Indignation

I try to give a book at least 50 pages before I cut my literary losses and discard it, but with Philip Roth’s Indignation, I slogged on to the predictable end.  And then I prolonged my irritation by trying to articulate why I disliked this book so much.  Why?  Because the author is Philip Roth and this book was my introduction to his body of work.  Perhaps my expectations were too high.  Perhaps my tolerance for the ridiculous is too low (showering semen?).  Perhaps I chose the wrong Roth novel.

Indignation

The story is told from the first-person perspective of Marcus Messmer, the only son of a Jewish butcher.  In the first part of the book, the portrayal of the loving relationship between Marcus and his father, and Marcus’ memories of his years working beside his father in the butcher shop are vivid and moving.  Marcus is a good son and a gifted scholar, but as he becomes more independent, his father develops irrational fears about Marcus’ future and tensions between his parents escalate.  To distance himself from his family, Marcus has transferred from his local college in Newark, New Jersey to conservative Winesburg College in Ohio.

It is the 2nd year of the Korean War and American casualties are high.  The Korean War was the first time that conscription could be deferred for a college student.  “To qualify as an officer and to enter the army as a second lieutenant for a two-year stint in the Transportation Corps after graduation, a student had to take no fewer than four semesters of ROTC.”  Marcus signs up.  Further, every Winesburg student is required to attend chapel “between the hours of eleven and noon on Wednesdays, 40 times before he or she graduated” – Christian sermons, Christian hymns and prayer, held in a Methodist church, no exceptions.  Marcus attends chapel.  One night, studying in the library, he sees beautiful, blond-haired Olivia and falls instantly in lust.

So far so good.

Then, four pages past my 50-page test, out of nowhere, in the middle of an interminable, tiresomely detailed account of an improbable first-date act of fellatio, Roth throws out the following:

“And even dead, as I am and have been for I don’t know how long . . .”

Wait – What? Marcus is dead?

Roth continues with:

“Even now (if ‘now’ can be said to mean anything any longer), beyond corporeal existence, alive as I am here (if ‘here’ or ‘I’ means anything) as memory alone (if ‘memory,’strictly speaking, is the all-embracing medium of which I am being sustained as ‘myself’) I continue to puzzle over Olivia’s actions.  Is that what eternity is for, to muck over a lifetime’s minutiae?”

And it went on for three more pages, mucking over the minutiae of his memory being alive while he is dead in every other way.  But by now, I no longer cared about Marcus, anyone else in this story, or the story itself.  Roth had derailed me completely.

I plowed on, but my irritation only grew.  Other than the narrator Marcus, the characters in Indignation were flat.  All we knew about Olivia was that she was from a good family, seemed intelligent, and was the campus’ indiscriminate dispenser of blow-jobs (remember, the book is set in the early 1950’s).  There were scars on her wrists from an attempted suicide, hints of an estranged relationship with her father, but little else.  I would like to have known more about Olivia.

None of the characters really talked to each other – for the most part, their conversations were contrived declamations.  In a scene that takes place in the Dean’s office, where Marcus grows combative and indignant at the Dean’s intrusive questions, Roth has Marcus recite verbatim sections of Bertrand Russell’s famous essay “Why I Am Not a Christian.”  Please.  An allusion would have sufficed, although again, I thought the entire scene was not plausible for the time, the place, the two characters, and their circumstances.  Marcus tells us early on that “he wanted to do everything right” – keep his head down, continue to earn straight A’s, avoid the draft as long he could, and “prove to his father that he had made the right decision to move to Winesburg.”  Indignation would have been a dangerous self-indulgence.  And so it proved to be.

I know Roth is widely admired. There are passages in Indignation that demonstrate his ability.  But those passages are not nearly enough to save this novel from its absurdity. Too often, I found myself rolling my eyes and throwing the book down.  It did not move me or connect with me in any way.  It did not seem real, and by real I mean plausible.  I just did not believe this book.

Luckily, it was a library loan.

Notes on a Biography

After a downsizing/move that consumed the better part of a year, I am still unpacking books and papers.  I came across my 2016 hand-written reading journal and found notes on a biography that I read last summer.  I recall being so moved by it that when I finished it, I left the book out where I would see it each day – I missed that person I had met and, in a way, lived with for a little while, then lost.

