The political becomes personal as independent-minded women attempt to achieve ends they see as desirable through matrimonial alliances. Zeus and Hera, power and prestige, keep surging to the forefront, while Aphrodite continually tries to upstage them. It's entertaining but also a bit sad.
Phineas is an appealing character, inexperienced and a little brash but quick to learn. His good intentions often rub up against self interest, and their collision with his romantic inclinations drives the story. Can You Forgive Her? ended rather better than you might expect for several of the characters. In Phineas Finn, Lady Laura has already committed to a loveless marriage, Phineas has unwisely accrued a debt from a luckless friend, and others seem poised for either salvation or perdition. Trollope has painted his characters in such realistic colors that it's hard to predict how it all will end. I've already laughed out loud over some of his more wry observations. Like this one --
Violet: 'I abominate a humble man, but yet I love to perceive that a man acknowledges the superiority of my sex, and youth, and all that kind of thing.'
Lady Laura: 'You want to be flattered without plain flattery.'
Violet: 'Of course I do. A man who would tell me that I am pretty, unless he is over seventy, ought to be kicked out of the room. But a man who can't show me that he thinks me so without saying a word about it, is a lout.'
I've also observed that 19th century or 21st, Britain or America, politics, love, and ambition don't really seem to have changed much. If Trollope is to be believed.
I picked up the second Palliser novel, Phineas Finn, the other day and initially found it slow going. It concerns a young Irishman convinced by his friends to stand for a seat in Parliament, to the chagrin of his father, his law mentor, and even his landlady's shrewd husband, who all believe he should settle down to a legal career instead of throwing himself away as an MP (Trollope apparently thought very little of politicians). In the initial chapters we see Phineas thinking things over, deciding to stand for his district, and winning the seat. I wasn't bowled over by any of this, probably because several of the characters think so poorly of the enterprise that it's hard to get excited about Phineas's success. He seems to be in for a dull time of it.
Things only get lively when romantic feelings start to affect Phineas's decisions, and he begins to pursue the lovely but apparently unattainable Lady Laura Standish. Her n'er-do-well brother, Oswald, is in love with the charming and intelligent Violet Effingham, Lady Laura's great friend, who is smart enough to have turned him down three times by the end of Chapter 19. Trollope does not bring Lady Laura onstage until Chapter 4, and Violet appears a bit later. I'm trying to figure out his delay in bringing them out, as the story drags until the factors of love and attraction come into play. I'm still reading the novel, so I should probably hold off on an opinion, but it almost seems that, despite trying to write about politics, Trollope finds his interest in intimate relations between people more compelling.
As in Can You Forgive Her?, Phineas Finn's female characters are full of complicated and conflicting emotions; unable to satisfy their own political ambitions, they strive to find a scope for their abilities through the men in their lives. Despite the constricted roles society allots them, the women are fascinating, fully formed characters, making the best (or worst) of their chances within their own sphere. Phineas is shown to be quite in awe of Lady Laura, deferring to her suggestions over and against the advice of seasoned men like his own father. Yet Lady Laura, in choosing an advantageous match over romance, soon finds herself in a stifling marriage (the type of mistake narrowly avoided by Alice Vavasor in Can You Forgive Her?). While Trollope's heroines are likable and sympathetic, they are not all-wise and all-seeing; both his men and women make serious blunders that sometimes hurt others.
Lady Laura and Kate Vavasor (Alice's cousin) are maddeningly blind to the faults of beloved but unworthy brothers whose ambitions they promote at the expense of their own happiness and the happiness of their friends. Violet and Alice are both pressured to marry the brother of their closest friend even though doing so offers a good chance of misery for the prospective wife. Even Oswald seems more aware of his unworthiness to have Violet than his sister is, despite her affection for her friend. The political becomes personal as independent-minded women attempt to achieve ends they see as desirable through matrimonial alliances. Zeus and Hera, power and prestige, keep surging to the forefront, while Aphrodite continually tries to upstage them. It's entertaining but also a bit sad.
