New Translation of The Three Musketeers

"All for One," Terrence Rafferty

There's a new translation out of Dumas' masterpiece. Rafferty provides some good insights into why this is one of the greatest books ever written.

Humans: the animals that get bored

What is the purpose of literature? I like the Marxist explanations (to teach cultural norms, to reinforce or subvert dominant ideology, etc.). I like the Existential-Spiritual explanations (to explore what it means to be human, to find the meaning of life, etc.). But those explanations don't seem quite there.

What I think about the meaning of literature, I picture a bunch of people sitting around a fire as somebody recites The Odyssey. I start thinking of long nights between days of work. And it all becomes clear just what the purpose of literature is.

To pass the time.

Literature exists to relieve boredom. My guess is that ancient people wanted something to entertain themselves with in the times between when they had things to do. Thus, literature.

Sure, it does other things. We've found all sorts of new ways to entertain ourselves and avoid boredom, and yet literature persists and wil persist because its meaning and purposes are deep. And yet, still literature's primary purpose is to pass the time, to entertain us, to relieve boredom.

Literature exists to pass the time (so do games/sports, which probably have a longer histoyr in human existence than literature, so don't be too snobbish in dismissing the pointlessness of sports and the supposed shallowness of those of us who follow and cherish them closely).

Anyway, today is a department meeting, so even though I'm still over two weeks from teaching my first class, I'm considering today the symbolic end to summer. So here are capsule reviews of the books I passed the time with this summer.

The World's Wife, by Carol Ann Duffy
I think it's silly that states have things like a state bird, a state flower, and all that crap. These are the clues that always stump me on crosswords. So I've started making up our household items. Our official household lighting fixture is lamp. Our official household mammal is cat. And if we have an household poet laureate, it would be Carol Ann Duffy, a rare poet that my wife and I both love. Should we write her a letter informing her of the honor?

Here I Stand: A Life of Martin Luther, by Roland Bainton
A conventional Lutheran biography of the man that does a good job providing historical context.

Young Man Luther: A Study in Psychoanalysis and History, by Erik Erikson
It's a book of ideas as much as a biography, and a brilliant one at that.

Luther: Man Between the God and the Devil, by Heiko Oberman
Revisionist history that isn't utterly convincing, but is well-written and insightful.

A Gathering of Old Men, by Ernest Gaines
This novel takes place during one day, and in that day Gaines succeeds in describing the entire history of white-black relations in the South. An underrated achievement.

Beloved, by Toni Morrison
Frankly, I like The Bluest Eye better. It's an important book, though.

Operation Shylock: A Confession, by Philip Roth
Roth is growing on me. A good novel of ideas.

MacBeth, by William Shakespeare
The Bard gives you something new each time you read one of his plays. This time, the issue of gender roles and essence stuck out to me.

Spiral, by Koji Suzuki
Actually creepier than the first book.

Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead, by Tom Stoppard
Funny stuff. Very funny stuff.

Waiting for Godot, by Samuel Beckett
The play that inspired a generation of playwrights to write about two boobs sitting around inanely waiting is still probably the best one.

Wicked: The Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West, by Gregory Maguire
My favorite book I read this summer. Awe-inspiring. The soundtrack for the musical is wonderful, too.

Mantissa, by John Fowles
Certainly not Fowles' best or most important work, but he knows it (the title is from an old word meaning an addendum that may be minor or trivial). Still, he plays around.

Tropic of Cancer, by Henry Miller
I wish Miller were a poet. He writes some really incredible sentences. But I don't like works of literature or film that are just about a bunch of stuff that happens.

The Stupid Thing I Believe (2)

If a movie is longer than 150 minutes, it probably shouldn't be.*

I believe this for many reasons.

--Alfred Hitchcock said the length of a film should be proportional to the size of the human bladder. I couldn't agree more. Movie theaters should have intermission for movies longer than 150 minutes. We don't expect people to watch live drama for more than 2 hours without a break, but people have to hold it in to enjoy a film? Senseless. One of the pleasures I get of watching movies at home with my wife is whenever nature calls, we press pause.

