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The Fall by Albert Camus
“One plays at being immortal and after a few weeks one doesn't even know whether or not one can hang on till the next day.”
― Albert Camus, The Fall
“A single sentence will suffice for modern man: he fornicated and read the newspapers.” So pronounces Jean-Baptiste Clamence, narrator of Albert Camus’s short novel during the first evening of a monologue he delivers to a stranger over drinks at a shabby Amsterdam watering hole. Then, during the course of several evenings, the narrator continues his musings uninterrupted; yes, that’s right, completely uninterrupted, since his interlocutor says not a word. At one point Clamence states, “Alcohol and women provided me, I admit, the only solace of which I was worthy.” Clamence, judge-penitent as he calls himself, speaks thusly because he has passed judgment upon himself and his life. His verdict: guilty on all counts.
And my personal reaction to Clamence’s monologue? Let me start with a quote from Carl Jung: “I have frequently seen people become neurotic when they content themselves with inadequate or wrong answers to the questions of life. They seek position, marriage, reputation, outward success of money, and remain unhappy and neurotic even when they have attained what they were seeking. Such people are usually confined within too narrow a spiritual horizon.” Camus gives us a searing portrayal of a modern man who is the embodiment of spiritual poverty – morose, alienated, isolated, empty.
I would think Greco-Roman philosophers like Cicero, Seneca, Epictetus, or Marcus Aurelius would challenge Clamence in his clams to know life: “I never had to learn how to live. In that regard, I already knew everything at birth.”. Likewise, the wisdom masters from the enlightenment tradition –- such as Nagarjuna, Bodhidharma and Milarepa -- would have little patience listening to a monologue delivered by a smellfungus and know-it-all black bile stinker.
I completed my reading of the novel, a slow, careful reading as is deserving of Camus. The Fall is indeed a masterpiece of concision and insight into the plight of modern human experience.
Here is a quote from the Wikipedia review: “Clamence, through his confession, sits in permanent judgment of himself and others, spending his time persuading those around him of their own unconditional guilt.”
Would you be persuaded?
5.0
“One plays at being immortal and after a few weeks one doesn't even know whether or not one can hang on till the next day.”
― Albert Camus, The Fall
“A single sentence will suffice for modern man: he fornicated and read the newspapers.” So pronounces Jean-Baptiste Clamence, narrator of Albert Camus’s short novel during the first evening of a monologue he delivers to a stranger over drinks at a shabby Amsterdam watering hole. Then, during the course of several evenings, the narrator continues his musings uninterrupted; yes, that’s right, completely uninterrupted, since his interlocutor says not a word. At one point Clamence states, “Alcohol and women provided me, I admit, the only solace of which I was worthy.” Clamence, judge-penitent as he calls himself, speaks thusly because he has passed judgment upon himself and his life. His verdict: guilty on all counts.
And my personal reaction to Clamence’s monologue? Let me start with a quote from Carl Jung: “I have frequently seen people become neurotic when they content themselves with inadequate or wrong answers to the questions of life. They seek position, marriage, reputation, outward success of money, and remain unhappy and neurotic even when they have attained what they were seeking. Such people are usually confined within too narrow a spiritual horizon.” Camus gives us a searing portrayal of a modern man who is the embodiment of spiritual poverty – morose, alienated, isolated, empty.
I would think Greco-Roman philosophers like Cicero, Seneca, Epictetus, or Marcus Aurelius would challenge Clamence in his clams to know life: “I never had to learn how to live. In that regard, I already knew everything at birth.”. Likewise, the wisdom masters from the enlightenment tradition –- such as Nagarjuna, Bodhidharma and Milarepa -- would have little patience listening to a monologue delivered by a smellfungus and know-it-all black bile stinker.
I completed my reading of the novel, a slow, careful reading as is deserving of Camus. The Fall is indeed a masterpiece of concision and insight into the plight of modern human experience.
Here is a quote from the Wikipedia review: “Clamence, through his confession, sits in permanent judgment of himself and others, spending his time persuading those around him of their own unconditional guilt.”
Would you be persuaded?
Ham on Rye by Charles Bukowski
I was sixteen, tan, blonde and good looking, catching waves on my yellow surfboard along with all the other surfers, handsome guys and beautiful gals, each and every day that summer. Little did I know this mini-heaven would quickly end and hell would begin in September. Why? My smooth-skinned tan face turned into an acne-filled mess. I suffered pimple by pimple for three years straight; many fat red pimples popping up every day. Oh, yeah, on my forehead, temples, cheeks, jaw, chin and nose. Unlike Charles Bukowski, my father never beat me as a kid but this was one thing I did have in common with Bukowski – being a teenager with a wicked case of acne. You can read all about his in this novel, Ham and Rye. Bukowski said, “The gods have really put a good shield over me man. I’ve been toughened up at the right time and the right place." Maybe this was part of my own toughening up, those three teenage years of enduring the red face fire of acne.
Anyway, this is one of my connections with Bukowski, the king of the hill when it comes to American raw-boned, hard-boiled, tough-guy writers. And this novel of his years as a kid and teenager growing up in a house where he was continually beaten with a leather strap and receiving a torrent of emotional abuses, particularly at the hands of his callous, obsessive father, sets the stage for his alcoholic, hardscrabble adulthood, an adulthood where, other than drinking, his sole refuge from childhood memories of cruelty and his ongoing life on the down-and-out edge was sitting at his typewriter composing poetry and fiction.
Ham on Rye. Every single sentence of this book is clear, vivid, sharp and direct, as if the words were bullets shot from a 22 caliber rifle. Here are just a few rounds: ““Words weren’t dull, words were things that could make your mind hum. If you read them and let yourself feel the magic, you could live without pain, with hope, no matter what happened to you.” Again, “I didn't like anybody in that school. I think they knew that. I think that's why they disliked me. I didn't like the way they walked or looked or talked, but I didn't like my mother or father either. I still had the feeling of being surrounded by white empty space. There was always a slight nausea in my stomach.” And, again. “The best thing about the bedroom was the bed. I liked to stay in bed for hours, even during the day with covers pulled up to my chin. It was good in there, nothing ever occurred in there, no people, nothing.”
Ham on Rye. There are funny, belly-laughing scenes and scenes that will make you shudder, scenes that are tender and scenes filled with pain, but through it all, you will stick with Hank Chinaski aka Charles Bukowski, the ultimate tough-guy with the heart of a poet.
5.0
I was sixteen, tan, blonde and good looking, catching waves on my yellow surfboard along with all the other surfers, handsome guys and beautiful gals, each and every day that summer. Little did I know this mini-heaven would quickly end and hell would begin in September. Why? My smooth-skinned tan face turned into an acne-filled mess. I suffered pimple by pimple for three years straight; many fat red pimples popping up every day. Oh, yeah, on my forehead, temples, cheeks, jaw, chin and nose. Unlike Charles Bukowski, my father never beat me as a kid but this was one thing I did have in common with Bukowski – being a teenager with a wicked case of acne. You can read all about his in this novel, Ham and Rye. Bukowski said, “The gods have really put a good shield over me man. I’ve been toughened up at the right time and the right place." Maybe this was part of my own toughening up, those three teenage years of enduring the red face fire of acne.
Anyway, this is one of my connections with Bukowski, the king of the hill when it comes to American raw-boned, hard-boiled, tough-guy writers. And this novel of his years as a kid and teenager growing up in a house where he was continually beaten with a leather strap and receiving a torrent of emotional abuses, particularly at the hands of his callous, obsessive father, sets the stage for his alcoholic, hardscrabble adulthood, an adulthood where, other than drinking, his sole refuge from childhood memories of cruelty and his ongoing life on the down-and-out edge was sitting at his typewriter composing poetry and fiction.
Ham on Rye. Every single sentence of this book is clear, vivid, sharp and direct, as if the words were bullets shot from a 22 caliber rifle. Here are just a few rounds: ““Words weren’t dull, words were things that could make your mind hum. If you read them and let yourself feel the magic, you could live without pain, with hope, no matter what happened to you.” Again, “I didn't like anybody in that school. I think they knew that. I think that's why they disliked me. I didn't like the way they walked or looked or talked, but I didn't like my mother or father either. I still had the feeling of being surrounded by white empty space. There was always a slight nausea in my stomach.” And, again. “The best thing about the bedroom was the bed. I liked to stay in bed for hours, even during the day with covers pulled up to my chin. It was good in there, nothing ever occurred in there, no people, nothing.”
Ham on Rye. There are funny, belly-laughing scenes and scenes that will make you shudder, scenes that are tender and scenes filled with pain, but through it all, you will stick with Hank Chinaski aka Charles Bukowski, the ultimate tough-guy with the heart of a poet.
The Scaffold and Other Cruel Tales by Auguste de Villiers de l'Isle-Adam
French dramatist, novelist and teller of tales, Auguste Villiers de L'Isle-Adam (1838-1889) was one of the most inventive, creative writers of the nineteenth century, Refusing to be pigeonholed, he placed a premium on imaginative, experimental storytelling, expanding his unique literary voice, a voice simultaneously behind and ahead of his time. As Brian Stableford notes in his introduction to this collection of over two dozen tales most peculiar and distinctive, "Villiers was always a writer who sought to avoid conventional themes and narrative frameworks; no matter how far his circumstances were reduced - and there were times when he went hungry for days - the one thing he was always determined to do was to write as no one had ever written before, experimenting with both narrative technique and subject matter." Below are snapshots from six of his extraordinary tales:
The Secret of the Scaffold
The famous Doctor Velpeau pays a visit to the cell of a condemned criminal, who, as it turns out, is also a medical man: Doctor Edmond-Desire Couty de la Pommerais. Since, as Doctor Velpeau explains, they are both men of science, a great benefit to society could be gained if he, Couty, would agree to give him, Velpeau, a special signal of awareness by blinking one eye after the fatal blow of the guillotine. When Couty hesitates, the good doctor asks Couty to think the matter over.
The next morning, prior to the condemned being led out to the scaffold, Doctor Velpeau returns. Thereupon seeing the esteemed physician, Couty exclaims: “I have been practicing – look! And while the order of execution was being read out, he held his right eyelid shut, while fixing the surgeon with the gaze of his wide-open left eye.” Now that’s Villiers-style black humor! -- in the name of science and progress, a doctor asks a man about to lose his life if he wouldn’t mind actively participating in a scientific experiment immediately after the guillotine chops off his head.
The Heroism of Doctor Hallidonhill
Villiers is a forerunner of the turn-of-the century literary Decadents, such as Joris-Karl Huysmans, Jean Lorrain, Octave Mirbeau, in his disdain for the positivist/scientific philosophy that was all the rage back in the late nineteenth century, a philosophy optimistically envisioning technology, science and modernism as the full flower of humanity and the savior of mankind.
In this tale, Doctor Hallidonhill will take any step necessary, no matter how ghastly or grisly, to contribute scientific and medical evidence for the improvement of mankind. Indeed, one of his patients walks into his office ravaged by nature: hacking, coughing, looking like a living skeleton. The good doctor proposes an exotic cure. Months later the patient, robust, radiating health, returns to thank Doctor Hallidonall, but his return proves to be a grave mistake; the patient has underestimated the doctor’s dedication to his practice above all else. This short tale could serve as the basis for a Philip K. Dick-style novel.
The Lovely Ardiane’s Secret
Here we have a tale where Villiers provides his own cynical twist to shatter the traditional notion that happiness flows from honesty and virtue. The young, innocent Ardiane, a Basque girl of humble origins, fall in love with a pale-skinned, bold-eyed virtuous guard by the name of Pier. Events transpire to bring the two lovers together -- they eventually marry and have a child. Ah, love; ah, romance. But wait – what exactly were the circumstances and events that transpired? Ardiane lays it all out to her Pier – she herself caused buildings to burn and neighbors to perish –all as a necessary step so she could meet and marry and have a child with Pier. Pier is initially horrified and turns against her, however, as Villiers writes: “But the Basque woman was so ardently beautiful that by five o’clock in the morning or thereabouts-too-persuasive desires having blinded the young man’s conscience little by little – her terrible campaign came to seem to him to be the endowments of a heroic heart. In brief, Pier Albrun weakened in the face of the delightful Ardiane Inferal- and forgave her.” Ah, love; ah, family!
The Elect of Dreams
Mediocre, uninspired, unartistic minds demand to see all, leaving nothing to the imagination; mediocre, uninspired, unartistic minds demand mechanical, naturalistic explanations, leaving nothing to the imagination. Such is the spirit of this charming Villiers tribute to a young poet, Alexis Dufrene, and the power of imagination to surpass all such mundane explanations.
