Curb Your Enthusiasm, Season Six: best yet?

Curb Your Enthusiasm is one of the greatest sitcoms ever in part because Larry David allows us to laugh at the things we're not allowed to laugh about. He's the best.

Do economists wish to ruin everything?

Tim Harford on Robert Frost:

"Frost's famous The Road Not Taken is as good an exploration of the economist's idea of opportunity cost as you might wish for. Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening touches on the same subject and, for me, is a far more haunting poem. Then there's Mending Wall, an inquiry into whether property rights make for a civilised society - do good fences really make good neighbours?"

When you see beautiful poetry reduced to economic terms, does your soul crack just a little bit?

Torrential Downpour: just some links

Svend White at Religion Dispatches writes about "Martin Luther & the Mass Media."

The Reading Experience writes about poetry moving online, suggesting we'll be just fine without the "gatekeepers."

In the Middle suggests a moratorium on setting MacBeth in "in a militarized Europe c. 1925-1955."

Very few people read this blog that don't read my other blogs, but for those very few, I don't want you to miss out on Garfield minus Garfield, possibly the greatest bit of post-modern comedy ever (via Bookslut). So far, my favorite is this one.

Smurov at The Valve praises Chinua Achebe while criticizing "faint praise."

I'm a vegetarian having a love affair with cheese, but I think about going vegan again. Martha Rosenberg writes about dairy cows, giving me a push a little closer back to that total step.

On parenthood (and more)

Via bookforum, Ronald Bailey writes about why people are having fewer kids, and the relationship between happiness and having kids. Bailey finds data to suggest raising children doesn't increase one's "happiness."

Certainly, raising children is difficult and often boring. And yet I find it deeply fulfilling. I don't say that because I think it's what I'm expected to say: I say that because when I think about my son I feel deeply fulfilled, and feel horror at imagining life without him.

But that brings us to the definition of "happiness." If my primary focus in life was "happiness," I probably wouldn't do much all day besides watch TV shows on DVD. But I live with the belief that there is greater meaning than my own temporary pleasure. I read--because it fulfills and challenges me. I don't eat meat--because I believe an animal's life is worth more than my instant pleasure or "happiness."

Raising children is not about fulfilling my momentary pleasure, and to a certain extent it's not about fulfilling any empty concept like "happiness." It requires sacrifices (I've been to one movie in a theater in the past year). It requires a lot of additional work. Instant gratification doesn't take to concepts like "sacrifice," but with sacrifice can come a deeper sense of happiness, a deeper sense of joy, a deeper sense of meaning.

Bailey includes one passage that of course my very being rails against:

"So, modernity essentially transforms children from capital goods that produce family income into consumption items to be enjoyed for their own sakes, more akin to sculptures, paintings, or theatre."

Human beings are not commodities, to be defined entirely in terms of their usefulness. We're not "capital goods" or "consumption items." We have a dignity that goes beyond our usefulness, and even when used ironically, I bristle at such a reduction of human beings.

This is one way in which I recognize myself as a "Christian Humanist." Much of my religious feeling focuses on how we treat and consider other human beings. I wish to recognize the inherent dignity and holiness of every living creature, and to treat each living creature accordingly. My inspirations in my religious feelings are people like Milton, like Dostoevsky, like Yoder. When human beings are reduced to commodities and defined according to their usefulness (to whom?), the Christian Humanist in me balks in frustration.

Another note: in writing about this article, Ann at Feministing distorts an episode of The Simpsons, and as this blog is as much about TV as anything else, I can't let that pass. It is not accurate to say that in that episode, "Marge starts a crusade against 'Singles, Seniors, Childless Couples and Teens, and Gays.'" Actually, it was Lindsey Naegle that started a crusade to remove children from public life, and Marge was just responding to it.

I'm not writing this with judgment of people who choose not to have children. It is your choice (of course!), it's not for everybody, and I'm certainly not trying to imply the only way to find deeper fulfillment in life is through parenthood. I'm mostly questioning how we define "happiness" and and the assumption that "happiness" is the primary goal.

