Some notable books from the last 365 days

2011 was a year of change for me: I finished my master’s degree in January, moved back to Maine in February, went back to waiting tables for a spell, and then ultimately landed a job teaching English and Spanish at a boarding school in Arizona. On September 5^th, I moved to Rimrock, and since then, have met some incredible people, been amazed by the mind-staggeringly-beautiful atmosphere all around me, and even got to spend a few days with my dear friend Andrew LeTellier, whom I hadn’t seen in way too long.

But in between all that excitement and change, I have managed to read some interesting books. So here’s my roundup and discussion of the five most note-worthy tomes I've read in the last year, in no special order.

Tom Wolfe, The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test

Having long been a fan of the Beat Generation and the hippie movement, it is fascinating to see how one led to the other. Indisputably, Ken Kesey and his Merry Pranksters, driving around the country in their psychedelic Day-Glo school bus “Further” and indiscriminately handing out LSD to anyone willing, were the link between the two. Under the expert driving of Neil Cassady (who else?), the Pranksters were able to influence an entire generation of people seeking mind-expansion, peace, love, and art. Although the book is no easy-read—it’s not very linear, often opaque, and does require some background knowledge going into it—it offers an opportunity to experience one of the most volatile eras of recent history as it unfurls.

Haruki Murakami, Norwegian Wood

I’ve never read a book by a Japanese writer that didn’t take my breath away. Reading Murakami gives the same experience, but tenfold—Norwegian Wood is, hands down, one of the most remarkably stunning works of literature I’ve ever encountered. The book overflows with vivid character portrayal, unforgettable dialogue, sharp descriptions, and a touch of the angst resulting from the human condition with which we’re all familiar. It is more than the clichéd “coming-of-age” story it purports to be; it strikes me more as a cautionary tale about the dangers of human interaction and relationships. Yet simultaneously and paradoxically, it celebrates those same entities. Read it.

Mordecai Richler, Barney’s Version

This book piqued my interest for a few reasons. First of all, I’ve said endlessly already how much I admire Canadian literature and wish that my brethren in the US would give it the attention it deserves. Secondly, this novel won the Giller Prize, which (up until very recently) is traditionally a good indicator of an excellent piece of literature. And finally, it was written by a Montrealer and set in Montreal! So it was a pleasure to read if only because all Barney’s haunts are places I’ve been many times myself. But aside from that one very superficial reason to enjoy a book, I truly loved reading Barney’s Version; Barney Panofsky is pretentious, cranky, senile, and lovable. He has a sharp wit and a keen eye for comedy in any situation (including a situation where he may have murdered a close friend in a fit of rage after that friend slept with his wife, whom he’d wanted to divorce anyway . . .). The book, despite its fairly light-hearted, seemingly sardonic tone, carries a touching and poignant undertone that leaves a bittersweet taste in the reader’s mouth. Be warned, though, this is a heavy book—Richler/Panofsky (the two are hard to separate in this one) intentionally attempts to be dense, wordy, and pretentious, so it reads a bit like a conversation with a senior-citizen hipster.

Alan Watts, Tao: The Watercourse Way

I was recommended this book by a new friend from Flagstaff, so I made it a priority and found it full of information and wisdom. Watts is the seminal figure for the introduction of Eastern philosophy to the Western world, and this, his final book, does a great job of fully explaining why he devoted his life to this cause. His discussion of the Chinese language alone made it a fascinating read (particularly given my career choice!), but he also echoes many of my worldviews throughout. His topics range from aesthetics to role of government, and he gives a lively discussion based not on spirituality or metaphysics, but on ancient Chinese philosophical texts that, he argues, give all the information for how to live that one can possibly need. This is no true metaphysical text, but really one of common-sense advice for everyday life.

Ron Paul, The Revolution: A Manifesto

Yes, yes, I’ve spoken voluminously already about this man. As you already all know, I’m sure, I’ve been an avid Ron Paul supporter for the better part of a decade. I’m thrilled at how well he’s doing in the current campaign for presidency and at his bringing notions of liberty, freedom, peace, and prosperity back into the political realm for the twenty-first century. I read this book not really expecting to learn anything new, having been following Ron Paul for so long and seen virtually every interview or debate the man’s ever been in. How wrong I was! On top of having fluid, concise prose with an unmistakable voice, this book is a veritable cornucopia of wisdom. Argumentatively, it stands high upon an unshakable foundation of good sense, historical knowledge, economic understanding, and respect for the Constitution. Even if you think the man is a quack (but how could anyone realistically think that, unless all they know about him is what Bill O’Reilly has told them?), you would learn a lot about contemporary politics, economics, and overall US history by giving this book a quick perusal. Do it today.