The tale begins with Alexis in his garret joined by two friends, Breart, a painter and Nedonchel, a musician. These two friends hear a sound from an adjoining apartment and insist on seeing what is going on in there. Alexis blocks there way, exclaiming that beyond the door there is a king and his treasure and if they dare to enter and insist on seeing the resident of the apartment for themselves, they will never be real artists. The friends laugh, ignore his plea and barge right in. Alexis reflects: “Out of disdain for the Imaginary, which is the only reality for any artist, who knows how to command life to conform to it, they prefer to postpone their sensations until they can see what’s there.”
Continuing to value his imagination and dreams as if they were a treasure-chest of rare gems, later in the story, by a twist of great fortune, Alexis is handed a real treasure that enables the poet to travel to an exotic land and become a king. Meanwhile, what is the fate of his two friends? Villiers end the tale with these words: “Breart and Nedonchel are still in Paris. Both of them noble aesthetes, stay up late every evening in the depths of taverns haunted by the young writers of the future, to whom they strive to demonstrate, by means of theoretical conclusions that it is always necessary to see things as they are.” Indeed, Villiers pens this fairytale-like short story as a hymn to artistic imagination, which is most fitting since imagination was the author’s life-long polestar as he set about creating his own body of highly original writing.
That Mahoin!
Now here is a tale most cruel. A famous, infamous criminal is so unbelievably monstrous, so brutal, destructive, heinous, odious and wicked that when he is finally captured, his execution by guillotine draws thousands upon thousands of spectators, the entire town is too small to hold such a throng. But the public insists on seeing the spectacle. Men in the attics cut holes in the roofs and pop their heads out, eyes in the direction of the condemned man. Villiers writes: “Through the thousands of holes thus created thousands of talking but seemingly-decapitated heads appeared, directing their eyes towards the place of execution and fixing their gazes upon the bandit – without him being able for the moment, to comprehend where the bodies could be to which those heads belonged.” What happens next is a stroke (no pun intended) of storytelling genius. Thank you, Villiers de L’lsle-Adam!
Monsieur Redoux’s Phantasms
An odd tale. Upon leaving a dinner party in London where he is visiting, Monsieur Redoux, a corpulent businessman from Paris, finds himself in a wax museum. The museum is about to close, but in a fit of inspiration (or madness) Monsieur Redoux decides to stay among the wax figures since, after all, several of the wax figures are French Kings and Queens. As Villiers writes, “It was as if some kind of dark jester within his skull had suddenly shaken his bells- and he had not the slightest inclination to resist.”
One way of reading this tale is to see the author anticipating what psychologist Carl Jung termed the archetypes – the magician, the trickster, the king, the warrior, the lover – and how any one of these archetypes can overtake a personality as the trickster archetype overtakes the tale’s bourgeois Frenchman.
5.0
French dramatist, novelist and teller of tales, Auguste Villiers de L'Isle-Adam (1838-1889) was one of the most inventive, creative writers of the nineteenth century, Refusing to be pigeonholed, he placed a premium on imaginative, experimental storytelling, expanding his unique literary voice, a voice simultaneously behind and ahead of his time. As Brian Stableford notes in his introduction to this collection of over two dozen tales most peculiar and distinctive, "Villiers was always a writer who sought to avoid conventional themes and narrative frameworks; no matter how far his circumstances were reduced - and there were times when he went hungry for days - the one thing he was always determined to do was to write as no one had ever written before, experimenting with both narrative technique and subject matter." Below are snapshots from six of his extraordinary tales:
The Secret of the Scaffold
The famous Doctor Velpeau pays a visit to the cell of a condemned criminal, who, as it turns out, is also a medical man: Doctor Edmond-Desire Couty de la Pommerais. Since, as Doctor Velpeau explains, they are both men of science, a great benefit to society could be gained if he, Couty, would agree to give him, Velpeau, a special signal of awareness by blinking one eye after the fatal blow of the guillotine. When Couty hesitates, the good doctor asks Couty to think the matter over.
The next morning, prior to the condemned being led out to the scaffold, Doctor Velpeau returns. Thereupon seeing the esteemed physician, Couty exclaims: “I have been practicing – look! And while the order of execution was being read out, he held his right eyelid shut, while fixing the surgeon with the gaze of his wide-open left eye.” Now that’s Villiers-style black humor! -- in the name of science and progress, a doctor asks a man about to lose his life if he wouldn’t mind actively participating in a scientific experiment immediately after the guillotine chops off his head.
The Heroism of Doctor Hallidonhill
Villiers is a forerunner of the turn-of-the century literary Decadents, such as Joris-Karl Huysmans, Jean Lorrain, Octave Mirbeau, in his disdain for the positivist/scientific philosophy that was all the rage back in the late nineteenth century, a philosophy optimistically envisioning technology, science and modernism as the full flower of humanity and the savior of mankind.
In this tale, Doctor Hallidonhill will take any step necessary, no matter how ghastly or grisly, to contribute scientific and medical evidence for the improvement of mankind. Indeed, one of his patients walks into his office ravaged by nature: hacking, coughing, looking like a living skeleton. The good doctor proposes an exotic cure. Months later the patient, robust, radiating health, returns to thank Doctor Hallidonall, but his return proves to be a grave mistake; the patient has underestimated the doctor’s dedication to his practice above all else. This short tale could serve as the basis for a Philip K. Dick-style novel.
The Lovely Ardiane’s Secret
Here we have a tale where Villiers provides his own cynical twist to shatter the traditional notion that happiness flows from honesty and virtue. The young, innocent Ardiane, a Basque girl of humble origins, fall in love with a pale-skinned, bold-eyed virtuous guard by the name of Pier. Events transpire to bring the two lovers together -- they eventually marry and have a child. Ah, love; ah, romance. But wait – what exactly were the circumstances and events that transpired? Ardiane lays it all out to her Pier – she herself caused buildings to burn and neighbors to perish –all as a necessary step so she could meet and marry and have a child with Pier. Pier is initially horrified and turns against her, however, as Villiers writes: “But the Basque woman was so ardently beautiful that by five o’clock in the morning or thereabouts-too-persuasive desires having blinded the young man’s conscience little by little – her terrible campaign came to seem to him to be the endowments of a heroic heart. In brief, Pier Albrun weakened in the face of the delightful Ardiane Inferal- and forgave her.” Ah, love; ah, family!
The Elect of Dreams
Mediocre, uninspired, unartistic minds demand to see all, leaving nothing to the imagination; mediocre, uninspired, unartistic minds demand mechanical, naturalistic explanations, leaving nothing to the imagination. Such is the spirit of this charming Villiers tribute to a young poet, Alexis Dufrene, and the power of imagination to surpass all such mundane explanations.
The tale begins with Alexis in his garret joined by two friends, Breart, a painter and Nedonchel, a musician. These two friends hear a sound from an adjoining apartment and insist on seeing what is going on in there. Alexis blocks there way, exclaiming that beyond the door there is a king and his treasure and if they dare to enter and insist on seeing the resident of the apartment for themselves, they will never be real artists. The friends laugh, ignore his plea and barge right in. Alexis reflects: “Out of disdain for the Imaginary, which is the only reality for any artist, who knows how to command life to conform to it, they prefer to postpone their sensations until they can see what’s there.”
Continuing to value his imagination and dreams as if they were a treasure-chest of rare gems, later in the story, by a twist of great fortune, Alexis is handed a real treasure that enables the poet to travel to an exotic land and become a king. Meanwhile, what is the fate of his two friends? Villiers end the tale with these words: “Breart and Nedonchel are still in Paris. Both of them noble aesthetes, stay up late every evening in the depths of taverns haunted by the young writers of the future, to whom they strive to demonstrate, by means of theoretical conclusions that it is always necessary to see things as they are.” Indeed, Villiers pens this fairytale-like short story as a hymn to artistic imagination, which is most fitting since imagination was the author’s life-long polestar as he set about creating his own body of highly original writing.
That Mahoin!
Now here is a tale most cruel. A famous, infamous criminal is so unbelievably monstrous, so brutal, destructive, heinous, odious and wicked that when he is finally captured, his execution by guillotine draws thousands upon thousands of spectators, the entire town is too small to hold such a throng. But the public insists on seeing the spectacle. Men in the attics cut holes in the roofs and pop their heads out, eyes in the direction of the condemned man. Villiers writes: “Through the thousands of holes thus created thousands of talking but seemingly-decapitated heads appeared, directing their eyes towards the place of execution and fixing their gazes upon the bandit – without him being able for the moment, to comprehend where the bodies could be to which those heads belonged.” What happens next is a stroke (no pun intended) of storytelling genius. Thank you, Villiers de L’lsle-Adam!
Monsieur Redoux’s Phantasms
An odd tale. Upon leaving a dinner party in London where he is visiting, Monsieur Redoux, a corpulent businessman from Paris, finds himself in a wax museum. The museum is about to close, but in a fit of inspiration (or madness) Monsieur Redoux decides to stay among the wax figures since, after all, several of the wax figures are French Kings and Queens. As Villiers writes, “It was as if some kind of dark jester within his skull had suddenly shaken his bells- and he had not the slightest inclination to resist.”
One way of reading this tale is to see the author anticipating what psychologist Carl Jung termed the archetypes – the magician, the trickster, the king, the warrior, the lover – and how any one of these archetypes can overtake a personality as the trickster archetype overtakes the tale’s bourgeois Frenchman.
The Last Bar In NYC by Brian Michels
One man’s odyssey growing up in bars, working in bars and finally owning his own bar. And that’s not just in any city but New York City. Read all about it in Brian Michels novel memoir where a large bulk of the action in this novel in all likelihood, believe it or not, actually happened. And happened to Brian. To provide not a taste but a string of drinks to whet your thirst, below are a number of novel New York Cocktail or is that Nutty Irishman or Naked Margarita quotes along with my brief comments:
“My father had me perched at the far end of that bar top on a Saturday afternoon with a couple of cohorts standing around. He told me I was a natural, had everyone smiling and I was quick with my hands, premium traits for a barman.” ---------- You think you have a tough life? How about spending a good chunk of your childhood in a bar including the time when you’re five years old and a guy comes in and sticks a gun in your belly demanding you empty your pockets?
“Don’t let anyone tell you that everyone has talent and it’s just waiting to be discovered. Unless you consider talent the ability to open a bottle of beer or crack open a handful of peanuts; which would still leave the talent team a few men short for a warranted competition. Bottom line is plenty of people are without an ounce of talent.” ---------- And that bottom line has an implicit moral: what it takes in life if you have to work for a living is effort with a capital “E.”
“My will had always been tangible and provided nominal results that satisfied menial goals. But willpower must be a more discernable part; it should be what identifies a person, even more than character, personality or smarts. It’s the ultimate boss of you. It is you.” ---------- Again, that’s not only effort but continuous effort over a long hall.
“Working all night in a club required energy so cocaine was an integral part of the job. Lazy flakes and nerds would be thinned from the work force quickly. You had to have talent too because it wasn’t just about pouring drinks and making sure the bar is supplied. The right energy is what made a club great and the staff had as much to do with that as the owners, club designers, and DJs." ---------- This is the cocaine-fueled 1980s and if you are going to make it among the fast movers you’ll be expected to move your butt fast or get off the NYC bar train.
“A glitch, the pedestrian signal began flickering. Walk and Don’t Walk, and my brain deteriorated, hemorrhaged and everything inside of me liquefied. I couldn’t read any billboards, or recall one bit or thing of my squandered life.” ---------- Oh, my goodness. All that fast-paced energy fueled by cocaine and other substances, both legal and illegal, can take its toll on a guy’s system.
“A great change of pace to listen to guys with something relevant to say and maybe teach me a thing or two, or three, or four, or more. Rabbi Odd On was the smartest guy I ever served in a bar. He was a mathematician savant with a vast set of interests and could speak a dozen languages, probably more.” ---------- But you can bounce back and learn a few things along the way. Brian certainly did.
“They walloped me with baseball bats and took everything I had. I waited a week in the bus terminal all banged up sleeping on the floor and eating out of the garbage until my mother could wire me money she didn’t have for a ticket back to New York.” ---------- It has always been true. When you are in a fix or beaten up, literally or figuratively, always good to be able to call on friends or family to lend a hand. Most especially mom.