--Generally, if the film would be trimmed down, IT WOULD BE A BETTER FILM. Too often the long films are made by proven directors allowed to do whatever they want. But generally, some cuts would trim unneeded fat and make the film crisper, sharper, more effective. I enjoyed the 2005 King Kong remake (thanks to a vow of frugality, I will always be 6-9 months late on film commentary. I can rarely see paying to see a film in the theater when I'm already paying for Netflix and could see the movie in 6 months anyway. Plus, if films are "art" as some say, 6-9 months is certainly not too late to comment), but after 3 hours, I really wasn't as focused in as I probably should have been. And it would have been fairly easy to cut 20 minutes from that movie, and possible without hurting the overall feel (even helping it) to cut 30-40 minutes. Hemingway cut a big intro from The Sun Also Rises at Fitzgerald's suggestion; I've never heard it suggested that this unnecessary intro would have made it a better book. Am I thinking too much like a composition teacher, demanding the superfluous material be removed or edited? But most of the times I get done watching a movie, my comment is, "That was good, but it would have been very good if they cut ___ minutes."

*Before making a list of exceptions, please consider the meaning of "probably."

The Exterior World, and the Interior

During the heat wave of the past 5 days, I had no motivation to do anything, and virtually no guilt about wasting away my time laying and doing nothing. Once I was laying on a blanket in front of a fan in front of the air conditioner, and Sadie said, "Are you sleeping?" "No," I said. "Are you reading?" "No," I said. "Are you just laying there?" "Yes," I said. All that mattered was getting past the heat wave; now we're past it, and it's time to start living life again. The only thing that interested me much at all was crossword puzzles.

In the history of ideas, perhaps we don't give enough attention to the exterior aspects of thinkers' lives (well, some people do, some people perhaps give too much attention to the exterior. Perhaps I should replace "we" with "I", but I think I'll leave the "we" because there are wider issues at stake). Sometimes we do--certainly it's hard to read John Keats' best poetry without realizing that he was fatally ill and expected to die young. How did his sickness affect his thinking, his poetry? There are scholars all over that, I think. Sometimes we don't. Now, every perspective of Martin Luther has been taken up by historians, so there are historians out there who have focused on his health issues. But for most people, the fact that Luther spent his later life constantly ill (likely because of total physical, emotional, mental, and spiritual exhaustion--though he was still pretty sharp and revising the Bible translation all the way through his life, so it's not like he totally broke down or anything) doesn't show up much in their thinking. Luther had every sort of painful illness you can think of--he once almost died from a kidney stone. So the fact that he was a prematurely old and bitter man lashing out at the world (in the form of papists, peasants, Jews, "fanatics," and anybody else who didn't see the world exactly as he did) makes some more sense. He was "A Great Man"...but he was a human being. When people talk about "A Great Man" being human, they usually refer to his mistakes and sins. In fact, being a human being meant Luther had flesh, blood, and bone, and that physical material was subject to the same decay as all flesh, blood, and bone. His physical nature had a strong impact on his spiritual-mental nature, I think.

I don't know where else I'm going with this right now, so I'll stop and let somebody else use this computer.

Against Aestheticism II (or, my utilitarianism)

Some further additions to the ideas in the post below, Against Aestheticism.

More and more, my evaluation of art and literature is based on what I'll call an "abstract utilitarianianism." When I read a book or see a movie, I have to ask myself a central question. This question can be worded many different ways, but it comes down to this: "What is new in this work that I can take with me?" How that question is answered goes a long way toward how I feel about the work (but it isn't the total answer).