Is happiness defined as "pleasure"? As "fulfillment"? Because those are often two different things.

Consider a monk that finds fulfillment in the denial of pleasure--is he "happy"?

I recommend...

...Carol Ann Duffy's poetry. The World's Wife is utterly brilliant; my wife recently asked me to re-read "Queen Herod," and it is jaw dropping, tingly good.

Reading for breadth or depth

In the last eight months, among other things I've read Demons, The Idiot, The Adolescent, and re-read Notes from the Underground, all by Dostoevsky. Of my "choice" reading, approximately 2,000 pages was devoted to just one writer. I intend to re-read The Brothers Karamamozov and Crime and Punishment sometime in the next few years, too.

If I had chosen, I probably could have read between five and 10 contemporary novels by five to 10 different novelists. I would not have experienced one writer with such depth, but I would have exposed myself to several writers, and learned something of several different writers' work.

What's better? Is it good that I'm so immersed in Dostoevsky's work, or am I better off taking short swims in several writers' work? Let's shift the metaphor: do I want to find a plot of land and dig down to see what's there, or am I better off wandering about the desert just scraping at the surface of different plots of land?

Of course as readers we do both. But there are many, many critically acclaimed and discussed contemporary writers of which I have little to no familiarity. I sometimes feel ignorant of the discussion of contemporary literature (though not entirely).

And there's also an argument for choosing older literature over contemporary literature. It has stood the proverbial "test of time:" it's the stuff that many have agreed is good, and thus to devote yourself to it is to devote yourself to art. To know contemporary literature and discourse about it, may be to know a fashionable trend that will later be dismissed from the canon. If experiencing literature is a spiritual quest (as I believe it is), I don't want to waste my time tinkering with the stuff that's not going to feed my soul--I want the good stuff, the prose, poetry, and drama that is going to reach to my spiritual being.

This also gets at another issue of experiencing one writer. I started reading Dostoevsky with The Brothers Karamazov; if I had known that I'd wish to go further with him, I would have started with Notes from the Underground and read his novels chronologically to The Brothers Karamazov. Now, admittedly, I was assigned The Brothers Karamazov in grad school, and that affected my own chronology. But if we're going to experience a writer, we'll often choose his or her best (or most popular, or most famous, or whatever) work. Sometimes this is by choice: if we're going to expose ourselves to a particular writer, we often wish to start with the best, not knowing we'll get to anything else. Sometimes it isn't by choice: when teachers assign a writer, they'll often choose his or her best (or most popular, or most famous, or whatever) work to expose students to. That makes sense. So as readers, we often start with a writer's best work (even if it's a work he or she progressed to), then scatter around to read the rest (if we want). We don't necessarily progress with the writer's ideas or style (combined, his or her "art").

We can take this all to cliche: is it better to know a lot about a little or a little about a lot? Again, of course we try to do both: having a specialty does not require ignorance of everything outside one's specialty. But as readers, keenly aware of our time limitations, and keenly aware of our own mortality, we make choices. If you bring up a well-respected contemporary writer that I haven't read, I may have to listen (or read) silently, learning without contributing. But I don't regret immersing myself in Dostoevsky, one of those artists who is touching at my soul. For while a life of reading should bring much discourse about the stuff we're reading, a life of reading is also largely an inner life.

Stupid Summer Project: The Merv Griffin Show and The Slicer

"The Merv Griffin Show"

Kramer: El Paso. I spent a month there one night.

Kramer: Well we've officially bottomed out.

Comment: Funny plots. Kramer has the Merv Griffin set in his apartment, and he's carrying on conversations as if he's hosting a talk show (without cameras). Jerry is taking advantage of his girlfriend: he keeps getting her to fall asleep so he can play with her collectible toys. Funny stuff.