George Mackay Brown1

Sunday, July 17, 2016: Began reading George Mackay Brown, The Life by Maggie Fergusson and Brown’s novel, Beside the Ocean of Time.

Wednesday, July 20, 2016: Finished Beside the Ocean of Time – lovely, find out more about GMB home [Orkney Islands}

George Mackay Bown-stromnessOrkney Islands

”He passed everything through the eye of the needle of Orkney” (Seamus Heaney)

 

 

 

Saturday, July 23, 2016: Continuing to read George Mackay Brown The Life – a strange consolation, why is he such a compelling figure to me?

“When a friend once confided in George her belief in reincarnation, he was quick to respond that he hoped it would prove unfounded.  There had been enough pain in his present life for him ‘not to be an Oliver Twist and ask for more’. . . He was drifting through what felt like a ‘desert of time,’ dragging out a semi-invalid existence in which the weeks seemed to fold greyly into one another with little achieved, and less to hope for. . . Wasted years, ‘years that the locusts ate’. [tuberculosis/treatment in 1940’s, prejudice][Chap.5]

[alcoholism] “Those first glasses were, he wrote ‘a revelation; they flushed my veins with happiness; they washed away all cares and shyness and worries. I remember thinking to myself, “If I could have two pints of beer every afternoon, life would be a great happiness.’  It was not long before two pints ceased to satisfy.” [Pg.89]

Sunday, July 24, 2016: continuing to read GMB The Life

“He learned to become disciplined in his response to depression. He began to believe that not only was it temporary, but it was in some sense illusory – it was no more a part of his life than the shadow on a tree is part of the living organic tree itself.” (Pg. 81)

Monday, July 25, 2016: continued reading GMB bio.  It is becoming a companionship.

Thursday, July 26, 2016, continuing GMB the Life:  The Children’s Encyclopedia was to Robert Rendall [GMB friend]  “his vade-mecum, leading him into fields of study that he would pursue with passion over the years”. . . From Rendall and Ernest Marwick, GMB received encouragement and “courteous, meticulous critism”.

Sunday, July 31, 2016:  GMB:

“Over the years I have developed a settled routine, and any alteration upsets me in a hundred subtle ways.”

“George was certain now that he would never have either a wife or children of his own, and this, he confessed to [friend] Willa Muir, was a relief to him: ‘the thought of such responsibilities really would drive me round the bend’. He felt his days flying ‘swifter than a weaver’s shuttle’. All he wanted was to be left alone with his books and pens and paper.”

“He felt himself growing in determination and patience as he confronted difficulties, and developing a will as hard as granite as he outfaced them.  He was confident, and would remain so until the end of his life, that Magnus contained some of the best prose he had ever written.”

And it sometimes happens that the stone breaks into flower in your hand. (GMB)

August 1, 2016: finished GMB the Life. He died on Friday, April 12, 1996, age 74.

“Just before he lost consciousness – before, in the language of the sagas, he passed ‘out of the story’ – George had spoken his last words to the doctor and nurses attending to him. Lying back against his pillows, he said: ‘I see hundreds and hundreds of ships sailing out of the harbour.’  On his headstone were engraved his words:

Carve the runes
Then be content with silence


Notes/impressions: admiration, inspiration, affection, grief

Symptoms of Rhinoceritis

albrecht-durer-the-rhinoceros-national-gallery-of-art

Day five since the spotting of the first rhinoceros charging down my street. Every day the beasts multiply and I check my reflection in the mirror for signs of the dread malady of “normalization,” commonly known as rhinoceritis.  See The New York Times article by Teju Cole on the history of the disease and its symptoms: A Time for Refusal

I suppose the conciliatory speeches of President Obama and Hillary Clinton were appropriate – “going high when they go low” – but I worry that those responses helped kick off a poisonous new normal.  My heart is with the demonstrators in the street –  Trump’s rise and his presidency can never be considered normal.

Was George Bernard Shaw right that wrestling with a pig is pointless (we both get dirty, but the pig likes it)?  How do we resist, then?  I am struggling with this.

More to come.

Why Don’t We Learn From History?