Let me look at recent things I've read and seen that can illustrate and articulate my abstract utilitarianism. I finally got around to reading Beckett's Waiting for Godot. I did not pull much new out of this; HOWEVER, I also recognize why. This play is brilliant, and there are two reasons I didn't pull much new out of it. First, this play is representative of a worldview I am already familiar with--indeed, a worldview I have imbibed and felt and studied for years. Secondly, this play is so influential on the theater and literature that followed it, I feel like I've read several works that were similar in nature. So while on the one hand I don't pull much new from it (though there is a lot of comedy that is sharp and fun), I am at least able to recognize why not.

I recently read Gregory Maguire's Wicked, and besides being the most fun book I've read in quite some time, there were some themes that I can take with, to continue mulling over. No, this novel didn't give me a lot to think about in regard to the nature of evil. However, several things stand out to me. The tension and ambiguity regarding the nature of control and choice in our lives. The tension and cohesion of opposites. There's something for me to claw onto and keep thinking about. Many things, actually.

Earlier this summer I read two books by African-American writers examining the legacy of slavery in the U.S., Toni Morrison's Beloved and Earnest Gaines' A Gathering of Old Men. These are important books for me to read. Why? Because I'm white. I do not know what it is like to experience racism against myself. I don't know the details, the emotions, the anxiety. I can only learn about this experience second-hand. Reading Toni Morrison teaches me about the internalizing nature of racism, about the deep impact of racism. That gives me something to take away. Books which show us another way of experiencing the world, that show us how somebody else might view human existence, are the most necessary books of all. There are two approaches to teaching literature. One approach is to find literature students can relate to. This is appealing for students and to the teacher, because it can spark student reactions. But another didactic purpose of literature exists: to show students perspectives other than their own. That, I think, is the more important. What do students get out of RELATING to a work of literature? Something, I'm sure, though perhaps not enough. What do students get by EXPOSING themselves to a work of literature, by having another perspective exposed to them? Immeasurable value, I hope.

Finally, a film I was disappointed with, The Lady in the Water. There were several things I didn't like about the movie, but what comes to mind right now is that there was nothing new for me. I didn't learn anything from seeing it, I didn't relate to it, I wasn't able to learn any new perspective. Certainly that wouldn't hold as a very strong criticism of a film (and I wouldn't use it as an objective analysis), but that it my personal reaction.

This abstract utilitarian view might seem useless for evaluating material that has little artistic value, but still entertains. I say: not so. Not so at all. This is particularly useful in evaluating comedy. The best comedy is that which brings something new to us. Some new way of examining a part of life, some new way of bringing the mundane to comic effect, some new way simply to be funny and make one laugh. The old jokes work--but the best comedies bring something new to the table, they MUST bring something new because they must make us laugh. Above all else, they, must make us laugh. Two anecdotes come to mind: on The Simpsons, when Bart became the "I Didn't Do it" kid, but that got old, and on Alf, when Alf became a famous comedian, but was only telling the same joke, and eventually nobody laughed. Standup comedians will tell you how hard they work, and they do it because they have to. They have to bring you something new if they expect you to laugh. So even for art not meant to inspire, but meant only to entertain us, I can ask myself, "What is new from this that I can take with me?"

Against Aestheticism (or, art for any sake other than its own)

There are many who believe in art for art's sake, who believe particularly that art can have no utilitarian value, and furthermore would be offended by the very notion that art could be utilitarian, as if such effort would be propaganda that tarnishes and blasphemes the holiness that is artistic endeavor.

I am not one of those people.

To believe art can have no utilitarian value is to believe that the way people think has no impact on the way they act or on the shape the world takes. And if you believe that, why would you read for anything other than entertainment value? To ignore art's utilitarian value is to demean art itself, to make it no more useful than cheap entertainments like soap operas, spy novels, and formulaic sitcoms.