"The Slicer"

Jerry: So you've done this?
George: Almost. I couldn't get the girl to go out with me a second time.

Kramer: I've cut slices so thin I couldn't even see them.

Comment: This episode marks the introduction to Mr. Kruger, George's incompetent and indifferent boss with the catch phrase "I'm not too worried about it." There were a lot of fun shenanigans in season nine when George worked for Kruger Industrial Smoothing. George really does go "hog wild" working there, and Kruger is excellent as the boss that just doesn't care.

Overall, some good dialogue in this episode.

Torrential Downpour: a lot of really stupid stuff

My image of Dostoevsky
When I think of Dostoevsky, I don't picture the slight, refined man you see on the right. I picture a big, burly fellow, with long wild hair, an unkempt beard, and mad, crazy eyes. The sort of man who stands up to roar. The sort of man who moves with heavy, powerful motions, whose passion and energy exudes from his very being. It's the only way I can picture a man who writes characters so consumed with passion and ideas.

But as a reader, do I really need a real Dostoevsky? Oh, I know of the mock execution, of Siberia, of conversion. But for the creator of the characters that burst across his novels, do I need the real man, or do I only need the metaphoric image of his soul I've created in my head?

Unforgivable
So the creators of Across the Universe make a musical using Beatles' songs. And they have a character named Sadie. But..."Sexy Sadie" is nowhere to be found in the film.

The Stupid Thing I Believe (about Animal Rights)
I believe that by committing to animal rights, one stands further to the left. As a vegetarian, I'm more left-wing than my liberal but meat-eating friends.

Now, I'm guessing most left-wing folks see animal rights as a completely separate point from progressive attitudes on human issues. I think I'm taking the principles of a progressive worldview further and applying them to animals. What do you think? This is the stupid thing I believe: is it really stupid?

For more, see my two posts on a moral link between pacifism and vegetarianism (1 and 2).

The sort of conversations that occasionally occur in my house
PV: I don't need therapy. Dostoevsky is my therapist. Shakespeare is my therapist. Milton is my therapist.
C-FM: How delightfully pretentious of you.

PV: You spilled there too.
C-FM: No, that was the work of one rogue olive.

PV: What did people do in the Middle Ages?
(this is my response to just about anything that I don't want to do. Usually the answer is something bad).

Another victory for the way of all flesh
I heard a reporter refer to Fidel Castro's resignation as a "symbolic victory." Victory for whom? Time? Age? Illness? No individual or group resistance and no government policy was able to force Castro from power for nearly 50 years--I'm not entirely sure whom we're supposed to assign "victory" to, even a symbolic one.

Links
Timothy Egan in "Book Lust:"

"For most of my lifetime, I’ve heard that reading is dead. In that time, disco has died, drive-in movies have nearly died, and something called The Clapper has come and gone through bedrooms across the nation.

"But reading? This year, about 400 million books will be sold in the United States."

Scott McLemee and Kim Paffenroth in "Zombie Nation:"

"Q: In the New Testament, Jesus dies, then comes back to life. His followers gather to eat his flesh and drink his blood. I am probably going to hell for this, but .... Is Christianity a zombie religion?

"A: I think zombie movies want to portray the state of zombification as a monstrous perversion of the idea of Christian resurrection. Christians believe in a resurrection to a new, perfect state where there will be no pain or disease or violence. Zombies, on the other hand, are risen, but exist in a state where only the basest, most destructive human drive is left — the insatiable urge to consume, both as voracious gluttons of their fellow humans, and as mindless shoppers after petty, useless, meaningless objects. It’s both a profoundly cynical look at human nature, and a sobering indictment of modern, American consumer culture."

Stupid Summer Project: The Junk Mail

Jerry: So you never saw Last Tango in Paris?
George: No.
Jerry: Too bad. It was erotic.

George: Why is the mailman wearing a bucket?
Kramer: Hah? Well, it symbolizes our persecution.
George: Then shouldn't you be wearing the bucket?