Phineas is an appealing character, inexperienced and a little brash but quick to learn. His good intentions often rub up against self interest, and their collision with his romantic inclinations drives the story. Can You Forgive Her? ended rather better than you might expect for several of the characters. In Phineas Finn, Lady Laura has already committed to a loveless marriage, Phineas has unwisely accrued a debt from a luckless friend, and others seem poised for either salvation or perdition. Trollope has painted his characters in such realistic colors that it's hard to predict how it all will end. I've already laughed out loud over some of his more wry observations. Like this one --
Violet: 'I abominate a humble man, but yet I love to perceive that a man acknowledges the superiority of my sex, and youth, and all that kind of thing.'
Lady Laura: 'You want to be flattered without plain flattery.'
Violet: 'Of course I do. A man who would tell me that I am pretty, unless he is over seventy, ought to be kicked out of the room. But a man who can't show me that he thinks me so without saying a word about it, is a lout.'
I've also observed that 19th century or 21st, Britain or America, politics, love, and ambition don't really seem to have changed much. If Trollope is to be believed.
Wednesday, April 30, 2014
The Thing That Keats Said
Last week, I came across Donna Tartt's novel The Goldfinch at the public library. A brief description of the plot on The New York Times bestseller list, along with the writer's reputation, reeled me in. The novel tells a fictional story about a real painting, Carel Fabritius's "The Goldfinch," a 17th-century Dutch masterpiece, whose actual home is in the Netherlands. In the novel, a bomb rocks New York's Metropolitan Museum of Art while the protagonist, 13-year-old Theo Decker, is visiting with his mother. Theo's mother dies in the attack, and in the confusion, he smuggles "The Goldfinch," which his mother adored, out of the museum.
Theo's impulsive act, undertaken while he's deeply in shock, becomes, along with his mother's death, the defining fact in his life. Unable to think of a way to return the painting without causing trouble, he keeps it, taking it out of hiding now and again to marvel at it secretly, though he's increasingly wracked by guilt and fear over his possession of it.
The interplay of opposites -- a cataclysmic act of violence, an object of rare and haunting beauty in its midst, a boy who is both innocent and guilty -- runs throughout the novel. Theo is a Hermes-like character, growing up to combine the qualities of a thief and dissembler with a rare sensitivity and passionate nature. In the midst of his self-destructiveness and suffering, he is aware of the moral dilemmas imposed by his situation and is somehow a better person than many of his actions suggest.
Since "The Goldfinch" is the central image of the novel, described repeatedly and in loving detail through Theo's eyes, it necessarily becomes an object of meditation for the reader. What is it about this little goldfinch, in addition to its purely monetary value, that sets such a complicated series of events in motion and affects Theo (and even his harum scarum friend and co-conspirator Boris) so deeply? It seems to be the recognition of a common destiny. The bird is chained to its perch, trapped and circumscribed by events, but it gazes directly and unflinchingly at the viewer in a manner that Theo comes to recognize as -- despite everything -- life-affirming. In the midst of somber circumstance, its spirit remains strong, its gaze sending a challenge to the viewer: I've embraced the eternal yes. Will you?
I'm reminded here, a bit incongruously, of the film Waking Ned Devine, a rollicking story rather removed in atmosphere from the rich solemnity of The Goldfinch (whose tone has much in common with the shadowy, gold-flecked interiors of the Dutch masters it celebrates). In Waking Ned Devine, there is a communal attempt to trick a lottery board into distributing winnings to the surviving friends of the actual winner, who has died. One senses in the scheme not meanness but rather a generosity in the spirit of the deceased Ned Devine himself. The trickery is good-natured and serves the greater good.
In the case of The Goldfinch, the painting is taken by a 13-year-old with the instincts of a thief but a certain purity of heart and is stolen in turn by his amoral but happy-go-lucky best friend, eventually falling into the hands of an international gang of criminals. The final resolution is a twist of fate beyond anything Theo could have imagined, with good and evil very much entangled. But did the purity of Theo's feelings for the painting somehow protect it just enough to tip the balance toward good? It seems this could be true, since the restoration of the painting then inspires Theo to rebuild his own life along more hopeful lines.
This story illustrates the way fate, personified here by the spirit of trickery, may move through the lives of people, sometimes with their knowledge and sometimes not, to achieve an end larger than all of them (though it may enlarge some of them in the process). The way this works, however, remains a mystery. Was it all accidental? Was some of it shaped by the desires of the characters at a level deeper than they could understand? Is truth beauty and beauty truth, as Keats said? You have to decide for yourself.