“History is economics in action.”  Karl Marx

Requiem for The American Deam

Recently, I stumbled upon a fascinating documentary: “Requiem for the American Dream, Noam Chomsky and the Principles of Concentration of Wealth and Power” (available on Netflix and Amazon streaming video). The film is a series of interviews of Chomsky conducted over four years and released in 2015.  Chomsky’s focus in the film is economic inequality and its corrosive effects on society and democracy.

The interviews are structured around 10 economic and political principles associated with the concentration of wealth and power.  Chomsky articulates his views in a manner that is coherent, compelling, and accessible to the economics-challenged like myself.

He begins with Principle No. 1: Reduce Democracy, by discussing James Madison’s views and efforts in framing the Constitution.  Madison was a true believer in democracy, but he also worried about “an excess of democracy.” He felt that our system should be designed so that power resides in the hands of the wealthy, because they “are the more responsible set of men.”

In the constitutional debates of 1787, Madison stated that “The major concern of the society has to be to protect the minority of the opulent against the majority.”  In other words, if everybody has an equal vote, the majority of the poor will naturally come together to take away the property of the rich minority.  This concern, says Chomsky, goes all the way back to Aristotle, who believed democracy to be the superior system of government, but who pointed out the same “flaw” as Madison, that on an equal footing, the poor majority would seek to take away the wealth of the rich minority.  But they had opposite solutions: Aristotle proposed trying to reduce inequality, Madison proposed reducing democracy.  In the end, the founding fathers placed the most power in the hands of the Senate – which was not an elected body in those times.  Senators were selected from the wealthy.

From that beginning, Chomsky walks us through U.S. history, the cycles of progress and regression, and the constant tension between the Aristotlean and Madisonian tendencies.  It is fascinating stuff.  At one point while watching the film, I was struck by Chomsky’s comment that we should not be at all surprised by the current political and economic landscape.  That comment reminded me of the observations of two historians, B.H. Liddell Hart and Will Durant.

Liddell Hart was primarily a military historian, but in his book Why Don’t We Learn From History?, he contemplates broader themes as well as “the familiar string of political confidence tricks, repeated all down the ages – yet they rarely fail to take in a fresh generation.”

Truth is a spiral staircase. What looks true on one level may not be true on the next higher level. A complete vision must extend vertically as well as horizontally – not only seeing the parts in relation to one another but embracing the different planes.

History provides that complete vision.

Durant is more specific. He devotes an entire chapter to Economics and History in his 1968 book The Lessons of History and shows us how concentration of wealth is a recurring and natural cycle.

“Since practical ability differs from person to person, the majority of such abilities, in nearly all societies, is gathered in a minority of men.  The concentration of wealth is a natural result of this concentration of ability.”  The freedoms of democracy accelerate the rate of concentration.  In 1968, Durant wrote “the gap between the wealthiest and the poorest is now greater than at any time since Imperial plutocratic Rome.”  I wonder what he would say today.

According to Durant, when the disparity widens to a point of critical instability, pressure is relieved in one of two ways: by legislation redistributing wealth or by revolution distributing poverty.  He provides historical examples: Solon’s redistribution of wealth in 597 B.C. Athens (one of Solon’s methods was establishing an income tax whereby the rich paid taxes twelve times that of the poor),  Rome’s hundred years of class and civil war, the Reformation, the French Revolution, and Durant’s final example (which Chomsky also discusses in “Requiem”):

“The government of the United States, in 1933-52 and 1960-65, followed Solon’s peaceful methods, and accomplished a moderate and pacifying redistribution. Perhaps someone had studied history. The upper classes in America cursed, complied, and resumed the concentration of wealth.”

Gods and Monsters: Reading for an Election Year

The SpeechwriterIn 2007, Barton Swaim joined the staff of Mark Sanford, the Governor of South Carolina, as a speechwriter and communications officer. Yes – the same governor whose six-day disappearance in June of 2009 inspired the delightful addition of “hiking the Appalachian Trail” to the lexicon of sexual scandals of our elected officials.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.  In 2007, Barton Swaim had a PhD in English, a wife and two children, and a strong desire to quit his minimum-wage day job and begin earning a living by writing.  Governor Sanford was a rising star in the Republican party, gaining the attention of influential commentators and talked about as a potential presidential candidate.   The Speechwriter, A Brief Education in Politics is Swaim’s memoir of the three years and ten months he spent “working for the governor of a southern state.”