But art can do more than entertain. Art can change the way we think. And the way we think affects how we act and how we shape the world (as individuals and as groups). Art for art's sake is its own form of ethical value, of course (within Aestheticism, a writer concerned with morality would be the "unethical" artist, the sellout, creating debased literature). And you can include me among those who would elevate the importance of art in the overall scheme of human existence and achievement. But that is partly because I recognize ways in which art alters our worldviews, our self-perceptions, our consciousnesses, our behaviors. Perhaps art can't be narrowly utilitarian; perhaps it is impossible to predict the actual "use' to which art will be brought. But that doesn't mean that it exists for itself; it is not only writers who should read.

Finally, the most important point.

In fact, Aestheticism is itself narrowly utilitarian. If art exists for art's sake, then the artist examines another work of art only to determine ways he can "use" that art in his own art. If art has no value outside itself, the only art meaningful is that which is useful to the artist, and to that artist all art will be viewed in a utilitarian manner. The artist will say, "How can I use this to shape my own art?" THAT is a debased utilitarianism. The "Aestheticist" artist CAN ONLY EXAMINE ART IN TERMS OF ITS UTILITY TO HIMSELF.

The Stupid Thing I Believe (1)

In Arrested Development, when Michael tells Marta that family is the most important thing, and he says, "That's the stupid thing I believe." Well, welcome to a new feature at Costanza's Book Club: The Stupid Thing I Believe.

The first stupid thing I believe: I believe that a great work of literature should be FUN TO READ. I've read some classics this summer (a brief review of most of the things I've read will come at the end of the summer), but by far the most fun I've had reading has been Wicked. It's the first time in a long time I've stayed up way too late because what I was reading was so good I didn't want to go to sleep. If a book makes you stay up reading because it's so good and you want to keep reading to see what happens, is it inherently a "great book"? Some people use "page turner" with the same derisiveness they use the word "popular."

If you can't put down a book, well, isn't that the point of reading? To enjoy yourself? Not that it should be a diversion or distraction from the important things of human existence--that's not art. But that it should grab you and hold you and keep you, something like Stephen King says in his essay "I want to be Typhoid Stevie" (or some such similar title). It should be the sort of thing you carry around with you while you're NOT reading it. It should linger, but it should call you back, and when it has you, it should keep it's claws on you so you don't want to leave.

So there's the first Stupid Thing I Believe: I believe great literature should be fun to read.

Link must save Zelda

When it comes to literary and art theory, I often take a populist, anti-elitist, anti-snobbish, anti-pretentious stance (we'll talk later about how my populist ideas are their own form of snobbery, and how 90% of my life's decisions and attitudes are based on a healthy-sized inferiority complex).

You might find this interesting.

Avast, Me Critics! Ye Kill the Fun: Critics and the Masses Disagree About Film Choices by A.O. Scott

Quotes, Culture, and Politics

In Gregory MaGuire's Wicked, Glinda is asking Elphaba about her childhood, and in the telling Elphaba starts talking about the oppression of the Wizard. Glinda says, "We're talking about your childhood," and Elphaba responds, "Well that's it, that's all part of it. You can't divorce your particulars from politics." Now, I would say that you CAN divorce particulars from politics; people do it all the time. However, if they do so, they are taking a flawed view that is not helping them get any closer to "truth." Because everything everything that I am, everything I think, everything I believe, has something to do with my nationality, with my color, with my gender, with my class, with my region, with my education, with my occupation and the occupations of my parents, etc. There may indeed be something called "the human condition," but how is such a thing approachable without considering all the social, economic, and political factors? Simply put: it's not. Whatever we think it means to be human is influenced by class, race, gender, and all that. This is why an honest approach considers these factors. This is why John Fowles says that Nicholas Urfe, the main character of The Magus, takes on "if not the true representative face of a modern Everyman, at least that of a partial Everyman of my own class and background." Because THERE IS NO EVERYMAN. For our first and primary worldview comes from our class and background--it is the worldview we learn before we learn it is a worldview. This is why Helga's question in M. Butterfly is so narrow and ridiculous: she asks, "Politics again? Why can't they just hear it as a piece of beautiful music." What assumptions do we carry with us, because of class and background and culture, that makes something an apolitical piece of beautiful music? And what assumptions could somebody else, of a different class, background, culture, and personal taste hold, that makes something a political statement, or a piece of ugly music?