Theo's impulsive act, undertaken while he's deeply in shock, becomes, along with his mother's death, the defining fact in his life. Unable to think of a way to return the painting without causing trouble, he keeps it, taking it out of hiding now and again to marvel at it secretly, though he's increasingly wracked by guilt and fear over his possession of it.
The interplay of opposites -- a cataclysmic act of violence, an object of rare and haunting beauty in its midst, a boy who is both innocent and guilty -- runs throughout the novel. Theo is a Hermes-like character, growing up to combine the qualities of a thief and dissembler with a rare sensitivity and passionate nature. In the midst of his self-destructiveness and suffering, he is aware of the moral dilemmas imposed by his situation and is somehow a better person than many of his actions suggest.
Since "The Goldfinch" is the central image of the novel, described repeatedly and in loving detail through Theo's eyes, it necessarily becomes an object of meditation for the reader. What is it about this little goldfinch, in addition to its purely monetary value, that sets such a complicated series of events in motion and affects Theo (and even his harum scarum friend and co-conspirator Boris) so deeply? It seems to be the recognition of a common destiny. The bird is chained to its perch, trapped and circumscribed by events, but it gazes directly and unflinchingly at the viewer in a manner that Theo comes to recognize as -- despite everything -- life-affirming. In the midst of somber circumstance, its spirit remains strong, its gaze sending a challenge to the viewer: I've embraced the eternal yes. Will you?
I'm reminded here, a bit incongruously, of the film Waking Ned Devine, a rollicking story rather removed in atmosphere from the rich solemnity of The Goldfinch (whose tone has much in common with the shadowy, gold-flecked interiors of the Dutch masters it celebrates). In Waking Ned Devine, there is a communal attempt to trick a lottery board into distributing winnings to the surviving friends of the actual winner, who has died. One senses in the scheme not meanness but rather a generosity in the spirit of the deceased Ned Devine himself. The trickery is good-natured and serves the greater good.
In the case of The Goldfinch, the painting is taken by a 13-year-old with the instincts of a thief but a certain purity of heart and is stolen in turn by his amoral but happy-go-lucky best friend, eventually falling into the hands of an international gang of criminals. The final resolution is a twist of fate beyond anything Theo could have imagined, with good and evil very much entangled. But did the purity of Theo's feelings for the painting somehow protect it just enough to tip the balance toward good? It seems this could be true, since the restoration of the painting then inspires Theo to rebuild his own life along more hopeful lines.
This story illustrates the way fate, personified here by the spirit of trickery, may move through the lives of people, sometimes with their knowledge and sometimes not, to achieve an end larger than all of them (though it may enlarge some of them in the process). The way this works, however, remains a mystery. Was it all accidental? Was some of it shaped by the desires of the characters at a level deeper than they could understand? Is truth beauty and beauty truth, as Keats said? You have to decide for yourself.
Friday, April 25, 2014
Pre-Authorized But Unlocked
It's just my opinion, but I do think travel isn't what it used to be. As recently as three years ago, I still viewed travel as a great tonic, a way to not only clear the head and get a change of perspective but also to have fun. Now that I'm back from my trip to Chicago, I'll say this: I expect to one day start enjoying travel again, but that day has not yet arrived.
Actually, there was a little bit of silver lining to this trip. I was told at the airport security checkpoint in Louisville that the code on my boarding pass meant I had clearance and could go through a special line. In essence, this meant I didn't have to take off my shoes and hop around barefoot while pulling out items that need to go in bins by themselves. I had read about paying $100 or so to get this kind of treatment, but I certainly hadn't done that. It seemed such an anomaly that I asked the security officers how it happened. The answer seemed to be that sometimes you just get lucky. It reminded me of the feeling I used to have when I was a Silver Medallion flyer: the perks are modest, but any little bonus is enough to boost your spirits.
Once on the plane, I somehow managed to seat myself next to a UPS pilot, who was flying on business. Sitting next to a pilot will certainly make you feel safer, in case you happen to be having any jitters about the whole friendly sky experience. He told me about his career and all the places he'd been, and before I knew it, we were in Chicago. So far, so good. I had to get from Midway to the conference hotel via train, which isn't hard to do, except that the last bit involved finding my way from the Red Line station to the hotel on foot. I asked for directions, and I'm glad I got a second opinion, because following the first person's advice would probably have gotten me lost only two blocks from the hotel.