Before he took the job, Swaim thought that the Governor was “everything a politician should be – a politician in the best sense of the word, if it has a best sense.  He did what he said he was going to do, he took his duties seriously, he behaved himself in public with charm and decorum, he did not fear criticism, and he had realistic views of what government could accomplish.”  But within a few weeks, the Governor revealed a very different persona.  With his staff, the Governor was a mercurial, tyrannical, and abusive master.  Striving to please, Swaim studied samples of the Governor’s lackluster writing, trying to find a “voice” that he could build upon.  As I read Swaim’s account of his frustration in trying to understand why the Governor was never satisfied with his work, and was unable (or unwilling) to articulate why, I was reminded of Dogberry, Shakespeare’s tiresome constable of stupefying rhetoric in Much Ado About Nothing:

Marry, sir, they have committed false report;
moreover, they have spoken untruths;
secondarily, they are slanderers;
sixth and lastly, they have belied a lady;
thirdly, they have verified unjust things;
and, to conclude, they are lying knaves.

Swaim’s wife advised him to start writing badly – “badly, like him [the Governor], with clumsy, meandering sentences and openings that seemed calculated to make you stop reading.” A senior staffer also advised Swain to do just that. He explained that Swaim’s job was “not to please the Governor with superior work, because that would never happen. The goal was to take away any reason he might have to bitch at you.”

It was then too that Nat explained that my job wasn’t to write well; it was to write like the Governor. I wasn’t hired to come up up with brilliant phrases, I was hired to write what the Governor would have written if he had had the time. ‘Um, yeah,’ Nat said. ‘Welcome to hell.’

But I couldn’t bring myself to try it.  I don’t claim that my writing was brilliant, but the objections he raised were mystifying to me and sometimes totally unreasonable.  He would quibble with a harmless phrase and, instead of saying simply that he didn’t like it and having me change it or changing it himself, he would fulminate about it and rewrite the entire piece in a fit of irritation.  It was almost as if he was afraid that if somebody started writing precisely what he wanted, he’d have no control over what was written.  Expressing constant dissatisfaction was perhaps his way of maintaining control.  Once, he stormed into the press office, paper in hand, incensed that I had written the words “towns of Lee County.”  He thought it should have been “towns in Lee County.”  He walked around to various offices – legislative, policy, law – asking staffers if they though it sounded right to say “towns of” or “towns in” Lee County.

Swaim finally got it. The Governor wanted verbiage, a lot of it, but without too much meaning or content.  If you say something meaningless often enough in different ways, it begins to take on a kind of axiomatic weight.  In the process of trying to make peace with his writer’s soul, Swaim puts up a reasonable defense for the political speak (BS) that drives us all crazy:

It’s impossible to attain much success in politics if you’re the sort of person who can’t abide disingenuousness.  This isn’t to say politics is full of lies and liars; it has no more liars that other fields do.  Actually one hears very few proper lies in politics.  Using vague, slippery, or just meaningless language is not the same as lying; it’s not intended to deceive so much as to preserve options, buy time, distance oneself from others, or just to sound like you’re saying something instead of nothing.

You find yourself thinking, OK, maybe he has a point, as you read and laugh out loud at real life situations in the press room trenches that border on the Kafkaesque.  The Speechwriter is an entertaining look at politics from the inside, funny as hell, a wicked farce – until you remind yourself that it is reality and it’s no laughing matter.

But what is to be done?  We can’t have a democracy without politics and politicians.  And as Adlai Stevenson observed, if one does what he must do to win election, then he is not fit to hold the office.  Swaim gives us not an answer, but a caution: we must never trust our politicians, any of them.  Is he simply disillusioned by his “brief education in politics”?  Perhaps, but Swaim’s final chapter, Chapter 14: A Larger Notion, is a thought-provoking, poignant reflection on modern politics and our strange impulse to hand over our collective future to celebrities and demagogues.