“It dawned on me that I had a real opportunity. They had to have hired more staff than needed because a smart boss doesn’t want to be left short-handed at the grand opening, and he’s want to see how an untested crew performs on their feet, sort them out.” ---------- A real opportunity, Brian! Not to be squandered as you’ve come to learn the hard way.
“Swallowing your pride can go down as easy as a worm bowl full of beef stock, onions, blood and cheese as long as you pretend it was your intended recipe. Even with a swollen tongue you can learn to gulp down yellow-bellied swill.” ---------- And you can gulp down some good old fashion learning by, among other things, immersing yourself in a whole bunch of good reading.
“The miracle happened on a miserable rainy night. Almost a dozen Professionals were yapping at the bar. A blood vessel in my left eye popped just as I heard the front door open and close with a thud.”” ---------- What’s Brian’s miracle? You’ll have to read this very readable, enjoyable, fast-paced story of one man’s journey into the Big Apple bar nights.
5.0
One man’s odyssey growing up in bars, working in bars and finally owning his own bar. And that’s not just in any city but New York City. Read all about it in Brian Michels novel memoir where a large bulk of the action in this novel in all likelihood, believe it or not, actually happened. And happened to Brian. To provide not a taste but a string of drinks to whet your thirst, below are a number of novel New York Cocktail or is that Nutty Irishman or Naked Margarita quotes along with my brief comments:
“My father had me perched at the far end of that bar top on a Saturday afternoon with a couple of cohorts standing around. He told me I was a natural, had everyone smiling and I was quick with my hands, premium traits for a barman.” ---------- You think you have a tough life? How about spending a good chunk of your childhood in a bar including the time when you’re five years old and a guy comes in and sticks a gun in your belly demanding you empty your pockets?
“Don’t let anyone tell you that everyone has talent and it’s just waiting to be discovered. Unless you consider talent the ability to open a bottle of beer or crack open a handful of peanuts; which would still leave the talent team a few men short for a warranted competition. Bottom line is plenty of people are without an ounce of talent.” ---------- And that bottom line has an implicit moral: what it takes in life if you have to work for a living is effort with a capital “E.”
“My will had always been tangible and provided nominal results that satisfied menial goals. But willpower must be a more discernable part; it should be what identifies a person, even more than character, personality or smarts. It’s the ultimate boss of you. It is you.” ---------- Again, that’s not only effort but continuous effort over a long hall.
“Working all night in a club required energy so cocaine was an integral part of the job. Lazy flakes and nerds would be thinned from the work force quickly. You had to have talent too because it wasn’t just about pouring drinks and making sure the bar is supplied. The right energy is what made a club great and the staff had as much to do with that as the owners, club designers, and DJs." ---------- This is the cocaine-fueled 1980s and if you are going to make it among the fast movers you’ll be expected to move your butt fast or get off the NYC bar train.
“A glitch, the pedestrian signal began flickering. Walk and Don’t Walk, and my brain deteriorated, hemorrhaged and everything inside of me liquefied. I couldn’t read any billboards, or recall one bit or thing of my squandered life.” ---------- Oh, my goodness. All that fast-paced energy fueled by cocaine and other substances, both legal and illegal, can take its toll on a guy’s system.
“A great change of pace to listen to guys with something relevant to say and maybe teach me a thing or two, or three, or four, or more. Rabbi Odd On was the smartest guy I ever served in a bar. He was a mathematician savant with a vast set of interests and could speak a dozen languages, probably more.” ---------- But you can bounce back and learn a few things along the way. Brian certainly did.
“They walloped me with baseball bats and took everything I had. I waited a week in the bus terminal all banged up sleeping on the floor and eating out of the garbage until my mother could wire me money she didn’t have for a ticket back to New York.” ---------- It has always been true. When you are in a fix or beaten up, literally or figuratively, always good to be able to call on friends or family to lend a hand. Most especially mom.
“It dawned on me that I had a real opportunity. They had to have hired more staff than needed because a smart boss doesn’t want to be left short-handed at the grand opening, and he’s want to see how an untested crew performs on their feet, sort them out.” ---------- A real opportunity, Brian! Not to be squandered as you’ve come to learn the hard way.
“Swallowing your pride can go down as easy as a worm bowl full of beef stock, onions, blood and cheese as long as you pretend it was your intended recipe. Even with a swollen tongue you can learn to gulp down yellow-bellied swill.” ---------- And you can gulp down some good old fashion learning by, among other things, immersing yourself in a whole bunch of good reading.
“The miracle happened on a miserable rainy night. Almost a dozen Professionals were yapping at the bar. A blood vessel in my left eye popped just as I heard the front door open and close with a thud.”” ---------- What’s Brian’s miracle? You’ll have to read this very readable, enjoyable, fast-paced story of one man’s journey into the Big Apple bar nights.
Kurt Schwitters by John Elderfield
Kurt Schwitters-Merzbau
Everything you ever wanted to know about the great German experimental artist Kurt Schwitters (1887-1948), to be sure. John Elderfield provides 300 pages of cultural and historical context along with the artistic development of this most original of creators. At one point he writes, “Schwitters talked a great deal of wanting to combine all the arts in a synthesis . . . In practice, however, what he did mainly was “to efface the boundaries between the arts” not in fact by linking all of them together, but by applying the common principle of assemblage to each of the arts he worked in.” Included in this large art book are over 300 illustrations, not only of Schwitters’s art but also various artists of the era, such as Andre Breton and Raoul Hausmann. What a treasure.
This book can fire the imagination. After reading some years ago myself, I was inspired to create my own Kurt Schwitters-style construction. Here are the notes I found in the diary I was keeping back then:
Rather than running to a department store and buying my daughter the dollhouse she’s been asking for, I decide to build one myself, a dollhouse to end all dollhouses, a dollhouse not only granting her wish for having a place for her miniature people and miniature furniture, but a dollhouse enabling me to fulfill my lifelong dream, albeit on a small scale, of creating a space similar to that great German Dada/Merz artist Kurt Schwitters, who turned virtually every available square foot of his home in Hanover into a sprawling no-objects-bared work of art. As he stated at one point, "My 'ultimate aspiration’ being ‘the union of art and non-art in the Merz total world view.'"
So, after sweating through an entire week of measuring, sawing, nailing and painting, I finished constructing the dollhouse, which I thereafter gave to my daughter as a present. She was delighted to finally have a dollhouse of her very own. Almost her own, that is, for during those first nights, after I tucked her in bed, I proceeded to build a sculpture construction out of toothpicks and matchboxes in one of the little upstairs dollhouse bedrooms.
Initially, my daughter found it curious, her daddy making “little cuties” in her dollhouse, places where her little doll family could sit and play. But the more I worked on the dollhouse, the more infatuated I became. It was if the spirit of Kurt Schwitters and other Dadaists came to not only inhabit but also haunt the little rooms of the dollhouse.
I cracked the little kitchen window and used a felt-tip pen to mark the smashed glass. This became my doll-sized version of Duchamp’s ‘The Bride Stripped Bare of Her Bachelors, Even.' I molded a tiny urinal out of clay, fastened it upside down to a dining room wall and wrote ‘Fountain’ underneath. Then, using glue and photographs reduced in size, I covered the little ceilings, walls and floors with collage and photomontage. I included every variety of discarded scrap I could put my hands on to fill every available space.
And, since I ran out of room in the dollhouse itself, I even took my daughter’s little dollhouse dolls and made random attachments of tacks, tape, springs and pins to their heads, thus creating multiple miniature versions of the Dadaist head of Raoul Hausmann.
Meanwhile, my daughter has been having mixed reactions. At times she enjoys all the new, unexpected tricks her made-over dolls can do in their full-to-the-brim dollhouse. But at other times, she is frustrated about the lack of empty space.
I can only hope she’ll eventually be happy, or at least tolerant. For, like Kurt Schwitters, who continued to build, combine and add until he constructed himself into a corner of his house and became a flesh-and-blood extension of his unending collage, my fingers have taken to dancing and building on their own.
And, after all, I will have to follow the lead of my fingers and work non-stop at night, starting in the corner of our downstairs family room where my daughter keeps her dollhouse next to a stack of teddy bears. Lucky for me and my family, I suppose, that it will take many more toothpicks, matchboxes, marbles, clay figures, wooden blocks, springs, tea sets, spools and string before my fingers take me to the stairway and the other rooms of our house.
5.0
Kurt Schwitters-Merzbau
Everything you ever wanted to know about the great German experimental artist Kurt Schwitters (1887-1948), to be sure. John Elderfield provides 300 pages of cultural and historical context along with the artistic development of this most original of creators. At one point he writes, “Schwitters talked a great deal of wanting to combine all the arts in a synthesis . . . In practice, however, what he did mainly was “to efface the boundaries between the arts” not in fact by linking all of them together, but by applying the common principle of assemblage to each of the arts he worked in.” Included in this large art book are over 300 illustrations, not only of Schwitters’s art but also various artists of the era, such as Andre Breton and Raoul Hausmann. What a treasure.
This book can fire the imagination. After reading some years ago myself, I was inspired to create my own Kurt Schwitters-style construction. Here are the notes I found in the diary I was keeping back then:
Rather than running to a department store and buying my daughter the dollhouse she’s been asking for, I decide to build one myself, a dollhouse to end all dollhouses, a dollhouse not only granting her wish for having a place for her miniature people and miniature furniture, but a dollhouse enabling me to fulfill my lifelong dream, albeit on a small scale, of creating a space similar to that great German Dada/Merz artist Kurt Schwitters, who turned virtually every available square foot of his home in Hanover into a sprawling no-objects-bared work of art. As he stated at one point, "My 'ultimate aspiration’ being ‘the union of art and non-art in the Merz total world view.'"
So, after sweating through an entire week of measuring, sawing, nailing and painting, I finished constructing the dollhouse, which I thereafter gave to my daughter as a present. She was delighted to finally have a dollhouse of her very own. Almost her own, that is, for during those first nights, after I tucked her in bed, I proceeded to build a sculpture construction out of toothpicks and matchboxes in one of the little upstairs dollhouse bedrooms.
Initially, my daughter found it curious, her daddy making “little cuties” in her dollhouse, places where her little doll family could sit and play. But the more I worked on the dollhouse, the more infatuated I became. It was if the spirit of Kurt Schwitters and other Dadaists came to not only inhabit but also haunt the little rooms of the dollhouse.
I cracked the little kitchen window and used a felt-tip pen to mark the smashed glass. This became my doll-sized version of Duchamp’s ‘The Bride Stripped Bare of Her Bachelors, Even.' I molded a tiny urinal out of clay, fastened it upside down to a dining room wall and wrote ‘Fountain’ underneath. Then, using glue and photographs reduced in size, I covered the little ceilings, walls and floors with collage and photomontage. I included every variety of discarded scrap I could put my hands on to fill every available space.
And, since I ran out of room in the dollhouse itself, I even took my daughter’s little dollhouse dolls and made random attachments of tacks, tape, springs and pins to their heads, thus creating multiple miniature versions of the Dadaist head of Raoul Hausmann.
Meanwhile, my daughter has been having mixed reactions. At times she enjoys all the new, unexpected tricks her made-over dolls can do in their full-to-the-brim dollhouse. But at other times, she is frustrated about the lack of empty space.
I can only hope she’ll eventually be happy, or at least tolerant. For, like Kurt Schwitters, who continued to build, combine and add until he constructed himself into a corner of his house and became a flesh-and-blood extension of his unending collage, my fingers have taken to dancing and building on their own.
And, after all, I will have to follow the lead of my fingers and work non-stop at night, starting in the corner of our downstairs family room where my daughter keeps her dollhouse next to a stack of teddy bears. Lucky for me and my family, I suppose, that it will take many more toothpicks, matchboxes, marbles, clay figures, wooden blocks, springs, tea sets, spools and string before my fingers take me to the stairway and the other rooms of our house.
The Truth in Painting by Geoff Bennington, Jacques Derrida, Geoffrey Bennington, Ian McLeod
5.0
MY FULL MICRONOVEL IS INCLUDED HERE
No question, there is a lot in this book, many ideas presented in complex, obscure language. But I persisted and read through to the end. On reflection, I thought it best to express my understanding of Derrida's main points in the form of the following micronovel. Special thanks to Goodreads friend Manny Rayner for helping me better understand the ideas in this Derrida book.
The Cannibals Read Jacques Derrida's The Truth in Painting -
A Postmodern Micronovel
One
A tribe of cannibals is reading Jacques Derrida's The Truth in Painting, the great French philosopher's prime work on art and aesthetics. The cannibals huddle around the fire, scrutinize the first lines and declare in unison how they will create paintings that are nothing but the truth.