Empathic Musings

A funny thing happened yesterday, and it has prompted me to write a new blog post about a subject near and dear to my heart. I was talking with my parents on Skype, as I’m wont to do on Sunday afternoons, and my mother was telling me about how she used a “big word” that day at work and was very proud and excited to tell me about it. She laughed and suggested I should teach her some new “big words” that she could use from time to time. Naturally, my first thought was Ernest Hemingway’s famous rebuttal to William Faulkner:

Does he really think big emotions come from big words?

That said, I am a bit of a logophile, so I do have a penchant for admiring the savory goût of an unusual word. In fact, just a few days prior to my chat with my mother, I had raided my classroom for tools I could use in my ESL classes, and therein, I found a promising old box of “English Vocabulary Cards,” proudly containing 1,000 useful words.

Well, that box had been sitting on my desk up until Sunday, virtually unopened. But the moment seemed to proscribe its perusal, so I suggested my mother and I dive into its contents together and see what we’d find. I lifted the dusty lid and reached somewhere into the middle of the cards, ultimately selecting an unpresuming one from their midst. I was shocked at the word I randomly selected!

Why so surprised? Well, empathy has long been one of my favorite words and a concept I often discuss with people. Truth be told, I think it may be the single most important faculty we have in order to be good human beings. Here’s how the card defines empathy:

Of course, I’m not much of a person for the metaphysical or to think about crazy ideas such as fate or destiny. But I have to admit, it seemed rather fitting that, of 1,000 cards, I’d randomly be drawn toward this one, wonderful word. Yes, pure coincidence, I know. But still, cool.

So, what’s the big deal about empathy? I first began thinking about it in college, when I came to realize that a writer’s most useful tool is empathy. If you cannot actually experience the emotions—good or bad—of another person, as vividly in your mind and heart as that person experiences them, then it becomes a great challenge to ever effectively (and affectively!) write about the human experience. One of my favorite examples is the following poem, “She dwelt among the untrodden ways,” by the great Romantic poet William Wordsworth. Chances are, if you’ve spent any real time talking about literature with me, I’ve suffered you to hear a reading. So, here it is:

She dwelt among the untrodden ways

Beside the springs of Dove,

A Maid whom there were none to praise

And very few to love:

A violet by a mossy stone

Half hidden from the eye!

—Fair as a star, when only one

Is shining in the sky.

She lived unknown, and few could know

When Lucy ceased to be;

But she is in her grave, and, oh,

The difference to me!

In all honesty, every time I read this poem, I feel a shudder down my spine when I reach the final two lines. My cheeks grow flush and I feel a distinct flutter in my chest. That’s how powerful, how affective, this poem is. Wordsworth is famous for his slightly cryptic “Lucy poems,” and this is by far the finest. He praises this girl he loves, this girl whom nobody ever bothered to notice, with the most fittingly delicate imagery. But the kicker is that she has died, which has had no impact on anyone—expect for its having made all the difference in the world to the poet. He loved her, but he never got the chance to tell her. Lovely, simple, and harrowing. This poem is about unprofessed love and untimely death, and if your sense of empathy is sharp enough, you will feel (even if only for a mere moment) the exact heartache of the bard. Simply put, empathy allows us to connect and share. Empathy necessarily requires creative thinking and a certain openness with one’s sentimental side. Yet while it demands that openness, it also enhances it in the process—it acts as a cyclical process. The more you allow yourself to connect with people, the easier it will become, the more you’ll want to do so, and the more open others will be to empathizing with you. Instant karma.

I invite everyone who reads this to consider how open they are to feeling empathy toward fellow human beings on a daily basis. You’ll perhaps find it remarkably refreshing!

"Why did you study English?"