Hadn’t I noticed that politicians are prone to vanity, and that vanity frequently unmakes them?  Yes, I had noticed.  But I had thought of it mainly as a joke.  Now I realized it wasn’t a joke.  It was the most important thing.  Self-regard isn’t a foible to which some politicians are vulnerable.  It is the peculiar and deadly flaw of modern democratic politics. . . When we revere a politician and give him our vote, we do so because we believe his most fervent desire is to contribute to the nation’s well-being or to make the right decisions with public money. That may be a desire, but it is not what drives him.  What drives him is the thirst for glory;  the public good, as he understands it, is a means to that end.  So when a great statesman accomplishes a laudable goal by sagacity and bravery, we’re right to give him the praise he craves.  But when we’re surprised and disgusted because the man we lauded has humiliated himself and disgraced his office, we haven’t just misjudged a man – we’ve misjudged the nature of modern politics.

There is no Why

SHOAH

I have been watching Claude Lanzmann’s Holocaust epic Shoah over the last few days. This film has been on my “to watch” list for many years, but I had never set aside the time – I knew it would be lengthy and I knew it would be grim viewing.

“Why?” one might ask. Why on earth subject myself to 9 1/2 hours of a documentary film about such an awful event – we’ve all seen countless movies, documentaries, photos, read novels and histories about it. We know it happened (well, those of us who value documented history and truth do). Why revisit something so depressing, especially now, when we are reeling from horrific and frightening events of the last few weeks?

It was precisely that – our new reality.  Paris, San Bernardino, a modern exodus (and its xenophobic backlash) of people fleeing from a barbarism that defies belief. I hear the empty political rhetoric, see the disturbing images flashed endlessly by the media, and ask myself why and how can these things be happening in the 21st Century – is there some flaw in human evolution? Have we forgotten so soon how this kind of thing can end?

Even if only for a glimmer of understanding of troubled times, I always turn to history, to the words, memories, and deeds of those who lived it. So I began watching Shoah, an account of a turning point in history – a new abyss of savagery into which men can be led by an ideology of hate and exclusion.

Claude Lanzmann a French Jewish filmmaker and journalist, conceived of the Shoah project in 1973 (“shoah” is the Hebrew word for catastrophe or destruction, and is the term used by Jews since the early 1940’s for the destruction of the European Jews). In his autobiography Lanzmann writes, “There is no film about the Shoah, no film that takes in what happened in all its magnitude, no film that shows it from our point of view . . . What was most important was what was missing – death in the gas chambers, from which no one had returned to report.” He completed the film in 1985 and it was shown to the world.

Shoah2Shoah is a monumental work of oral history. Lanzmann determined from the beginning to use no archival films or photos, no views or summaries of experts (with one exception, which was masterful). The only people on camera, other than Lanzmann himself and a translator, would be surviving victims, perpetrators, and bystander witnesses. The film is visually compelling and haunting. The images we see are views and landscapes filmed by Lanzmann, quiet rural places, green fields, snow falling in beautiful forests, sleepy towns and train stations. As we watch, we hear the voices of the speakers narrating what had happened in these places, with the camera slowly moving back and forth from the placid scenes to the faces of the narrators. The effect is powerful, stunning in an inexplicable way – because of all that we do not see.

The survivors interviewed by Lanzmann are unforgettable – Abraham Bomba, a barber in Israel at the time Lanzmann was filming, who describes cutting the hair of women before they entered the gas chamber, Filip Muller, a Czech Jew forced to aid in the disposal of victims of the gas chambers, Rudolf Vrba, who tried unsuccessfully to organize an uprising in Auschwitz. It was very difficult for me at first to reconcile the calm and stoic manner of these survivors with the unbelievable events they were describing. They seemed almost emotionless as they began their stories – Vrba in particular would at times briefly reveal a sardonic sense of humor. But as Lanzmann kept returning to them throughout the hours of the film, I began to understand.

For me, the most memorable on-camera contributor was Lanzman’s one exception – his interview with Raul Hilberg, historian and author of The Destruction of the European Jews (brief clip). In one segment of the interviews, Hilberg, whose work focused on the bureaucratic details and the implementation of the “Final Solution,” (how obscene, those two bland words) held an original document in his hands, a one-page railway schedule, filled with normal railway terms, dates, times, routings and re-routings of trains for what might be the transport of goods, livestock, special trains for group vacationers, excursions, seasonal laborers, ordinary, commonplace, part of the country’s public and commercial rail system. As Hilberg methodically decodes the schedule, you understand – the “special” trains were the death trains, loading up at some village, unloading at a death camp, being re-routed to another town, loading up again, over and over. It was chilling.