Two
One cannibal says, “I am not only interested in painting; I am interested in the idiom in painting.” This launches an all-night heated discussion on the exact meaning of “idiom,” complete with quotation marks and quotation marks within quotation marks, all executed with adroit simultaneous rapid downward strokes of index and middle fingers of both hands. The result: there’s consensus among the cannibals: they will paint in the idiom of cannibal painting and they will always speak of their painting in the language of cannibals.
Three
Paul Cézanne said how he owed us the truth of painting and will tell it to us. The artist’s words served to underscore how he would gaze intensely at a subject, apply his brushstrokes and construct a picture rather than paint it. The cannibals muse over this section of Derrida’s book and wonder how they will likewise tell the viewer the truth of painting.
Four
What is the difference between an artist painting the truth and writing down in words how he owes it to the viewer to paint the truth? Reflecting on just this question, one cannibal proclaims, “Starting tomorrow, we will paint the truth rather than stating verbally or writing down in language how we will paint the truth.” Using sophisticated hand gestures and head nodding, the other cannibals express their agreement.
Five
It’s springtime. I sit on the hillside, overlooking a green mountain. I’m reminded of Cezanne. Is there any other painter who captured a mountain nearly as vividly, constructing his canvas with bold individual brushstrokes? I wonder if any other civilization or society could produce such an artist even if it were to last a thousand years.
Six
In the middle of my reflection in that particular place I was filled with incongruous, impracticable thoughts, such as fancying I have been seeing Cezanne’s mountain in my mind’s eye as if getting drunk on the artist’s vision and wondering how his pledge to tell the truth in painting accords with a classical theory of speech, that he really means what he says and says what he means and how his words impacted an appreciative audience in his own day, art lovers around the world in our day and how his words will resonate at future times and in other civilizations; my wondering turned to a humming and then a singing of nonsense sounds, pretending each sound could take on a color and the colors were various shades of green, first dark forest green then becoming progressively lighter until reaching the lightest of limes.
Seven
How would I translate my nonsense sounds into another language? Is this question tied up with the whole issue of what it means to render? I wonder. What if I stated in writing I only wanted to sing nonsense that was true nonsense, no matter what the language? Would I be able to accomplish my goal with greater ease than an artist like Cezanne who only wanted to paint the truth?
Eight
After six straight weeks of painting nonstop, the cannibals stand back and behold their giant mural painted on the rock face of a mountain. Most of the colors are rich browns – russet, bronze, seal brown, sepia, earth yellow, burnt amber, cocoa, tan – highlighted by lines and circles of white or grey. Remarkable. They all acknowledge they have accomplished, as far as they can discern, truth in painting.
Nine
Their rock painting is truly enormous, over four hundred feet wide by sixty feet high. Enormous, striking, refined and nuanced, bold and imaginative. The cannibals, returning to Derrida’s The Truth in Painting read how aesthetic judgement must properly bear upon intrinsic beauty, not on finery and surrounds. Hence, Derrida continues, one must know how to determine the intrinsic, that is, what is framed, and know what one is excluding as frame and outside-the-frame. Since their gigantic rock painting is framed in a bold white line running around the entire painted, they think they have a beautiful work of art, one where no viewer would have any question or difficulty discerning what is framed and what is outside-the-frame.
Ten
The next portion of Derrida’s work addresses the colossal in art. The cannibals smile, knowing they have anticipated what the great philosopher says about size and art. And since colossal is one of the defining qualities of their efforts, they put down the book, thinking they should really quit while they are ahead. Also, they are a bit confused when reference is made to another philosopher by the name of Kant. None of the cannibals have read Kant previously.
Eleven
I walk along the path until I am struck: before me is a gigantic abstract painting on a rock face, a type of painting I have never before set eyes upon. It takes me the better part of an hour but I approach this colossal work. I make a move to touch what I smell as fresh paint. Someone behind me shouts, “Please do not touch!” I turn around. I’m face to face with three dozen cannibals.
Twelve
The cannibals approach. They tell me they spent the last six straight weeks painting and, so sorry to break the bad news - they are extremely hungry. I stay calm and inform them they can’t eat me since I am the author of the story of their reading Derrida and their painting and how, if they eat me, they will likewise perish, something they should have no difficulty grasping since they are familiar with the postmodern philosophy of Derrida and in postmodernism an author can speak directly to the story’s characters.
Thirteen
The cannibals reflect on my words and admit what I say is true. I ask them to please stand in front of their painting so I can take their picture, post it on the internet and make them famous. They agree, all smiles. I methodically pace back, whip out my phone, focus and click a whole bunch of times. I wave and they wave back. A few give me the thumbs up. I turn and head for the hills, fast.
Fourteen
Reflecting on the cannibals’ splendid painting, magnificent in execution and colossal in both color and form, I decide when back in Outer Europe I’ll seek out guidance from a few experts to dig deeper into art, into painting and into the truth. Those cannibals certainly knew their Derrida and now I walked in the glow of postmodern revelation: incumbent upon me to match their knowledge.
Fifteen
“First off, you must grasp how in the West, our use of such oppositions as reason versus emotion, man versus women, spirit versus nature, center versus edge are all destructive and hierarchal, false oppositions that have served to bolster a society keeping the power players in power.” So says Jean-Georges, scholar and philosopher specializing in Derrida’s The Truth in Painting. We’re drinking coffee at an outdoor café. I add more cream. I have a coffee on the bottom, cream on the top dichotomy. Since I do not want to drink a beverage that’s a symbol of a false opposition, I stir the cream into the coffee. “Now that’s a realized interrelationship,” Jean-Georges chimes, “One continuous creamy coffee. You’re catching on.”
Sixteen
I walk down the busy street, quite a beautiful city street, cafes, art galleries, small parks, quaint bookstores, I’m pleased to say, alternating walking in the middle of the sidewalk and the edge of the sidewalk, keeping in the spirit of giving equal weight to center and edge so as not enhance any of those false oppositions and thus feed the manipulation of destruction or hierarchy. Such moving back and forth can be exhausting. I reflect on a world of undifferentiated oneness, where there is no space between what I perceive as me and the external world, a world of complete, total, undifferentiated light and an intense feeling of total bliss. All of life as light, oneness and bliss. I’m jarred out of my reverie by the honking of a truck horn and move from the edge of the sidewalk back to the center.
Seventeen
The next block down, there are several men watching a martial arts demonstration in a dojo. It’s a pleasant evening and the dojo is open on the sidewalk side – a great view for anybody interested in martial arts. On the white mat in the dojo itself, a dozen pre-teen and teenage students sit in their grey martial arts uniforms on their knees in a row to the left; about ten adult men, also in grey uniform, sit on their knees in a row on the right – the master is giving a demonstration. His movements are graceful, cat-like. I don’t see it at first but now I do: he is holding what looks to me like a samurai sword with two flowing handkerchiefs attached to the hilt. In a whisper I ask the man on the end what’s this form of martial arts? In a low voice he answers: “Shaolin Kung Fu Plum-Blossom Saber.” The demonstration is impressive, obviously taking years of diligent practice. Then I have a shock of recognition. Can it be? Yes, there’s no question: the Shaolin Kung Fu Plum-Blossom Saber master is none other than the literary critic, James Wood.
Eighteen
“I must admit I never suspected James Wood was a Kung Fu master; I mean, I’ve read a couple of his books and seen him interviewed on YouTube and he never really struck me as the ninja or martial arts type.” I’m talking to Pablo, one of the men who was watching the demonstration. We are drinking coffee at a café. Pablo says, “I’ve never read any of his books but he really is a flawless master; I should know since I’ve been practicing Kendo and Tae Kwon Do for more than a dozen years. I can spot a mater in any of the martial arts in an instant. What’s your name?” I thought perhaps I would remain an unnamed narrator but since he asked, I tell Pablo my name is Thaddeus Oldfather and I’m a literary critic and art critic for the international magazine Vol Gratuit.
Nineteen
The new monthly issue of Vol Gratuit is out on the newsstands with my photos of the cannibals and their rock painting. Instant fame. The editors plan to post on the Vol Gratuit website once all the magazines (requiring a huge second printing) are gobbled up. Of course, since I also wrote an accompanying short one paragraph blurb recounting my chance encounter with the rock painting and cannibals, everybody in the media wants an interview. I tell them all to wait until next summer as an aura of mystery and mystique enhances art, something dearly needed in the visual arts here in our postmodern world. Meanwhile, I grow a beard, wear a safari hat, move apartments and go underground. I need time to learn more about Derrida and The Truth in Painting.
Twenty
The cannibals send a scout across the mountains to a town to scout out any media coverage for their rock painting. The scout has no trouble finding a copy of Vol Gratuit with a photo of their tribe standing in front of the rock painting on the cover. Also, the scout brings back a newspaper with headlines about the extraordinary work of art. Of course the scout didn’t have any trouble blending in with the townspeople since he was wearing a New York Yankees baseball cap and an Oakland Raiders jersey along with Converse classic white high top sneakers complements of a group of unfortunate tourists who lost their way in the mountains and were more than happy to hand over their baseball caps, sweatshirts, hiking boots and sneakers in return for not being cooked for dinner.
Twenty-One
The cannibals gobble up my article in Vol Gratuit; they can’t get enough of the fact that I stated emphatically and unequivocally I would not reveal the whereabouts of the tribe or the rock painting since the artists are entitled to privacy until that time if and when they themselves choose to make contact with the outside world and welcome visitors and art lovers. They also feast their eyes on the stunning photos of their rock painting, stunning, that is, since the Vol Gratuit visual department did wonders with my amateurish snaps. Such are the technologies of our postmodern world, the photos are works of art in their own right.
Twenty-Two
“Things can get confusing very quickly. As when Derrida begins by noting how someone standing outside the frame, that is, outside the context of painting, starts asking about the idiom of painting. Such out-of-the-frame questioning will create ambiguity, thus, a problem, since an ambiguous phrase gives rise to multiple interpretations.” Jean-Georges taps his finger on the café table. I take a sip of my creamy, well-stirred coffee.
Twenty-Three
The first thing I need to clarify for myself is the tern ‘idiom.’ Of course we have phrases like ‘kick the bucket’ which means something much different than literally kicking the bucket; in other words, someone would have to be familiar with the culture and context wherein such an idiom was used to understand the idiom. Similarly, in the world of art, a painter puts ‘the finishing touches’ on the painting before it is complete. One would have to know something about painting generally to understand what the finishing touches on a particular painting amounts to.
Twenty-Four
Following this logic, if someone unfamiliar with painting and art stands outside the frame and asks about the idiom of painting, they create ambiguity simply by their asking the question. And, of course, any answer they might be given will be unclear since they are outside rather than inside the world of painting. This would be like me asking an electrical engineer about the idiom of circuitry – whatever the engineer answers will sound to me like so much gobbledygook.
Twenty-Five
I convey my modest comprehension to Jean-Georges. He nods, takes a couple of sips from his coffee, black with sugar, and says, “Already Derrida has us puzzling over language and painting, painting and language, well beyond any simple, standard approach to speaking of these two topics. This bit of Derrida is well worth pondering.” After a long moment of shared silence he says, “Derrida turns to a second ambiguous statement, a statement where Cezanne wrote his friend that he owed him the truth in painting and will tell it to him. This type of statement or speech act is referred to as a performance utterance, a statement that does something, like a minister telling a couple he will pronounce them husband and wife on Saturday.”
Twenty-Six
“Derrida asks us to think about the frame. Let’s use the example of a painting and its frame. What does the frame do? What does the frame show?” I can’t quite put my finger on it, but Jean-George’s questions about the function of a frame strike me as a key to opening the door to The Truth in Painting.
Twenty-Seven
I’m at a bookstore. I see a notice for a Kung Fu demonstration to be held at the same dojo I watched James Wood give his demonstration. I mark the date and time. I’ve never done any martial arts myself but I don’t want to miss this event, James Wood or no James Wood. There was something pure, something harmonious and beautiful about that dojo, more than the master and disciples, as if inhabited by the spirit of past masters of the arts, not only the martial arts but all of the arts from the East.
Twenty-Eight
Summer has passed into fall and I’m still undercover. My blonde beard has grown quite full and my safari hat and I have become best friends. I have been reflecting on all the many points Jean-Georges has made on Derrida’s The Truth of Painting. I sense I have a much firmer grasp of the French philosopher’s aesthetic theory. I turn over each point in my mind until it is as fine and as sharp as a plumb blossom saber, the saber I’ve seen James Wood demonstrate on four separate occasions. I still can’t quite get over James’ mastery, a mastery every bit as stunning as his literary criticism.