           Virtually universally, when someone asks me what I studied in school and I tell them I just finished my Master’s degree in English literature, I get one of two responses: “Why?” or “So you want to teach?” The questions come as if people believe the study of literature is useless for any purpose aside from teaching other people about literature. Implied within that mindset is that literary study has no real-world application beyond the mere aesthetic appreciation of the written word. One studies literature, many believe, because it is beautiful and deserves to be preserved via academia.

            If you are a fellow degree-holder or someone working toward a degree in English literature, I would like to record for you the response I have fine-tuned after years of recital. I used to be exasperated, even offended, by the question; now, I welcome it as a chance to offer my oration, my defense . . . my justification. Although I do not condone the act of plagiarism, I must help my brethren, so the next time someone asks you, feel free to use my argument, or parts of it, at least. It is time, after all, for literary study to garner the respect it deserves.

            In Frederick Douglass’s Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass, a Slave  (1845), he comes to the realization that the only true difference between himself and his master is the ability to read and write. Without literacy, he concludes that he is hardly better than a dog. Reading and writing are the forms of communication unique to humans, and are thus intrinsic to one’s humanity. Secretly, Douglass learns to read and write, becomes a free man, and writes his famous narratives, having a profound impact on the abolitionist movement as a result. Although this story is no allegory—it is pure autobiography—my young, impressionable mind read it allegorically. In this world, we humans are slaves unless we cultivate these essential and highly-rewarding gifts that we alone in the animal kingdom possess. Furthermore, if literacy is quintessential to the human condition, then its development surely leads to an advancement in one’s humanity as a result.

            Sure enough, I have found that theory to be indelibly true.

            The study of literature unlocks a world of human understanding that cannot be obtained through a more sequestered study of other disciplines alone. Indeed, the study of literature is the omnivorous, universal study of the human condition itself and everything that falls under that umbrella. Through literature, one learns history, philosophy, sociology, religion and mythology, ethics, politics, anthropology, and perhaps above all else, psychology. Part of the reason many people don’t recognize literature’s value is because so few people outside of literary studies read true literature; for some unfathomable reason, people seem to think literature classes merely involve the reading of the New York Times’ best sellers. Well, certainly some probably do, but they aren’t the ones that give one the full scope of a literary education.

            The masters of literature, the great writers of all time, have one quality in common. Only one. It is experience. These writers are individuals who have lived and experienced powerful, moving, and revealing events, then transformed them into a medium capable of transferring the knowledge gained. Whereas some people have similar experiences and choose to write about them in a pure, prosaic fashion—consider philosophical, historical, or political texts that offer just the facts—literary writers transform their ideas into the realm of narrative, capturing the reader’s imagination and taking hold of the mind. The communicative effect is thus so much more potent, so much more thorough.

            As an example, one could easily read a history text about America post-World-War-II and learn plenty of names, dates, and facts. But the result would be far from having experienced America post-World-War-II. To do so, one instead could read such a seminal text as Jack Kerouac’s On the Road (1957) and become fully immersed in the time, experiencing what anyone with open eyes would have experienced. The Cold War anxiety and paranoia, the bopping jazz music exploding from bars, the sense of lost national identity, the budding civil rights movement, the philosophies that led to the hippie movement of the 1960s . . . all of these experiences and so many more are transferred upon the reader almost subconsciously.

            More powerfully, however, literature and literature alone allows one to peer inside the workings of the human mind. No psychology textbook or psychological study can allow one to do so to the same degree. The whole range of human emotions, desires, and motives become lucid (with a little digging, at times) through literary masterpieces. The result is a greater understanding of our fellow humans. Take, for instance, Thomas Hardy’s controversial text Tess of the d’Urbervilles (1891), which paints the tormented psychological state of a young girl whose life is ruined by rape. Ultimately, she murders her rapist. Such a novel springs from the mind of a brilliant imagination and an unparalleled understanding of the human psyche, sharing insight into the human mind at an uncompromising level. Another perfect example is James Joyce’s Ulysses (1922), which uses the famed stream-of-consciousness technique to put the reader inside the head of Leopold Bloom for every minute of a single day. This protagonist is a man persecuted by anti-Semitism, traumatized by the death of his only son to the point of being unable to have sex with his wife, and tormented by his knowledge that on that day, his wife will cheat on him. His ability to ultimately forgive her strikes the reader as a beautiful achievement of pure human potential, even daring the reader to judge his or her own life by Bloom’s sense of humanity.