“To be human,” wrote Irving Howe, “meant to be unequipped to grapple with the Holocaust.” And therein lies the difficulty and the danger.

I finished the film. But it is not finished with me. My question “why” is unanswered, will always be unanswered – we are unequipped. In Primo Levi’s memoir of Auschwitz, he remembers how, suffering from thirst, he grabbed an icicle through the window of his cell. An SS guard knocked it out of his hand. “Why?” Levi asked. The guard responded, “Hier ist kein warum.”

Here there is no why.

 

An Unstable Mirror

“There are those who would say that I too keenly sought approval and consensus, and if over the years I’ve erred on the side of being too grateful, well so be it. I think one person can hardly understand why another has conducted his life in such a way, how he came to commit certain actions and not others, whether he looks upon the past with mostly pleasure or equanimity or regret. It seems difficult enough to consider one’s own triumphs and failures with perfect verity, for it’s no secret that the past proves a most unstable mirror, typically too severe and flattering all at once, and never as truth-reflecting as people would like to believe.”

A_Gesture_Life

Once again, with Chang-rae Lee’s lyrical, quietly powerful novel A Gesture Life, a work of fiction is the lie that tells the deepest truths – who we really are, and the lengths we go to deny that truth.

In the charmingly rustic, affluent village of Bedley Run in upstate New York, Franklin Hata has built a life of tranquility, material success, and some distinction. An ethnic Korean born in Japan and raised by a prominent Japanese family, Hata served as a medical officer in the Japanese army in World War II. In the early sixties, he emigrated to the United States, where he carefully selected Bedley Run as the place to build a new life – it reminded him of the small Japanese city where he grew up. There, he settled and opened a medical and surgical supply store.

As the novel begins, more than thirty years later, Hata is early into retirement. He can, and does, look back with satisfaction on the fruits of his hard work and more importantly, the success of his assimilation into the community. From the beginning, he had carefully tended every personal interaction and ensuing relationship as he tended his immaculately cultivated garden. He recalls the “few small difficulties” in the early years – chalked statements out front on the sidewalk, occasional taunts, axle grease slathered on the dumpster handles – but he never reported them or confronted the perpetrators. And eventually, they became his patrons after all – “they would speak to me as if they had never done the things I knew they had done, they would just make affable small talk and docilely ask my advice as they might from any doctor, their eyes wavering and expectant.”

“The good Doc Hata,” as he is now known to the inhabitants of Bedley Run, has achieved the American Dream. He resolves to direct his energies “toward the reckoning of what stands in the here and now.” In spite of his efforts however, amidst the ordinary events and pleasantries of daily life, he begins to realize that “this happy blend of familiarity and homeyness and what must be belonging, is strangely beginning to disturb me.” Long buried memories begin to intrude. Alone in his beautiful home, swimming in his pool, having achieved what we all hope for in our later years, he observes himself:

“It strikes me that it could be a scene of some sadness as well, of a beauty empty and cold. It is an unnerving thing, but when I was underneath the water, gliding in that black chill, my mind’s eye suddenly seemed to carry to a perspective high above, from where I could see the exact telling shapes of all: the spartan surfaces of the pool deck, the tight-clipped manicures of the garden, the venerable house and trees, the fetching narrow street. And what caught me too, was that I knew there was also a man in that water amidst it all, a secret swimmer who, if he could choose, might always go silent and unseen.”

But the good Doc Hata can no longer choose to go silent and unseen. His carefully constructed life of propriety and accommodation, gesture upon gesture, including one a most profound gesture of atonement, begins to unravel. Masterfully, Lee slowly reveals the mystery, the secret shame buried in the deepest part of this man’s soul.

Beautifully written though it was, this novel was difficult to read – it is a painful story. For a significant time into the book, I could not decide if Hata is a sympathetic protagonist or not. He is inscrutable. I am still not sure and I’ve recently re-read the book. But it doesn’t matter – just as with my initial reading, I was again glad that I stayed with him. The book is a moving reminder of how easy it is to judge from the safe distances of time and space.  For me, it asks those most difficult questions – what would we have done, what could we have done. Continue reading

John Williams – An Author Not To Be Overlooked

John Williams (Wikipedia)

I discovered the brilliant writing of John Edward Williams about a year ago by way of recommendation by a fellow reader I’ve come to trust. Persuaded by his review, I began with Williams’ third novel, Stoner.