I didn't do any traveling within Chicago, except for walking to Millennium Park one afternoon and going to lunch at Downtown Dogs the next day; the conference kept me too busy. On Saturday, my last day, I decided to give myself more time than I thought I needed to get back to the airport. Despite having had a pretty easy time of it on the way up, I didn't want to be in a position of having to rush due to unexpected problems. It's good I took that attitude because the first thing that happened was that none of the machines in the Red Line station were making change, so I had to go back out, cross the street, and buy a bottle of water in a fast food store to get some dollar bills. One of the bills I was given felt a little strange, so to be on the safe side, I asked the cashier for another one. Sometimes those ticket machines are finicky.
Once I got my ticket and was on the train, someone told me that service on the Orange Line was out between Roosevelt and Halsted, which meant taking a bus between stations. That sounded like a headache. This person said he'd show me how it worked, but when we came out of the station, the bus he was getting on, which he said was going to Halsted, looked like an ordinary city bus. I could see Orange Line buses lined up behind it, so I walked over and got on one. Once I got to Midway, I printed my boarding pass and went through security, still under the magical protection of my pre-authorized status. I kept trying to find out more about why I had this status. I told one security officer that I'd had some strange experiences in past travels that made me question anything out of the ordinary; he just smiled. I told another officer that the ease of the whole thing was freaking me out; she said I should just be happy about it. She was probably right.
So, time to relax, get a sandwich, and read a little before the flight was called. Once on the plane, I rested all the way home, thankful when we arrived a few minutes early, since I still had to drive back to Lexington. I got to my car, unlocked the driver's side door, and uh, oh -- what's this? The rear door on the driver's side, which was definitely locked when I left it, was now most definitely unlocked. This is travel as I've come to know it; I suspected I wouldn't get home without at least one incident (not that it couldn't have been worse). I mentioned what happened to the person at the exit booth, who said she'd report it to the Louisville Police.
There's nothing about my modest little car that would suggest it has anything worth taking, and in case you were in doubt, a glance inside would show as much. Nothing was broken; the lock had not been forced. Once I got home, I was able to take a closer look and couldn't find anything else awry, but I followed up with airport security to let them know what happened. I had doubts that anything in the way of a police report would have been made on the basis of my mentioning it to the exit booth attendant, so I took it to a higher authority.
So, a trip, a return, a mystery, and thankfulness that I have nowhere else to go in the foreseeable future. This would seem a rather poor attitude if it didn't coincide with my budget, which makes it actually a convenient outlook to have at present. If you're wondering whether I, as a mythologist, make anything of the door incident, the answer is not really. I don't suspect Mercury in retrograde, or sunspots, or leprechauns but rather a more pedestrian explanation, which may even come to light via the airport's security cameras. You never know.
Actually, there was a little bit of silver lining to this trip. I was told at the airport security checkpoint in Louisville that the code on my boarding pass meant I had clearance and could go through a special line. In essence, this meant I didn't have to take off my shoes and hop around barefoot while pulling out items that need to go in bins by themselves. I had read about paying $100 or so to get this kind of treatment, but I certainly hadn't done that. It seemed such an anomaly that I asked the security officers how it happened. The answer seemed to be that sometimes you just get lucky. It reminded me of the feeling I used to have when I was a Silver Medallion flyer: the perks are modest, but any little bonus is enough to boost your spirits.
Once on the plane, I somehow managed to seat myself next to a UPS pilot, who was flying on business. Sitting next to a pilot will certainly make you feel safer, in case you happen to be having any jitters about the whole friendly sky experience. He told me about his career and all the places he'd been, and before I knew it, we were in Chicago. So far, so good. I had to get from Midway to the conference hotel via train, which isn't hard to do, except that the last bit involved finding my way from the Red Line station to the hotel on foot. I asked for directions, and I'm glad I got a second opinion, because following the first person's advice would probably have gotten me lost only two blocks from the hotel.