Comment: a lot of the plotlines in this episode work out pretty well. Kramer's resistance to the U.S. Postal Service because he's annoyed at getting Pottery Barn catalogs is just the sort of think Kramer does, just as George's plan to "date" his cousin to get his parents' attention is the sort of scheme George would come up with: devious, deceitful, and depraved (though this is the only episode in which he seems to want anything to do with his parents). We also get to meet "The Wiz." Here's the thing about the Wiz: nobody beats him.

But just a note: Last Tango in Paris really isn't that erotic.

Well...I suppose.

After reading this NY Times article about high school students finding inspiration in The Great Gatsby, I was slightly vexed. Was it really an inspirational tale of the American Dream?

We might also teach those students that if they walk into a jungle at 17, they might walk out at 21 and by God, they'll be rich! The greatest things can happen!

On History and Healing

In Earnest Gaines' A Gathering of Old Men (a novel that appears more brilliant each time I teach it), each of the men can share a heartbreaking story from his family history that explains why he is standing up today. The stories are deeply scarring incidents of racial violence and injustice, and they are both personal and historic. And these stories must not be forgotten, but should be remembered by all.

At the end of the novel, though, we have healing. "Salt and Pepper" play together and LSU wins. Charlie is killed, but so is Luke Will. The judge gives everybody the same sentence without punishment. Lou Dimes and Candy hold hands.

A common lament I hear is that Americans are woefully ignorant of history. As a teacher in the humanities, as a history minor, as a pacifist who wonders when the lesson of the folly of war will be learned, I can join that lament. It's particularly frustrating too how some people, when discussing race in America, speak as if there is no historical context whatsoever, as if a history of racial injustice and inequality is irrelevant to current race relations.

However, I also don't think we need look for our model those peoples around the world who have nursed centuries of grudges and hatreds (as a practical matter, that appears too often to be a source and justification of violence). We must confront our history, but I believe we must do so with an effort toward healing. Ignoring or even downplaying history will not bring healing--the wounds and scars are too deep. But when we engage in history with social purpose, when we acknowledge the atrocities and injustices of the past, it should be with the intent of moving forward positively. Perhaps we can look to what Australia is doing now as an example: confronting the horror of history to move forward to a better contemporary reality.

Eccentricity is not a bad thing

At Inside Higher Ed, Erik M. Jensen has an amusing piece called "A Call for Professional Attire." It's a mildly humorous and mildly serious plea for college professors to dress more formally.

I'll go ahead and bypass the "I'll dress better when you pay me better" response (quite frankly, I'm not sure I can afford to dress the way Jensen would want me to--are adjuncts perhaps exempt from his standards?). I'll even bypass the socio-economic class considerations (why, exactly, do I not even know what a crease in pants means, why don't I know whether it's a good or a bad thing, and why would I not be able to identify a crease or lack of crease anyway?).

If I wanted to dress like a businessman, I could have become a businessman. I would have to cut my hair, shave my beard, and wear a suit and tie to work every day. But I didn't become a businessman. I thought freedom of attire and appearance to be one of the perks of teaching in college; I'm allowed to look a bit eccentric.

Now, I generally wear khakis or corduroys (very rarely jeans), and either a sweater or a sports coat of some sort (over a button up shirt or polo shirt, which is not always or even usually tucked in). I'm always hunting for cheap clearance suit coats, mostly corduroy but not always. In general, I've taken some concern to look relatively professional, even if it is often casual. As my sister and mother would attest, I don't precisely have the keenest fashion sense anyway, so I guess you could say I'm doing my best.

But I also understand the desire to look professional, and I do know that dressing professional can make one feel professional. That's why I've bypassed the desire to go the full hippie prof route by wearing a peace sign t-shirt shirt under my corduroy jacket. So perhaps I'll take up Jensen's advice: tomorrow, in my fourth year teaching, I will wear a tie to work for the first time.

I'm a bit concerned it will look like I'm playing grown-up.