STONER:

My friend was right.  Stoner is a heartbreakingly beautiful novel that still haunts me.

StonerSet in the early half of the twentieth century, it is the story of William Stoner, the son of poor Missouri dirt farmers, who is sent to the state university with the expectation of working his way through agricultural studies in preparation for returning to the farm.  Instead, he discovers and falls in love with literature and life as a scholar.  Stoner remains at the university as an instructor, marries disastrously, fathers a daughter whom he loves deeply, is thwarted in his career by the vicious politics of academia, and has a doomed affair with a student.

Stoner could be a story of any unremarkable man who endures with that familiar quiet desperation the disappointments that life indiscriminately metes out to the ordinary.  But in Williams’ hands, with a beautifully quiet, understated narrative style, Stoner becomes truly heroic – his heart, soul, and character revealed through his losses.  We can only cheer him through our tears.

BUTCHER’S CROSSING:

Butcher's CrossingA year after reading Stoner, which is still very much with me, I was hesitant to take up another Williams novel.  I could not imagine another work, especially an earlier one, sustaining that level of writing and I did not want to be disappointed.

I shouldn’t have worried.  I have just finished Williams’ second novel, Butcher’s Crossing, a novel of the American frontier set in the 1870’s. The setting, subject, and characters are completely different from those of Stoner, but the Williams narrative, restrained, reflective and interior to the central character, was instantly recognizable.

Will Andrews is a young Bostonian from an well-to-do family. He has dropped out of Harvard in his third year to go west in search of something, some vague Emersonian ideal of finding himself in the wildness of nature. “I came out here to see as much of the country as I can,” he tells a hide dealer in Butcher’s Crossing, a mean little way-station on the edge of the Kansas prairie, “I want to get to know it. It’s something I have to do.”

Andrews finds himself in a dirty, primitive, harsh environment relying on some very hard men. The story is somewhat reminiscent of a mix of Jack London, Cormac McCarthy, and Hemingway, but the narrative style is all Williams.  And Williams’ detail of the life of that time and place is so minute and rich, it’s hard to imagine the research he must have done – the filth and vermin, the smells, what a mortal thirst can do to a man’s body and mind, the insane carnage of a white man’s buffalo hunt, and above all, how unexpectedly and instantly nature can deal death to man and beast.  Will Andrews wants to test himself against the wild, but powerful elemental forces overtake his purpose.


A PERSONAL NOTE (since this is a personal journal):

I recommend both books.  I will re-read both, as I do with books that I think are worthy and memorable.  As a reader, my emotions were profoundly stirred by Stoner, to an extent that very few books effect for me.  With Butcher’s Crossing, my engagement as a reader was just as high, but more so with the intelligence of the book, its realism of character and setting, and its compelling storyline.  What I do say about each book, equally, is this:  once I started reading the book, I could not let it go.

Sunday, 19 July

Sunday19July

“Sunday, 19 July, slept, awoke, slept, awoke, miserable life.”
                      Franz Kafka, The Diaries 1910-1923, edited by Max Brod

Today, Sunday, July 19, 2015, is my birthday, and I am in a reflective mood. Together, the month, the date, the day of the week, of course, recall Kafka’s famous diary entry.  His mordant observation on a particular Sunday in July echoes that of a demon I sometimes hear during a restless night.  Not often, but often enough – I hear him, acknowledge him, wait for him to retreat again to the dark corner, wait for new day.

A new day, another day to fill – with what, and how? My senses are heightened to the flow of time, gathering and quickening like a swollen river.  With that sense comes a strange clarity and urgency, and yet hours, days can evaporate in triviality and indecision. In the face of dwindling time and energy, I find myself constantly asking,  is this necessary? does that really matter? how should I live within the time and space that are mine alone?  Thoreau and Montaigne,  experts in the matters of their own internal states, believed that making those differentiations is the real work of life.  “The cost of a thing,” wrote Thoreau, “is that which I call life, which is required to be exchanged for it immediately or in the long run.”