I didn't do any traveling within Chicago, except for walking to Millennium Park one afternoon and going to lunch at Downtown Dogs the next day; the conference kept me too busy. On Saturday, my last day, I decided to give myself more time than I thought I needed to get back to the airport. Despite having had a pretty easy time of it on the way up, I didn't want to be in a position of having to rush due to unexpected problems. It's good I took that attitude because the first thing that happened was that none of the machines in the Red Line station were making change, so I had to go back out, cross the street, and buy a bottle of water in a fast food store to get some dollar bills. One of the bills I was given felt a little strange, so to be on the safe side, I asked the cashier for another one. Sometimes those ticket machines are finicky.
Once I got my ticket and was on the train, someone told me that service on the Orange Line was out between Roosevelt and Halsted, which meant taking a bus between stations. That sounded like a headache. This person said he'd show me how it worked, but when we came out of the station, the bus he was getting on, which he said was going to Halsted, looked like an ordinary city bus. I could see Orange Line buses lined up behind it, so I walked over and got on one. Once I got to Midway, I printed my boarding pass and went through security, still under the magical protection of my pre-authorized status. I kept trying to find out more about why I had this status. I told one security officer that I'd had some strange experiences in past travels that made me question anything out of the ordinary; he just smiled. I told another officer that the ease of the whole thing was freaking me out; she said I should just be happy about it. She was probably right.
So, time to relax, get a sandwich, and read a little before the flight was called. Once on the plane, I rested all the way home, thankful when we arrived a few minutes early, since I still had to drive back to Lexington. I got to my car, unlocked the driver's side door, and uh, oh -- what's this? The rear door on the driver's side, which was definitely locked when I left it, was now most definitely unlocked. This is travel as I've come to know it; I suspected I wouldn't get home without at least one incident (not that it couldn't have been worse). I mentioned what happened to the person at the exit booth, who said she'd report it to the Louisville Police.
There's nothing about my modest little car that would suggest it has anything worth taking, and in case you were in doubt, a glance inside would show as much. Nothing was broken; the lock had not been forced. Once I got home, I was able to take a closer look and couldn't find anything else awry, but I followed up with airport security to let them know what happened. I had doubts that anything in the way of a police report would have been made on the basis of my mentioning it to the exit booth attendant, so I took it to a higher authority.
So, a trip, a return, a mystery, and thankfulness that I have nowhere else to go in the foreseeable future. This would seem a rather poor attitude if it didn't coincide with my budget, which makes it actually a convenient outlook to have at present. If you're wondering whether I, as a mythologist, make anything of the door incident, the answer is not really. I don't suspect Mercury in retrograde, or sunspots, or leprechauns but rather a more pedestrian explanation, which may even come to light via the airport's security cameras. You never know.
Thursday, April 17, 2014
Looking for Wisdom, I Encounter Jimi
I arrived in Chicago yesterday for a conference and have spent the last day and a half going up and down stairs between rooms, consulting a schedule book the size of Great Expectations, figuring out where the free food is, and processing a variety of ideas. This is my first time at this conference, and though I thought I'd been to some large conventions, this one is the biggest by far, at least judging by the staggering number of sessions.
By its nature, it's also more protean than some of the more discipline-focused conferences I've attended before. Popular culture is a natural home for a mythologist, but due to the tremendous variety of subjects included, it's broadly based, making it difficult to get your bearings. This actually supports what I said in my presentation today about the maze of knowledge and competing truths in the modern world. Traveling the halls here is a little like negotiating a maze. In one room, they're talking Tolkien; in the next room, they're discussing the Affordable Health Care Act; down the hall, it's feminist readings of fairy tales, punk rock culture, and fan fiction.
Planning one's strategy in advance may not result in smooth sailing, since cancellations can produce dropped sessions or alterations in panels you were considering. Not only is the gathering a maze, but it's a moving maze, seeming to reform itself as it goes along, like a starfish constantly shedding and growing new arms. Not only that, but I'd argue that there actually is no center to it except the one you impose yourself.
I've been surprised a couple of times, though I shouldn't have been, at reactions I've seen to what seemed to me fairly sensible questions and positions. One understands that people have a lot invested personally and academically in their ideas -- but still. From someone who was rather vehemently opposed to the idea of teaching information literacy across the curriculum to people on a panel who seemed uncomfortable about delving into politics in a discussion of Hollywood and propaganda, I've encountered some attitudes that were the opposite of what I'd expect.