I believe in deep human experiences. I believe great literature functions to examine deep human experiences. I believe literature should help us examine what it means to be human: what it is to believe and to doubt, to love and to hate, to be brave and to fear, to laugh and to grieve, to hope and despair, to be born and to die. But to divorce one's experience of what it means to be human from politics...that is to examine humanity in a solipsistic vacuum.

Larry David and Liberal Guilt

In Larry David's work on Seinfeld and Curb Your Enthusiasm, he covers at least one topic better than I've seen anybody else do it: the anxiety of white liberals who are worried and confused about doing anything that could be perceived as racist. When George told his boss he looked like Sugar Ray Leonard, and the boss responded, "I suppose we all look alike to you," and George was trying to befriend every black person he knew to show to the boss. When Elaine thought she was dating a black man, and George kept saying, "Are we supposed to be talking about this? I don't think we're supposed to be talking about this." The legendary episode of Curb when Larry blurts out a joke about affirmative action and has a daylong nightmare as a result. Or when Larry doesn't want to fire his TV repairman because he is black, does anyway, and then keeps accidentally doing things in front of Wanda to make him look like a racist.

Who else is covering this topic? It's sort of an odd, strange, weird topic to even bring up. And yet for liberal whites, this is a part of our lives.

I go on frequent walks; it's my poor man's effort to stay fit. When walking alone, I keep a pretty good clip, and I always try to avoid bumping into people walking slower than me because of the awkwardness of going around. The other day on a walk, three guys were walking slow in front of me. Since I needed to cross the street soon anyway, and there was no traffic, I just crossed there. And suddenly, in the middle of the street, I realized this looked like the worst cliche one could think of: the people in front of me were black, and I appeared to be the white guy crossing the road to avoid them. Now, I would have crossed if there were three old white ladies walking slow in front of me and I was in Woodbury, but the perception was still bad.

They were three young black men, and I think they perceived that I was crossing to avoid them, and started jokingly trying to scare me because of that. One of them yelled "Biotch!" and another flashed an east-side hand signal at me. I thought briefly about returning it, but then just nodded a greeting.

I felt terrible guilt for the rest of my walk. I kept trying deliberately to walk past black people the rest of the walk, and attempted to make eye contact so that I could say hello. I think many of the people I passed thought I was a weirdo for staring at them. But I kept it up, walking by a whole bunch of black people and trying to make eye contact to say hello. Somehow I thought this would help make up for my "transgression." Now when I go for walks, I deliberately go to the neighborhood where I saw those guys, hoping they'll be there so I can walk by and say hello.

This is all really stupid. It's the sort of thing most people don't talk about, but that some people think about. So thanks to Larry David for actually addressing it. It's certainly not the only interesting issue David's work gets at with insight and precision.

First-Person Dialogic?

Philip Roth's Operation Shylock is an interesting accomplishment. I really want to call it a polyphonic novel. It is dialogic in that many character-ideas get voiced, and there is often a broad judgment of the character-ideas, but the ideas are not filtered to the end dialectically. They are mostly left standing for us to examine. And yet, it is written in the FIRST PERSON. Further yet, the first-person narrator is THE WRITER PHILIP ROTH. An intriguing example of where innovations of the novel can be taken.

Influence

Science and Poetry: the two areas of life where contemporary practitioners are most dependent on the inventions and discoveries of their predecessors.

Carol Ann Duffy's The World's Wife contains some great poetry. It reminds me of two other poets. First, Robert Browning, as far as I know the inventor of the dramatic monologue in another persona for poetry. His influence on modern poetry is sweeping (and poetry with his influence is often sharper, harder, stronger than the confessional poetry that is everywhere in the 20th century). The other influence is Ted Hughes: in the modern verse, the ironic, somewhat detached tone, and the re-imagining of old myths.