            Briefly, literature makes us better people. It makes us rethink how we treat others and demands that we try to understand the motives behind how others treat us. It proves that our fellow humans are in fact knowable at an intimate level, should we decide that knowledge is worth the time to obtain.

            But then again, some people are too pragmatic for all this bleeding-heart, pure education sort of stuff. “All that is good and fine,” the economically minded questioner will say at this point in my harangue, “but how do you plan to make money?”

            The question is valid. Even if you are one of those who does not ascribe to the idiotic need to be a millionaire some day, you do need to eat and sleep under a roof. Money is a part of life that even we literary people can’t escape from, no matter how thick the book we fall into is. We need to make money, and we can be just as good at it as anyone else with the education we get from studying literature. Here’s how.

            Obviously, teaching is an avenue for making money. In fact, as far as an education in literature goes, it is by far the most noble avenue—spread the good word, teach others how to do so. Teach at public schools, colleges, universities, adult education institutions. Teach English as a second language. Be a tutor. Writing, too, is an obvious option, and it needn’t be one of those New York Times’ bestsellers to make you a pretty penny. Article writing (especially online these days) is a lucrative market, as is publishing short stories, essays, or editorials. Furthermore, in the business world, virtually every company has to work with writing, and they need skilled writers to do so and copyeditors to double-check those pieces. You need only open your eyes to see a world of writing all around, and although it is a highly competitive job market, it can quickly yield a strong payoff once you get your foot in the door. It’s merely a matter of persistency.

Wrapped up in these two skills of teaching and writing, however, comes the essential skill that can allow us to make money. Having studied literature, we have mastered the art of oration. We know better than anyone else how to express an idea and argue for it, even if it is a far-fetched one. My thought is, we should use that skill to argue for ourselves. No matter what job one applies for, the interview is the most important part, and interviews are where literature students shine. Presentations are a standard part of what we do while studying, and an interview is simply a presentation where the thesis is, “You should give me this job.” Yes, we’re the best bullshitters around; so let’s bullshit these corporate execs into giving us the jobs we need to feed ourselves.

Book Review: Jerome K. Jerome’s Three Men in a Boat (To Say Nothing of the Dog!) (1889)

            The fin-de-siècle was a period of literary and aesthetic change in which artists rebelled against the strict, oppressive Victorian sensibilities of the nineteenth century in anticipation of the twentieth. From the projects and experiments in this period arose modernism, an artistic period still defining contemporary movements. Strictly speaking, fin-de-siècle refers to the 1890s, but as with any artistic movement, it need not be confined to that time alone. Indeed, many works of literature from the 1880s or even earlier fit best beside works of the 1890s; for example, Robert Louis Stevenson’s The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde (1886) fits best alongside such works as Bram Stoker’s Dracula (1897), Oscar Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray (1890-91), and H. G. Wells’ The Invisible Man (1897). Therefore, it seems only fitting to discuss and evaluate the current topic, Jerome K. Jerome’s Three Men in a Boat (To Say Nothing of the Dog!) (1889), within the same literary milieu. Indeed, it perhaps would not fit alongside earlier comic novels from the century; it has little in common with a Dickens novel. It is unquestionably a product of the fin-de-siècle.

            For those unfamiliar with the term fin-de-siècle, a brief description will be helpful. The period was marked by anxiety, even paranoia, over the century’s end (fin-de-siècle is literally French for “end of the century”). However, some artists were more optimistic, anticipating a sort of revolution in the coming period. In hindsight, with the coming of the World Wars, the rise of modernism, and the beginnings of a global economic infrastructure, both camps were correct. Either way, they expressed their anxieties or excitement through their writing, and they were able to do so unlike ever before thanks to Oscar Wilde’s efforts to promote l’art pour l’art, or “art for art’s sake,” encouraging artists to produce art for no other reason than art’s intrinsic beauty and value. Suddenly, a writer need not justify his or her work within a social rubric, allowing an explosion of generic development.