Twenty-Nine
Is the truth in The Truth in Painting the thing itself, as in for example the cannibals’ rock painting where the brown shapes outlined by white and grey are all taken together? If so, then the truth of painting is disclosed without any coverings or veils or disguises - the truth is what you see before your very eyes.
Thirty
Is the truth in The Truth in Painting more on the level of representation? And that’s representation in two senses: firstly, the round shapes of the rock painting representing a deeper spiritual reality or dream world; and second, as in the enhanced Vol Gratuit photographs representing the rock painting in such a way as to reveal its deeper truth, for example, a clearer portrayal of what would be impossible to see in the original, particularly in the cannibals’ rock painting where the top parts would be difficult, if not impossible, to see from below.
Thirty-One
Is the truth in The Truth in Painting an active agent, opening an observer’s imagination to the many possibilities of the rock painting? In this sense, there are as many ‘truths’ contained in the rock painting as there are visual pictures in the imagination of onlookers.
Thirty-Two
Or is the truth in The Truth in Painting more about an open-ended discussion relating to the painting rather than simply the painting itself? So, for example, my listing possible interpretations of the truth contained in the rock painting, a more conceptual, philosophical overview is, in fact, the truth, a interpretation having a decidedly postmodern ring.
Thirty-Three
I sit at a café across the table from a gentleman who is supremely interested in my reflections and all I have learned about Derrida’s The Truth of Painting. I sip my creamy coffee; he sips his latte. We are both undercover, me with my beard and safari hat; him with his Yankees cap and Raiders sweatshirt.
Thirty-Four
Konia tells me he is particularly inclined to the truth of their rock painting in alternative one, as the forms and colors, and also alternative two, as a pointer to the dreamtime and spiritual realm. On the other hand, the truth of painting as those imaginary worlds envisioned by art lover as they look at the rock painting strikes him as a bit too new age touchy-feely. Same thing goes for the photographs of the painting, since the photos should be judged as photos and their rock painting as the work of art itself. Respecting the truth of painting as the compilation of philosophical concepts and reflections – he would have to ponder this type of intellectualizing and be back with me.
Thirty-Five
Konia says something interesting: how the rock painting required extraordinary dexterity and skill, a unique conquering of heights, how these very talents have been honed and developed by his tribe over generations. This adeptness and expertise should enter the equation for what is the truth in painting since, according to his logic, without the necessary skill and nimbleness and the overcoming of fear of heights, there would be no rock art.
My Micronovel continues in the first comment within the comment section below for chapters 36-49.
No question, there is a lot in this book, many ideas presented in complex, obscure language. But I persisted and read through to the end. On reflection, I thought it best to express my understanding of Derrida's main points in the form of the following micronovel. Special thanks to Goodreads friend Manny Rayner for helping me better understand the ideas in this Derrida book.
The Cannibals Read Jacques Derrida's The Truth in Painting -
A Postmodern Micronovel
One
A tribe of cannibals is reading Jacques Derrida's The Truth in Painting, the great French philosopher's prime work on art and aesthetics. The cannibals huddle around the fire, scrutinize the first lines and declare in unison how they will create paintings that are nothing but the truth.
Two
One cannibal says, “I am not only interested in painting; I am interested in the idiom in painting.” This launches an all-night heated discussion on the exact meaning of “idiom,” complete with quotation marks and quotation marks within quotation marks, all executed with adroit simultaneous rapid downward strokes of index and middle fingers of both hands. The result: there’s consensus among the cannibals: they will paint in the idiom of cannibal painting and they will always speak of their painting in the language of cannibals.
Three
Paul Cézanne said how he owed us the truth of painting and will tell it to us. The artist’s words served to underscore how he would gaze intensely at a subject, apply his brushstrokes and construct a picture rather than paint it. The cannibals muse over this section of Derrida’s book and wonder how they will likewise tell the viewer the truth of painting.
Four
What is the difference between an artist painting the truth and writing down in words how he owes it to the viewer to paint the truth? Reflecting on just this question, one cannibal proclaims, “Starting tomorrow, we will paint the truth rather than stating verbally or writing down in language how we will paint the truth.” Using sophisticated hand gestures and head nodding, the other cannibals express their agreement.
Five
It’s springtime. I sit on the hillside, overlooking a green mountain. I’m reminded of Cezanne. Is there any other painter who captured a mountain nearly as vividly, constructing his canvas with bold individual brushstrokes? I wonder if any other civilization or society could produce such an artist even if it were to last a thousand years.
Six
In the middle of my reflection in that particular place I was filled with incongruous, impracticable thoughts, such as fancying I have been seeing Cezanne’s mountain in my mind’s eye as if getting drunk on the artist’s vision and wondering how his pledge to tell the truth in painting accords with a classical theory of speech, that he really means what he says and says what he means and how his words impacted an appreciative audience in his own day, art lovers around the world in our day and how his words will resonate at future times and in other civilizations; my wondering turned to a humming and then a singing of nonsense sounds, pretending each sound could take on a color and the colors were various shades of green, first dark forest green then becoming progressively lighter until reaching the lightest of limes.
Seven
How would I translate my nonsense sounds into another language? Is this question tied up with the whole issue of what it means to render? I wonder. What if I stated in writing I only wanted to sing nonsense that was true nonsense, no matter what the language? Would I be able to accomplish my goal with greater ease than an artist like Cezanne who only wanted to paint the truth?
Eight
After six straight weeks of painting nonstop, the cannibals stand back and behold their giant mural painted on the rock face of a mountain. Most of the colors are rich browns – russet, bronze, seal brown, sepia, earth yellow, burnt amber, cocoa, tan – highlighted by lines and circles of white or grey. Remarkable. They all acknowledge they have accomplished, as far as they can discern, truth in painting.
Nine
Their rock painting is truly enormous, over four hundred feet wide by sixty feet high. Enormous, striking, refined and nuanced, bold and imaginative. The cannibals, returning to Derrida’s The Truth in Painting read how aesthetic judgement must properly bear upon intrinsic beauty, not on finery and surrounds. Hence, Derrida continues, one must know how to determine the intrinsic, that is, what is framed, and know what one is excluding as frame and outside-the-frame. Since their gigantic rock painting is framed in a bold white line running around the entire painted, they think they have a beautiful work of art, one where no viewer would have any question or difficulty discerning what is framed and what is outside-the-frame.
Ten
The next portion of Derrida’s work addresses the colossal in art. The cannibals smile, knowing they have anticipated what the great philosopher says about size and art. And since colossal is one of the defining qualities of their efforts, they put down the book, thinking they should really quit while they are ahead. Also, they are a bit confused when reference is made to another philosopher by the name of Kant. None of the cannibals have read Kant previously.
Eleven
I walk along the path until I am struck: before me is a gigantic abstract painting on a rock face, a type of painting I have never before set eyes upon. It takes me the better part of an hour but I approach this colossal work. I make a move to touch what I smell as fresh paint. Someone behind me shouts, “Please do not touch!” I turn around. I’m face to face with three dozen cannibals.
Twelve
The cannibals approach. They tell me they spent the last six straight weeks painting and, so sorry to break the bad news - they are extremely hungry. I stay calm and inform them they can’t eat me since I am the author of the story of their reading Derrida and their painting and how, if they eat me, they will likewise perish, something they should have no difficulty grasping since they are familiar with the postmodern philosophy of Derrida and in postmodernism an author can speak directly to the story’s characters.
Thirteen
The cannibals reflect on my words and admit what I say is true. I ask them to please stand in front of their painting so I can take their picture, post it on the internet and make them famous. They agree, all smiles. I methodically pace back, whip out my phone, focus and click a whole bunch of times. I wave and they wave back. A few give me the thumbs up. I turn and head for the hills, fast.
Fourteen
Reflecting on the cannibals’ splendid painting, magnificent in execution and colossal in both color and form, I decide when back in Outer Europe I’ll seek out guidance from a few experts to dig deeper into art, into painting and into the truth. Those cannibals certainly knew their Derrida and now I walked in the glow of postmodern revelation: incumbent upon me to match their knowledge.
Fifteen
“First off, you must grasp how in the West, our use of such oppositions as reason versus emotion, man versus women, spirit versus nature, center versus edge are all destructive and hierarchal, false oppositions that have served to bolster a society keeping the power players in power.” So says Jean-Georges, scholar and philosopher specializing in Derrida’s The Truth in Painting. We’re drinking coffee at an outdoor café. I add more cream. I have a coffee on the bottom, cream on the top dichotomy. Since I do not want to drink a beverage that’s a symbol of a false opposition, I stir the cream into the coffee. “Now that’s a realized interrelationship,” Jean-Georges chimes, “One continuous creamy coffee. You’re catching on.”
Sixteen
I walk down the busy street, quite a beautiful city street, cafes, art galleries, small parks, quaint bookstores, I’m pleased to say, alternating walking in the middle of the sidewalk and the edge of the sidewalk, keeping in the spirit of giving equal weight to center and edge so as not enhance any of those false oppositions and thus feed the manipulation of destruction or hierarchy. Such moving back and forth can be exhausting. I reflect on a world of undifferentiated oneness, where there is no space between what I perceive as me and the external world, a world of complete, total, undifferentiated light and an intense feeling of total bliss. All of life as light, oneness and bliss. I’m jarred out of my reverie by the honking of a truck horn and move from the edge of the sidewalk back to the center.
Seventeen
The next block down, there are several men watching a martial arts demonstration in a dojo. It’s a pleasant evening and the dojo is open on the sidewalk side – a great view for anybody interested in martial arts. On the white mat in the dojo itself, a dozen pre-teen and teenage students sit in their grey martial arts uniforms on their knees in a row to the left; about ten adult men, also in grey uniform, sit on their knees in a row on the right – the master is giving a demonstration. His movements are graceful, cat-like. I don’t see it at first but now I do: he is holding what looks to me like a samurai sword with two flowing handkerchiefs attached to the hilt. In a whisper I ask the man on the end what’s this form of martial arts? In a low voice he answers: “Shaolin Kung Fu Plum-Blossom Saber.” The demonstration is impressive, obviously taking years of diligent practice. Then I have a shock of recognition. Can it be? Yes, there’s no question: the Shaolin Kung Fu Plum-Blossom Saber master is none other than the literary critic, James Wood.
Eighteen
“I must admit I never suspected James Wood was a Kung Fu master; I mean, I’ve read a couple of his books and seen him interviewed on YouTube and he never really struck me as the ninja or martial arts type.” I’m talking to Pablo, one of the men who was watching the demonstration. We are drinking coffee at a café. Pablo says, “I’ve never read any of his books but he really is a flawless master; I should know since I’ve been practicing Kendo and Tae Kwon Do for more than a dozen years. I can spot a mater in any of the martial arts in an instant. What’s your name?” I thought perhaps I would remain an unnamed narrator but since he asked, I tell Pablo my name is Thaddeus Oldfather and I’m a literary critic and art critic for the international magazine Vol Gratuit.
Nineteen
The new monthly issue of Vol Gratuit is out on the newsstands with my photos of the cannibals and their rock painting. Instant fame. The editors plan to post on the Vol Gratuit website once all the magazines (requiring a huge second printing) are gobbled up. Of course, since I also wrote an accompanying short one paragraph blurb recounting my chance encounter with the rock painting and cannibals, everybody in the media wants an interview. I tell them all to wait until next summer as an aura of mystery and mystique enhances art, something dearly needed in the visual arts here in our postmodern world. Meanwhile, I grow a beard, wear a safari hat, move apartments and go underground. I need time to learn more about Derrida and The Truth in Painting.
Twenty
The cannibals send a scout across the mountains to a town to scout out any media coverage for their rock painting. The scout has no trouble finding a copy of Vol Gratuit with a photo of their tribe standing in front of the rock painting on the cover. Also, the scout brings back a newspaper with headlines about the extraordinary work of art. Of course the scout didn’t have any trouble blending in with the townspeople since he was wearing a New York Yankees baseball cap and an Oakland Raiders jersey along with Converse classic white high top sneakers complements of a group of unfortunate tourists who lost their way in the mountains and were more than happy to hand over their baseball caps, sweatshirts, hiking boots and sneakers in return for not being cooked for dinner.