“A man once said to me, ‘I don’t mind your telling me my faults, they’re stale, but don’t tell me my virtues. When you tell me what I could be, it terrifies me.’  I was surprised then, I understand now, because I believe we may be faced with the need of living our strengths.”
                     Florida Scott-Maxwell, The Measure of My Days

I like that – “faced with the need of living our strengths.”  It is a thing worth working on, preparing for, a thing that really matters.

Sunday, 19 July, slept, awoke, reflected, wonderful miserable life.

I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry . . . . . . . (or die early)

Lately it seems that wherever I turn I am faced with reports and studies warning that my lifestyle is bad for my health and is shortening my life.

Recent reading:

Why Living Alone is Dangerous to Your Health,The Wall Street Journal, February 17, 2015;

The Toll of a Solitary Life, The New York Times, March 16, 2015;

Why Loneliness May Be The Next Big Public Health Issue, TIME Magazine, March 18, 2015

Loneliness

I have lived alone for years. According to conventional wisdom, I am seriously lacking in social connections. It is not unusual for an entire week to go by without my seeing another person. After decades of raising a family and working outside the home, I am free to do as I please without first considering the needs of others. I am serene. I am becoming self-actualized. My circumstances suit me very well. Or at least I thought so until now.

I know that most people would not choose a solitary life and that health experts believe that living alone is not good for physical or mental health. But since I actually prefer such a life, and feeling positively elated at having got it at last, I would assume that living in perfect alignment with my nature instead of counter to it would negate any bad effects.

But you know what they say – if it feels good, it must be bad for you.

According to a study published recently in Perspectives on Psychological Science titled Loneliness and Social Isolation as Risk Factors for Mortality (http://pps.sagepub.com/content/10/2/227.full), “living alone, having few social network ties, and having infrequent social contact are all markers of social isolation” and increase my risk for early mortality by 32%! “Although living alone can offer conveniences and advantages to an individual,” the authors wrote, “physical health is not one of them.”  Grimly unequivocal.

And yet . . .

I’m just not buying it. I am not qualified to judge scientific studies, so I won’t try to quarrel with this latest. But I’ve made it to a certain age with no health issues and no loneliness-induced vices, so maybe the odds are tilting back in my favor. But I also believe that solitude for some people, and I am one, is not only essential, but is life-affirming–not life-threatening. To me, getting to that place where we can thrive in our aloneness is a matter of recognizing that we have, every one of us, been alone right from the beginning. We are born alone, we will die alone, and between those two points in time, no matter how many people surround us in how many degrees of intimacy, we are ultimately completely separate from one another.

No one can ever fully know the interior other person except that other person himself. And self-knowledge, which I believe is the key to maximizing the one life we have to live, gives us an inner strength, and the courage and confidence to make the connections that support us in life, as well as to carry on and live our lives to the fullest when we lose those connections. Knowing oneself, really understanding who we are and what we need in order to pull the best for ourselves out of life and to call up the best we have in ourselves to give back, requires time and enormous chunks of solitude. But once you acquire the taste for that particular stillness within and without, you will never give it up.

Following are a few comments and quotes from some singular lovers of solitude. After all, it is a comfort to know we are not alone, isn’t it?

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and hills . . .
–William Wordsworth, I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud

The nurse of full-grown souls is solitude.
–James Russell Lowell

I had three chairs in my house: one for solitude, two for friendship, three for society.
–Henry David Thoreau, Walden

She would not exchange her solitude for anything. Never again to be forced to move to the rhythms of others.
–Tillie Olsen, Tell Me a Riddle

We must reserve a back shop all our own, entirely free, in which to establish our real liberty and our principal retreat and solitude. –Michel de Montaigne, Essays

If you’re lonely when you’re alone, then you’re in bad company.
–Jean-Paul Sartre

If one sets aside time for a business appointment, a trip to the hairdresser, a social engagement, or a shopping expedition, that time is accepted as inviolable. But if one says: I cannot come because that is my hour to be alone, one is considered rude, egotistical or strange.
–Anne Morrow Lindbergh

The more powerful and original a mind, the more it will incline toward the religion of solitude. 
–Aldous Huxley

and my personal favorite in this list:

I had become, with the approach of night, once more aware of loneliness and time – those two companions without whom no journey can yield us anything.
–Lawrence Durrell, The Alexandria Quartet