            Jerome K. Jerome’s Three Men in a Boat (To Say Nothing of the Dog!) is an excellent example of a novel advancing this generic development. It is hard to accurately classify this work; part travelogue, part autobiography, part fiction, part Menippean satire, part historical narrative, it defies any attempt to be classified. But its individual elements can be broken down, analyzed, and understood in order to evaluate this text two ways: based on its overall literary merit and historical importance, and based on its timelessness and entertaining power regardless of its historical situation.

            Considered as a work of the fin-de-siècle, this novel perfectly expresses many of the concerns of the period. It begins with the three friends and the dog discussing their poor health: “There were four of us—George, and William Samuel Harris, and myself, and Montmorency. We were sitting in my room, smoking, and talking about how bad we were—bad from a medical point of view I mean, of course” (Jerome 7). This opening scene of friends lounging about, smoking and chatting, casts a slightly decadent mood over the text from the start which Jerome sustains throughout. This group is one of idle pleasure-seekers. Their comparisons of ill health, however, is a reminder of the unfounded paranoia of the age; the narrator, J., finds out when he goes to the doctors that he in fact is in perfect health, despite his own belief that “the only malady . . . I had not got was housemaid’s knee” (8). So, they decide to escape their fabricated woes in pursuit of the pleasures of a two-week journey down the Thames River.

            Although the book is actually linear and a bit picaresque, it is highly digressive and mostly a chronicle of associative musings. Events that take place along the river trigger someone’s memory of a similar tale, leading to the recounting of anecdotes and “stretchers” in a style similar to the associative stream-of-consciousness technique Joyce would perfect in A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man and Ulysses, but also harking back to such earlier writers as Laurence Sterne. Indeed, one could easily see Jerome’s text as a bridge between the two writers.

The following are some brief examples of Jerome’s finest moments. His critique of weather forecasters is clever and timeless: “I do think that of all the silly, irritating tomfoolishness by which we are plagued, this ‘weather-forecast’ fraud is about the most aggravating. It ‘forecasts’ precisely what happened yesterday or the day before, and precisely the opposite of what is going to happen today” (42). When the group tries in vain to open a tin of pineapple, the comic frustration is slapstick, yet utterly human: “There was one great dent across the top that had the appearance of a mocking grin, and it drove us furious, so that Harris rushed at the thing, and caught it up, and flung it far into the middle of the river, and as it sank we hurled our curses at it, and we got into the boat and rowed away from the spot, and never paused till we reached Maidenhead” (117). Jerome is at his best in Chapter 17, whose main focus is “the art of angling” (161). The group stops at an inn and sees a great trout mounted and kept behind glass. The locals each take turns describing its capture. Everyone has his own unique story of how much the fish weighed, how he caught it, and how his conquest is the pride of the community. Before the night ends, the group have heard so many different men boast of their having caught the fish that they truly have no idea who the true champion is. The chapter’s climax brilliantly answers the question:

It really was a most astonishing trout. The more we looked at it, the more we marvelled at it.

It excited George so much that he climbed up on the back of a chair to get a better view of it.

And then the chair slipped, and George clutched wildly at the trout-case to save himself, and down it came with a crash, George and the chair on top of it.

‘You haven’t injured the fish, have you?’ I cried in alarm, rushing up.

‘I hope not,’ said George, rising cautiously and looking about.

But he had. That trout lay shattered into a thousand fragments—I say a thousand, but they may have only been nine hundred. I did not count them.

We thought it strange and unaccountable that a stuffed trout should break up into little pieces like that.

And so it would have been strange and unaccountable, if it had been a stuffed trout, but it was not.

That trout was plaster of Paris. (168-69)

Three Men in a Boat (To Say Nothing of the Dog!) is loaded with short comic scenes such as this one, the comedy not a bit dated, the writing direct, refreshingly readable. Overall, the contemporary reader will find this book to be a pleasurable, quick, easy read. Some parts are a bit dated, but the language never alienates or challenges. It can be enjoyed both as a key example of fin-de-siècle, pre-modernist literature or simply as a casual read for the less literary inclined. Doubtless, it will make you laugh.

Sources

Jerome, Jerome K. Three Men in a Boat (To Say Nothing of the Dog!). Baltimore: Penguin, 1962.

Read it online: 

http://www.archive.org/stream/threemeninboatto00jeroiala#page/n5/mode/2up