Twenty-One
The cannibals gobble up my article in Vol Gratuit; they can’t get enough of the fact that I stated emphatically and unequivocally I would not reveal the whereabouts of the tribe or the rock painting since the artists are entitled to privacy until that time if and when they themselves choose to make contact with the outside world and welcome visitors and art lovers. They also feast their eyes on the stunning photos of their rock painting, stunning, that is, since the Vol Gratuit visual department did wonders with my amateurish snaps. Such are the technologies of our postmodern world, the photos are works of art in their own right.
Twenty-Two
“Things can get confusing very quickly. As when Derrida begins by noting how someone standing outside the frame, that is, outside the context of painting, starts asking about the idiom of painting. Such out-of-the-frame questioning will create ambiguity, thus, a problem, since an ambiguous phrase gives rise to multiple interpretations.” Jean-Georges taps his finger on the café table. I take a sip of my creamy, well-stirred coffee.
Twenty-Three
The first thing I need to clarify for myself is the tern ‘idiom.’ Of course we have phrases like ‘kick the bucket’ which means something much different than literally kicking the bucket; in other words, someone would have to be familiar with the culture and context wherein such an idiom was used to understand the idiom. Similarly, in the world of art, a painter puts ‘the finishing touches’ on the painting before it is complete. One would have to know something about painting generally to understand what the finishing touches on a particular painting amounts to.
Twenty-Four
Following this logic, if someone unfamiliar with painting and art stands outside the frame and asks about the idiom of painting, they create ambiguity simply by their asking the question. And, of course, any answer they might be given will be unclear since they are outside rather than inside the world of painting. This would be like me asking an electrical engineer about the idiom of circuitry – whatever the engineer answers will sound to me like so much gobbledygook.
Twenty-Five
I convey my modest comprehension to Jean-Georges. He nods, takes a couple of sips from his coffee, black with sugar, and says, “Already Derrida has us puzzling over language and painting, painting and language, well beyond any simple, standard approach to speaking of these two topics. This bit of Derrida is well worth pondering.” After a long moment of shared silence he says, “Derrida turns to a second ambiguous statement, a statement where Cezanne wrote his friend that he owed him the truth in painting and will tell it to him. This type of statement or speech act is referred to as a performance utterance, a statement that does something, like a minister telling a couple he will pronounce them husband and wife on Saturday.”
Twenty-Six
“Derrida asks us to think about the frame. Let’s use the example of a painting and its frame. What does the frame do? What does the frame show?” I can’t quite put my finger on it, but Jean-George’s questions about the function of a frame strike me as a key to opening the door to The Truth in Painting.
Twenty-Seven
I’m at a bookstore. I see a notice for a Kung Fu demonstration to be held at the same dojo I watched James Wood give his demonstration. I mark the date and time. I’ve never done any martial arts myself but I don’t want to miss this event, James Wood or no James Wood. There was something pure, something harmonious and beautiful about that dojo, more than the master and disciples, as if inhabited by the spirit of past masters of the arts, not only the martial arts but all of the arts from the East.
Twenty-Eight
Summer has passed into fall and I’m still undercover. My blonde beard has grown quite full and my safari hat and I have become best friends. I have been reflecting on all the many points Jean-Georges has made on Derrida’s The Truth of Painting. I sense I have a much firmer grasp of the French philosopher’s aesthetic theory. I turn over each point in my mind until it is as fine and as sharp as a plumb blossom saber, the saber I’ve seen James Wood demonstrate on four separate occasions. I still can’t quite get over James’ mastery, a mastery every bit as stunning as his literary criticism.
Twenty-Nine
Is the truth in The Truth in Painting the thing itself, as in for example the cannibals’ rock painting where the brown shapes outlined by white and grey are all taken together? If so, then the truth of painting is disclosed without any coverings or veils or disguises - the truth is what you see before your very eyes.
Thirty
Is the truth in The Truth in Painting more on the level of representation? And that’s representation in two senses: firstly, the round shapes of the rock painting representing a deeper spiritual reality or dream world; and second, as in the enhanced Vol Gratuit photographs representing the rock painting in such a way as to reveal its deeper truth, for example, a clearer portrayal of what would be impossible to see in the original, particularly in the cannibals’ rock painting where the top parts would be difficult, if not impossible, to see from below.
Thirty-One
Is the truth in The Truth in Painting an active agent, opening an observer’s imagination to the many possibilities of the rock painting? In this sense, there are as many ‘truths’ contained in the rock painting as there are visual pictures in the imagination of onlookers.
Thirty-Two
Or is the truth in The Truth in Painting more about an open-ended discussion relating to the painting rather than simply the painting itself? So, for example, my listing possible interpretations of the truth contained in the rock painting, a more conceptual, philosophical overview is, in fact, the truth, a interpretation having a decidedly postmodern ring.
Thirty-Three
I sit at a café across the table from a gentleman who is supremely interested in my reflections and all I have learned about Derrida’s The Truth of Painting. I sip my creamy coffee; he sips his latte. We are both undercover, me with my beard and safari hat; him with his Yankees cap and Raiders sweatshirt.
Thirty-Four
Konia tells me he is particularly inclined to the truth of their rock painting in alternative one, as the forms and colors, and also alternative two, as a pointer to the dreamtime and spiritual realm. On the other hand, the truth of painting as those imaginary worlds envisioned by art lover as they look at the rock painting strikes him as a bit too new age touchy-feely. Same thing goes for the photographs of the painting, since the photos should be judged as photos and their rock painting as the work of art itself. Respecting the truth of painting as the compilation of philosophical concepts and reflections – he would have to ponder this type of intellectualizing and be back with me.
Thirty-Five
Konia says something interesting: how the rock painting required extraordinary dexterity and skill, a unique conquering of heights, how these very talents have been honed and developed by his tribe over generations. This adeptness and expertise should enter the equation for what is the truth in painting since, according to his logic, without the necessary skill and nimbleness and the overcoming of fear of heights, there would be no rock art.
My Micronovel continues in the first comment within the comment section below for chapters 36-49.
Those Who Return by Maurice Level
Maurice Level (1875-1926) - French novelist and short story writer connected with the theater of the Grand Guignol
Those Who Return by Maurice Level (1875 - 1926) is a psychological thriller, a gripping page-turner, a tale of hysteria, madness, revenge and bizarre deaths in the contes cruel tradition of nineteenth century French literature. This short novel is told in crisp, sparse language yet contains elements of romanticism (the feelings and sensitivity of a passionate, poetic main character), decadence (the decay, the unclean, the unnatural), the tension between reason and science on the one hand and magic and ghosts on the other, and is a curious cross between, if you can believe it, James M. Cain hard boiled and Edgar Allan Poe macabre.
I wouldn’t want to say too much about the specifics of the plot since there are many unexpected twists and turns, especially toward the end. To provide a sampling of the writing style and literary themes, below are several quotes from the first two chapters coupled with my brief comments.
In the course of conversation with a doctor, the twenty-seven year old main character, Claude de Marbois, conveys the following brooding observations on his own character, “I am neither a roué nor a degenerate; yet there are days when certain visions rise so definitely before me and I am prey to such violent desires, that if, hitherto, I have been able to resist their attraction, it is impossible for me to say whether, an hour hence, I shall be able to do so. At other times, I feel strangely weary, as though I had just accomplished some gigantic task.” Claude is a true romantic: volatile, moody, imaginative, emotional, intense. And the visions Claude alludes to here build as the story unfolds, build like furious waves in a stormy sea; it is as if one can hear Hector Berlioz’s Symphonie Fantastique in the background.
After a turbulent, gut-wrenching confrontation with his father, Claude retires to his room and, pen in hand, reflects on committing suicide, “He would first write down the tortures of his childhood, the sorrows of his manhood, so that people would know why he had preferred death to a life without love or pity. The thought that the blame would fall on his father, that the scandal would cause that hard proud being to tremble, filed him with joy:” What stronger emotion and feelings are there than a child’s emotionally-charged relationship with his or her father and mother, particularly if the mothers death is shroud in mystery? Maurice Level’s tale contains a number of elements one would find in Sophocles’ Oedipus Rex.
The following morning, Claude has yet again another confrontation with his father. We read, “You are trying to force me into a nursing home, in other words, into a madhouse! Oh do not let the word upset you, when the intention leaves you calm. Well, however much you may wish it, I am not mad, and have no desire to become so.“ Ah, what is romantic nineteenth century fiction without the ever-present threat of the label of madman? Many are the tales and novels following Poe’s The Black Cat that begin with a disclaimer from the narrator that he is not mad. The novel fleshes out the power struggle when people attempt to exercise control over others by labeling them as mad and packing them off to a padded cell in the madhouse.
Revenge is certainly one of the most intriguing themes of the novel. How deep is the revenge Claude seeks? What is he willing to sacrifice to extract not only some revenge, but, in his own mind, a revenge that is nothing less than total? With this short novel, in the spirit of Faust or Heathcliff, we witness a true romantic in action.
5.0
Maurice Level (1875-1926) - French novelist and short story writer connected with the theater of the Grand Guignol
Those Who Return by Maurice Level (1875 - 1926) is a psychological thriller, a gripping page-turner, a tale of hysteria, madness, revenge and bizarre deaths in the contes cruel tradition of nineteenth century French literature. This short novel is told in crisp, sparse language yet contains elements of romanticism (the feelings and sensitivity of a passionate, poetic main character), decadence (the decay, the unclean, the unnatural), the tension between reason and science on the one hand and magic and ghosts on the other, and is a curious cross between, if you can believe it, James M. Cain hard boiled and Edgar Allan Poe macabre.
I wouldn’t want to say too much about the specifics of the plot since there are many unexpected twists and turns, especially toward the end. To provide a sampling of the writing style and literary themes, below are several quotes from the first two chapters coupled with my brief comments.
In the course of conversation with a doctor, the twenty-seven year old main character, Claude de Marbois, conveys the following brooding observations on his own character, “I am neither a roué nor a degenerate; yet there are days when certain visions rise so definitely before me and I am prey to such violent desires, that if, hitherto, I have been able to resist their attraction, it is impossible for me to say whether, an hour hence, I shall be able to do so. At other times, I feel strangely weary, as though I had just accomplished some gigantic task.” Claude is a true romantic: volatile, moody, imaginative, emotional, intense. And the visions Claude alludes to here build as the story unfolds, build like furious waves in a stormy sea; it is as if one can hear Hector Berlioz’s Symphonie Fantastique in the background.
After a turbulent, gut-wrenching confrontation with his father, Claude retires to his room and, pen in hand, reflects on committing suicide, “He would first write down the tortures of his childhood, the sorrows of his manhood, so that people would know why he had preferred death to a life without love or pity. The thought that the blame would fall on his father, that the scandal would cause that hard proud being to tremble, filed him with joy:” What stronger emotion and feelings are there than a child’s emotionally-charged relationship with his or her father and mother, particularly if the mothers death is shroud in mystery? Maurice Level’s tale contains a number of elements one would find in Sophocles’ Oedipus Rex.
The following morning, Claude has yet again another confrontation with his father. We read, “You are trying to force me into a nursing home, in other words, into a madhouse! Oh do not let the word upset you, when the intention leaves you calm. Well, however much you may wish it, I am not mad, and have no desire to become so.“ Ah, what is romantic nineteenth century fiction without the ever-present threat of the label of madman? Many are the tales and novels following Poe’s The Black Cat that begin with a disclaimer from the narrator that he is not mad. The novel fleshes out the power struggle when people attempt to exercise control over others by labeling them as mad and packing them off to a padded cell in the madhouse.
Revenge is certainly one of the most intriguing themes of the novel. How deep is the revenge Claude seeks? What is he willing to sacrifice to extract not only some revenge, but, in his own mind, a revenge that is nothing less than total? With this short novel, in the spirit of Faust or Heathcliff, we witness a true romantic in action.
Human, All Too Human by Friedrich Nietzsche
There are many generalizations and sweeping judgments made about Nietzsche and his philosophy. I find such remarks next to useless. For me, there is only one way to approach Nietzsche – read each paragraph and maxim and aphorism slowly and carefully and arrive at my own conclusions after seeing how his words apply to my own life. As by way of example, below are several of his shorter aphorisms from this book coupled with my comments.
“FROM CANNIBAL COUNTRY – In solitude the lonely man is eaten up by himself, among crowds by the many. Choose which you prefer.” ---------------- I’ve spent many hours in solitude, sometimes days or even weeks at a time. For me, solitude is pure gold: to live within, to mediate, to relax into the core of one’s body and inner light is most refreshing, a sheer joy, anything but an experience of being lonely. Matter of fact, any feelings of loneliness quickly poisons one’s solitude. If you feel lonely, perhaps it’s time to slow down and take a serious account of your life.