Still, there are small epiphanies. A couple of sessions I've walked into that were second choices turned out to be excellent: one on special collections and one on the goals that shape educational planning in the United States. Sometimes accidents lead you to the right place. I left one session yesterday in a bit of a daze, disoriented by the direction the discussion had taken, and wandered into the exhibit hall, where academic publishers have their best books on display. What do you suppose I saw there, first thing? Nothing but a life of Jimi Hendrix, written by the man himself, bearing a cover photo of its subject wearing a sweet, slightly bemused expression.
I know it was an accident, but it was one that happened at just the right time. Girl, his expression seemed to say, the only thing that's wrong with you is being shut up in those rooms too long with all those smart-acting people. Get yourself outside and breathe a while. And don't pay too much mind to what goes on; take what you can and don't bother about the rest. When it's your turn to talk, get up there and say your piece. Then see if there's a free buffet around.
OK, that was me channeling Jimi, but maybe he would have said something like that. At any rate, a sweetly tricksterish quality somehow communicated itself to me from the cover of that book and activated my own inner rebel. Would you want to let Jimi Hendrix down? Me neither. Jimi, I said in my mind, I think I see your point.
Good, I imagine him saying. And I'm serious about that buffet. Get out there now and find something that'll keep body and soul together.
I'm not sure they have that, Jimi. These are academics, so it's probably more like crudites and cheese. With a side of condescension.
No kidding? Well, whatever they've got, pile it high.
By its nature, it's also more protean than some of the more discipline-focused conferences I've attended before. Popular culture is a natural home for a mythologist, but due to the tremendous variety of subjects included, it's broadly based, making it difficult to get your bearings. This actually supports what I said in my presentation today about the maze of knowledge and competing truths in the modern world. Traveling the halls here is a little like negotiating a maze. In one room, they're talking Tolkien; in the next room, they're discussing the Affordable Health Care Act; down the hall, it's feminist readings of fairy tales, punk rock culture, and fan fiction.
Planning one's strategy in advance may not result in smooth sailing, since cancellations can produce dropped sessions or alterations in panels you were considering. Not only is the gathering a maze, but it's a moving maze, seeming to reform itself as it goes along, like a starfish constantly shedding and growing new arms. Not only that, but I'd argue that there actually is no center to it except the one you impose yourself.
I've been surprised a couple of times, though I shouldn't have been, at reactions I've seen to what seemed to me fairly sensible questions and positions. One understands that people have a lot invested personally and academically in their ideas -- but still. From someone who was rather vehemently opposed to the idea of teaching information literacy across the curriculum to people on a panel who seemed uncomfortable about delving into politics in a discussion of Hollywood and propaganda, I've encountered some attitudes that were the opposite of what I'd expect.
Still, there are small epiphanies. A couple of sessions I've walked into that were second choices turned out to be excellent: one on special collections and one on the goals that shape educational planning in the United States. Sometimes accidents lead you to the right place. I left one session yesterday in a bit of a daze, disoriented by the direction the discussion had taken, and wandered into the exhibit hall, where academic publishers have their best books on display. What do you suppose I saw there, first thing? Nothing but a life of Jimi Hendrix, written by the man himself, bearing a cover photo of its subject wearing a sweet, slightly bemused expression.
I know it was an accident, but it was one that happened at just the right time. Girl, his expression seemed to say, the only thing that's wrong with you is being shut up in those rooms too long with all those smart-acting people. Get yourself outside and breathe a while. And don't pay too much mind to what goes on; take what you can and don't bother about the rest. When it's your turn to talk, get up there and say your piece. Then see if there's a free buffet around.
OK, that was me channeling Jimi, but maybe he would have said something like that. At any rate, a sweetly tricksterish quality somehow communicated itself to me from the cover of that book and activated my own inner rebel. Would you want to let Jimi Hendrix down? Me neither. Jimi, I said in my mind, I think I see your point.
Good, I imagine him saying. And I'm serious about that buffet. Get out there now and find something that'll keep body and soul together.
I'm not sure they have that, Jimi. These are academics, so it's probably more like crudites and cheese. With a side of condescension.
No kidding? Well, whatever they've got, pile it high.
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