“AGAINST THE DISPARAGERS OF BREVITY – A brief dictum may be the fruit and harvest of long reflection. The reader, however, who is a novice in this field and has never considered the case in point, sees something embryonic in all brief dicta, not without a reproachful hint to the author, requesting him not to serve up such raw and ill-prepared food.” ---------------- I enjoy 800 page novels but I also enjoy reading aphorisms. The shorter, the better. Sometimes, one, two or three sentences is all that’s needed to spark probing reflection and sincere consideration.
“DEBAUCHERY – Not joy but joylessness is the mother of debauchery.” --------------- I recall college drinking parties with lots and lots of beer and hard liquor, where everyone drank themselves into numbness and a drunken stupor. Those memories are like a distant bad dream. Fortunately, it only took a party or two for me to realize that wasn’t my scene. I started practicing yoga and meditation and have had the good fortune to experience great joy for many years as a direct result of this practice.
“KNOWING HOW TO WASH ONESELF CLEAN – We must know how to emerge cleaner from unclean conditions, and, if necessary, how to wash ourselves even with dirty water.” ---------------When I encounter ugliness, whether in people or in my surroundings, I try to use such ugliness as a sting, a reminder to cherish experiences of kindness and beauty.
“THE FARCE OF MANY INDUSTRIOUS PERSONS - By an excess of effort they win leisure for themselves, and then they can do nothing with it but count the hours until the tale is ended.” -------------------- I recall Joseph Campbell relating how many workaholics and professionals spend many years climbing the ladder but when they get to the top they realize they are leaning against the wrong wall. From my own experience, I’ve had a couple professional careers but I’ve always enjoyed weekends more than weekdays. I think Nietzsche hits the bulls-eye here: If you are at a loss when you spend time away from your work-a-day world, ask yourself if you are really living life from your own creative and spiritual depth.
“SIGNS FROM DREAMS - What one sometimes does not know and feel accurately in waking hours whether one has a good or a bad conscience as regards some person is revealed completely and unambiguously by dreams.” --------------------- I just finished ‘The Kindly Ones’ by Jonathan Littell where the main character recalls his life as a Nazi SS officer when he had a series of vivid, horrific, hellish dreams. However, he refused to listen carefully to what he dreams were telling him; if he did, he probably wouldn’t have continued to engage in twisted, perverted practices and a number of senseless murders. For myself, for years I’ve kept a dream journal and practiced lucid dreaming. Most fruitful for self-discovery.
Since this is a review of one of Nietzsche’s books, Nietzsche gets the last word. And since we are all readers of books here, I thought this maxim most appropriate:
“A GOOD BOOK NEEDS TIME – Every good book tastes bitter when it first comes out, for it has the defect of newness. Moreover, it suffers damage from its living author, if he is well known and much talked about. For all the world is accustomed to confuse the author with his work. Whatever of profundity, sweetness, and brilliance the work may contain must be developed as the years go by, under the case of growing, then old, and lastly traditional reverence. Many hours must pass, many a spider must have woven its web about the book. A book is made better by good readers and clearer by good opponents.”
5.0
There are many generalizations and sweeping judgments made about Nietzsche and his philosophy. I find such remarks next to useless. For me, there is only one way to approach Nietzsche – read each paragraph and maxim and aphorism slowly and carefully and arrive at my own conclusions after seeing how his words apply to my own life. As by way of example, below are several of his shorter aphorisms from this book coupled with my comments.
“FROM CANNIBAL COUNTRY – In solitude the lonely man is eaten up by himself, among crowds by the many. Choose which you prefer.” ---------------- I’ve spent many hours in solitude, sometimes days or even weeks at a time. For me, solitude is pure gold: to live within, to mediate, to relax into the core of one’s body and inner light is most refreshing, a sheer joy, anything but an experience of being lonely. Matter of fact, any feelings of loneliness quickly poisons one’s solitude. If you feel lonely, perhaps it’s time to slow down and take a serious account of your life.
“AGAINST THE DISPARAGERS OF BREVITY – A brief dictum may be the fruit and harvest of long reflection. The reader, however, who is a novice in this field and has never considered the case in point, sees something embryonic in all brief dicta, not without a reproachful hint to the author, requesting him not to serve up such raw and ill-prepared food.” ---------------- I enjoy 800 page novels but I also enjoy reading aphorisms. The shorter, the better. Sometimes, one, two or three sentences is all that’s needed to spark probing reflection and sincere consideration.
“DEBAUCHERY – Not joy but joylessness is the mother of debauchery.” --------------- I recall college drinking parties with lots and lots of beer and hard liquor, where everyone drank themselves into numbness and a drunken stupor. Those memories are like a distant bad dream. Fortunately, it only took a party or two for me to realize that wasn’t my scene. I started practicing yoga and meditation and have had the good fortune to experience great joy for many years as a direct result of this practice.
“KNOWING HOW TO WASH ONESELF CLEAN – We must know how to emerge cleaner from unclean conditions, and, if necessary, how to wash ourselves even with dirty water.” ---------------When I encounter ugliness, whether in people or in my surroundings, I try to use such ugliness as a sting, a reminder to cherish experiences of kindness and beauty.
“THE FARCE OF MANY INDUSTRIOUS PERSONS - By an excess of effort they win leisure for themselves, and then they can do nothing with it but count the hours until the tale is ended.” -------------------- I recall Joseph Campbell relating how many workaholics and professionals spend many years climbing the ladder but when they get to the top they realize they are leaning against the wrong wall. From my own experience, I’ve had a couple professional careers but I’ve always enjoyed weekends more than weekdays. I think Nietzsche hits the bulls-eye here: If you are at a loss when you spend time away from your work-a-day world, ask yourself if you are really living life from your own creative and spiritual depth.
“SIGNS FROM DREAMS - What one sometimes does not know and feel accurately in waking hours whether one has a good or a bad conscience as regards some person is revealed completely and unambiguously by dreams.” --------------------- I just finished ‘The Kindly Ones’ by Jonathan Littell where the main character recalls his life as a Nazi SS officer when he had a series of vivid, horrific, hellish dreams. However, he refused to listen carefully to what he dreams were telling him; if he did, he probably wouldn’t have continued to engage in twisted, perverted practices and a number of senseless murders. For myself, for years I’ve kept a dream journal and practiced lucid dreaming. Most fruitful for self-discovery.
Since this is a review of one of Nietzsche’s books, Nietzsche gets the last word. And since we are all readers of books here, I thought this maxim most appropriate:
“A GOOD BOOK NEEDS TIME – Every good book tastes bitter when it first comes out, for it has the defect of newness. Moreover, it suffers damage from its living author, if he is well known and much talked about. For all the world is accustomed to confuse the author with his work. Whatever of profundity, sweetness, and brilliance the work may contain must be developed as the years go by, under the case of growing, then old, and lastly traditional reverence. Many hours must pass, many a spider must have woven its web about the book. A book is made better by good readers and clearer by good opponents.”
Hard Rain Falling by Don Carpenter
Don Carpenter (1931–1995) - American author who grew up in Berkeley, California and lived most of his life in the Pacific Northwest. Hard Rain Falliing was his first novel, published in 1966.
Hard Rain Falling - A clear, honest story of Jack Levitt, a young man abused and brutalized in his years growing up in an orphanage and, after running away to Portland, Oregon at age sixteen, living his hardscrabble life among his buddies and cheap whores, in and out of sleazy pool halls, dilapidated boarding houses and hotels, reform school and prison, lots of prison, all the while drinking whiskey and fist fighting his way through seething anger and rage.
Author Don Carpenter’s prose is so sharp and vibrant, I had the feeling of standing next to Jack every step of the way. I also got to know, up close and personal, a few other men and women in Jack’s life, like Billy, a teenage pool shark with yellow skin and kinky reddish-brown hair, young tough Denny who loves any kind of dangerous, illegal action and, last but hardly least, wild woman Sally. This is such a powerful novel, other than my own brief comments, I’ll stand aside and let the author’s words speak for themselves.
Although he had clear blue eyes and curly blonde hair, even at age seven Jack looked like a seasoned boxer. Here’s Jack on his experience at the orphanage – and no wonder he ran away as soon as he could:
“Because the children of the orphanage were taught, all week long every week of their lives, that the difference between good and evil, right and wrong, was purely a question of feeling: if it felt good, it was bad, if it felt bad, it was good. . . . And work, they were taught that work was good, especially hard work, and the harder the work the better it was, their bodies screaming to them that this was a lie, it was all a terrible, God-originated, filthy lie, a monstrous attempt to keep them from screaming out their rage and anguish and murdering the authorities.”
One night a reform school guard lines the boys up and accuses them of unnatural sex practices, then grabs one of the frightened kids around the neck. Jack lashes out at this injustice, fists first, nearly killing the guard, an action that lands him in a dark, isolated cell for over four months. And that’s dark as in completely black; no light for 126 days:
“The punishment cell was about seven feet long, four feet wide, and six feet high. The floor and walls were concrete, and there were no windows. In the iron door near the bottom was a slot through which he passed his slop can, and through which his food and water were delivered to him. They did not feed him every day, and because of that he had no way of knowing how much time had passed. . . . At times, all his senses deserted him, and he could not feel the coldness of the concrete or smell his excrement, and the small sounds he made and the sounds that filtered in through the door gradually dimmed, and he was left along inside his mind, without a past to envision, since his inner vision was gone, too, and without a future to dream, because there was nothing but this emptiness and himself.”
When Jack is in his early 20s, after stealing a car and breaking into a house of rich people away on vacation and being caught drunk in bed, he is sent to a county jail:
“The boredom of it all, the sameness, the constant noise and smell of the tank, were driving him crazy. The fact that he was in was driving him crazy. . . . They had no right to do this to me, or to anybody else. He hated them all. But was crazy to hate them. So he decided he was going crazy. It was a relief for him to go berserk at last: it was an act of pure rationality that had nothing to do with McHenry or the poor fool Mac was taking over the bumps. It was an expression of sanity, a howl of rage at a world that put men in county jails. Everything finally got to be too much and he let go of his passion.”
Jack in San Quentin prison, on his bunk, looking up at the stark white ceiling, reflecting on our constant itch for sexual pleasure and the reason he was born in the first place:
“It struck him with horrible force. His parents, whoever they were, had probably made love out of just such an itch. For fun, for this momentary satisfaction, they had conceived him, and because he was obviously inconvenient, dumped him in the orphanage, because he, the life they had created while they were being careless and thoughtless, was not part of the fun of it all; he was just a harmful side effect of the scratching of the itch; he was the snot in the handkerchief after the nose had been blown, just something disgusting to be gotten rid of in secret and forgotten. Cold rage filled him, rage at his unknown parents, rage at the life he had been given, and for such trivial, stupid reasons!"
There's a lot of scenes where Jack Levitt talks, drinks, smokes and takes action with Billy, Denny, Sally and others, even reaching a point in his life where he reads Joyce and Faulkner, but day and night, and that's ever day and every night, Jack has to deal with his rage. Again, as honest and as clear a novel as you will ever read.
Special thanks to Goodreads friend Jeffrey Keeten for writing his penetrating review of this American classic thus prompting me to read Hard Rain Falling and write my own review.
5.0
Don Carpenter (1931–1995) - American author who grew up in Berkeley, California and lived most of his life in the Pacific Northwest. Hard Rain Falliing was his first novel, published in 1966.
Hard Rain Falling - A clear, honest story of Jack Levitt, a young man abused and brutalized in his years growing up in an orphanage and, after running away to Portland, Oregon at age sixteen, living his hardscrabble life among his buddies and cheap whores, in and out of sleazy pool halls, dilapidated boarding houses and hotels, reform school and prison, lots of prison, all the while drinking whiskey and fist fighting his way through seething anger and rage.
Author Don Carpenter’s prose is so sharp and vibrant, I had the feeling of standing next to Jack every step of the way. I also got to know, up close and personal, a few other men and women in Jack’s life, like Billy, a teenage pool shark with yellow skin and kinky reddish-brown hair, young tough Denny who loves any kind of dangerous, illegal action and, last but hardly least, wild woman Sally. This is such a powerful novel, other than my own brief comments, I’ll stand aside and let the author’s words speak for themselves.
Although he had clear blue eyes and curly blonde hair, even at age seven Jack looked like a seasoned boxer. Here’s Jack on his experience at the orphanage – and no wonder he ran away as soon as he could:
“Because the children of the orphanage were taught, all week long every week of their lives, that the difference between good and evil, right and wrong, was purely a question of feeling: if it felt good, it was bad, if it felt bad, it was good. . . . And work, they were taught that work was good, especially hard work, and the harder the work the better it was, their bodies screaming to them that this was a lie, it was all a terrible, God-originated, filthy lie, a monstrous attempt to keep them from screaming out their rage and anguish and murdering the authorities.”
One night a reform school guard lines the boys up and accuses them of unnatural sex practices, then grabs one of the frightened kids around the neck. Jack lashes out at this injustice, fists first, nearly killing the guard, an action that lands him in a dark, isolated cell for over four months. And that’s dark as in completely black; no light for 126 days:
“The punishment cell was about seven feet long, four feet wide, and six feet high. The floor and walls were concrete, and there were no windows. In the iron door near the bottom was a slot through which he passed his slop can, and through which his food and water were delivered to him. They did not feed him every day, and because of that he had no way of knowing how much time had passed. . . . At times, all his senses deserted him, and he could not feel the coldness of the concrete or smell his excrement, and the small sounds he made and the sounds that filtered in through the door gradually dimmed, and he was left along inside his mind, without a past to envision, since his inner vision was gone, too, and without a future to dream, because there was nothing but this emptiness and himself.”
When Jack is in his early 20s, after stealing a car and breaking into a house of rich people away on vacation and being caught drunk in bed, he is sent to a county jail:
“The boredom of it all, the sameness, the constant noise and smell of the tank, were driving him crazy. The fact that he was in was driving him crazy. . . . They had no right to do this to me, or to anybody else. He hated them all. But was crazy to hate them. So he decided he was going crazy. It was a relief for him to go berserk at last: it was an act of pure rationality that had nothing to do with McHenry or the poor fool Mac was taking over the bumps. It was an expression of sanity, a howl of rage at a world that put men in county jails. Everything finally got to be too much and he let go of his passion.”
Jack in San Quentin prison, on his bunk, looking up at the stark white ceiling, reflecting on our constant itch for sexual pleasure and the reason he was born in the first place:
“It struck him with horrible force. His parents, whoever they were, had probably made love out of just such an itch. For fun, for this momentary satisfaction, they had conceived him, and because he was obviously inconvenient, dumped him in the orphanage, because he, the life they had created while they were being careless and thoughtless, was not part of the fun of it all; he was just a harmful side effect of the scratching of the itch; he was the snot in the handkerchief after the nose had been blown, just something disgusting to be gotten rid of in secret and forgotten. Cold rage filled him, rage at his unknown parents, rage at the life he had been given, and for such trivial, stupid reasons!"
There's a lot of scenes where Jack Levitt talks, drinks, smokes and takes action with Billy, Denny, Sally and others, even reaching a point in his life where he reads Joyce and Faulkner, but day and night, and that's ever day and every night, Jack has to deal with his rage. Again, as honest and as clear a novel as you will ever read.
Special thanks to Goodreads friend Jeffrey Keeten for writing his penetrating review of this American classic thus prompting me to read Hard Rain Falling and write my own review.
French Decadent Tales by
This book is a collection thirty-six French decadent tales written by fourteen different authors where most of the authors, with the exception of Guy de Maupassant, will probably be unfamiliar to many readers. But don't be put off by your unfamiliarity. Why? Because poet/scholar Stephen Romer has written a clear, insightful twenty-seven page introduction providing the historical/cultural/literary context as well as a detailed bibliography, a chronology of the major events and literary publications of the French Fin de siècle, and, lastly, extensive explanatory notes on each of the tales. Thank you Stephen Romer and Oxford Press! I couldn't imagine a more informative and more enjoyable book to read for anyone interested in the literature of this period.
So what can we expect to find in a turn-of-the-century French decadent tale? In a nutshell, a tale usually set in Paris, told with an acid bite, focusing on the morbid, macabre, perverse, unclean, unnatural side of life, all told without a hint or suggestion of moral instruction. One way to look at these stories is how the decadent authors, outlined by Stephen Romer in his introduction, follow Baudelaire when "he broke apart the perennial parings: virtue--reward, vice--punishment, God--goodness, crime--remorse, effort--reward, future--progress , artifice--ugliness, nature--beauty." Think about it: these pairing are the very glue holding conventional society together. And that is exactly the point: the decadents wanted to turn conventional society upside down and shake vigorously.
And why, you may ask, would the decadent writers want to engage in such turning and shaking? Because these authors saw themselves as outsiders set apart from the uncultured, unrefined mass of bourgeois (what we call nowadays "middle-class" or "middle-brow" society), as individuals capable of intense, refined aesthetic pleasure and literary cultivation. Stephen Romer points out how an aristocrat/aesthete from a Huysmans novel served as a model for the decadent writers when he travels to a nearby town and recoils in horror when he comes across a group of pot-bellied bourgeois with sideburns. Keep in mind these decadent writers greatly admired pessimistic German philosopher Arthur Schopenhauer, a thinker who highly valued aesthetic experience and urged people to rise above the murky turmoil of everyday life to reach a kind of release. Schopenhauer even went so far as to say how one's character is stamped on one's face, and subsequently finds it remarkable how most people can walk the streets without a bag over their heads. Oh, my goodness - cynicism and disdain, anyone?
With all this in mind, here is a sampling of three tales and how they each break apart a perennial parings:
THE DESIRE TO BE A MAN by Villiers de I'Isle-Adam (crime--remorse)
Walking down a Paris street alone at night, the main character, an old actor, realizes his acting days are over. He will no longer be able to play the role of other men and will be forced by age to live his own life as a man. But what is a man? He reflects that to be a man one needs strong feelings. But, aghast, he recognizes right there on the Paris street he has no such feelings! He surmises he will have to commit a heinous crime to feel the powerful sensations of remorse and be haunted by the ghosts of the souls he murdered. So, resolving on-the-spot action is required, that night he sets a residential section of the city on fire, resulting in the death of many men, women and children and creating great tragedy for multiple families. The old actor see the aftermath of the fire as he rides by in his coach and retires to a remote lighthouse to experience his remorse and be haunted by ghosts. But, alas, to his amazement and disappointment, no ghosts, no remorse, not even the slightest feeling of regret.
CONSTANT GUIGNARD by Jean Richepin (virtue--reward)
After experiencing repeated bouts of bad luck as a boy, the author tells us, "Such inauspicious beginnings in life would have turned a lesser nature vicious. But Constant Guignard had a soul of the higher type, and convinced that happiness is the reward of virtue, he resolved to conquer his ill-fortune by sheer force of heroism." Although this young man holds the values and world-view most dear to conventional society, alas, his tale is told by a decadent. The more decent and honorable and charitable he becomes, the more fate drags him down until he faces his last dark days. Can his equally decent, honorable, charitable friend save Constant Guignard's reputation and let the world know what a fine man Constant Guignard truly was by having his tombstone inscribed with an honorable epitaph? Well . . . let me just say Jean Richepin is a decadent with a lively sense of humor.
DANAETTE by Remy de Gourmont (God--goodness)
Is Danaette thinking holy thoughts as she is surrounded by angels taking the form of snowflakes? Not quite - for she is a complete sensualist and seasoned adulteress. When on one evening Danaette falls into a semi-trance, we read, "Deliciously icy, the snow kisses passed through her clothes, and in spite of all her defenses they found her skin and gathered in declivities: it was wonderfully gentle, and procured her a voluptuous pleasure she had most certainly never felt before." Remy de Gourmont combines the language and imagery of sensuality and perversion with images of religious holiness. Quite a combination! Ah, the decadents.
These tales of the French decadent writers not only turn the values of conventional society upside down but also give their tales a bit more spice with a twist at the end. After all, these writers are French. If you are a fan of short-stories, you will not find a collection more entertaining and engaging - each story is a delicious treat. This is fine literature told in a highly polished language.
5.0
This book is a collection thirty-six French decadent tales written by fourteen different authors where most of the authors, with the exception of Guy de Maupassant, will probably be unfamiliar to many readers. But don't be put off by your unfamiliarity. Why? Because poet/scholar Stephen Romer has written a clear, insightful twenty-seven page introduction providing the historical/cultural/literary context as well as a detailed bibliography, a chronology of the major events and literary publications of the French Fin de siècle, and, lastly, extensive explanatory notes on each of the tales. Thank you Stephen Romer and Oxford Press! I couldn't imagine a more informative and more enjoyable book to read for anyone interested in the literature of this period.
So what can we expect to find in a turn-of-the-century French decadent tale? In a nutshell, a tale usually set in Paris, told with an acid bite, focusing on the morbid, macabre, perverse, unclean, unnatural side of life, all told without a hint or suggestion of moral instruction. One way to look at these stories is how the decadent authors, outlined by Stephen Romer in his introduction, follow Baudelaire when "he broke apart the perennial parings: virtue--reward, vice--punishment, God--goodness, crime--remorse, effort--reward, future--progress , artifice--ugliness, nature--beauty." Think about it: these pairing are the very glue holding conventional society together. And that is exactly the point: the decadents wanted to turn conventional society upside down and shake vigorously.
And why, you may ask, would the decadent writers want to engage in such turning and shaking? Because these authors saw themselves as outsiders set apart from the uncultured, unrefined mass of bourgeois (what we call nowadays "middle-class" or "middle-brow" society), as individuals capable of intense, refined aesthetic pleasure and literary cultivation. Stephen Romer points out how an aristocrat/aesthete from a Huysmans novel served as a model for the decadent writers when he travels to a nearby town and recoils in horror when he comes across a group of pot-bellied bourgeois with sideburns. Keep in mind these decadent writers greatly admired pessimistic German philosopher Arthur Schopenhauer, a thinker who highly valued aesthetic experience and urged people to rise above the murky turmoil of everyday life to reach a kind of release. Schopenhauer even went so far as to say how one's character is stamped on one's face, and subsequently finds it remarkable how most people can walk the streets without a bag over their heads. Oh, my goodness - cynicism and disdain, anyone?
With all this in mind, here is a sampling of three tales and how they each break apart a perennial parings:
THE DESIRE TO BE A MAN by Villiers de I'Isle-Adam (crime--remorse)
Walking down a Paris street alone at night, the main character, an old actor, realizes his acting days are over. He will no longer be able to play the role of other men and will be forced by age to live his own life as a man. But what is a man? He reflects that to be a man one needs strong feelings. But, aghast, he recognizes right there on the Paris street he has no such feelings! He surmises he will have to commit a heinous crime to feel the powerful sensations of remorse and be haunted by the ghosts of the souls he murdered. So, resolving on-the-spot action is required, that night he sets a residential section of the city on fire, resulting in the death of many men, women and children and creating great tragedy for multiple families. The old actor see the aftermath of the fire as he rides by in his coach and retires to a remote lighthouse to experience his remorse and be haunted by ghosts. But, alas, to his amazement and disappointment, no ghosts, no remorse, not even the slightest feeling of regret.
CONSTANT GUIGNARD by Jean Richepin (virtue--reward)
After experiencing repeated bouts of bad luck as a boy, the author tells us, "Such inauspicious beginnings in life would have turned a lesser nature vicious. But Constant Guignard had a soul of the higher type, and convinced that happiness is the reward of virtue, he resolved to conquer his ill-fortune by sheer force of heroism." Although this young man holds the values and world-view most dear to conventional society, alas, his tale is told by a decadent. The more decent and honorable and charitable he becomes, the more fate drags him down until he faces his last dark days. Can his equally decent, honorable, charitable friend save Constant Guignard's reputation and let the world know what a fine man Constant Guignard truly was by having his tombstone inscribed with an honorable epitaph? Well . . . let me just say Jean Richepin is a decadent with a lively sense of humor.
DANAETTE by Remy de Gourmont (God--goodness)
Is Danaette thinking holy thoughts as she is surrounded by angels taking the form of snowflakes? Not quite - for she is a complete sensualist and seasoned adulteress. When on one evening Danaette falls into a semi-trance, we read, "Deliciously icy, the snow kisses passed through her clothes, and in spite of all her defenses they found her skin and gathered in declivities: it was wonderfully gentle, and procured her a voluptuous pleasure she had most certainly never felt before." Remy de Gourmont combines the language and imagery of sensuality and perversion with images of religious holiness. Quite a combination! Ah, the decadents.
These tales of the French decadent writers not only turn the values of conventional society upside down but also give their tales a bit more spice with a twist at the end. After all, these writers are French. If you are a fan of short-stories, you will not find a collection more entertaining and engaging - each story is a delicious treat. This is fine literature told in a highly polished language.