Posts Tagged ‘united states’

Clive Barker writes such beautiful horror.

Weaveworld

Even this, one of his earliest novel-length stories, moves me to tears.

Nothing ever begins.

There is no first moment; no single word or place from which this or any other story springs.

The threads can always be traced back to some earlier tale, and to the tales that preceded that; though as the narrator’s voice recedes the connections will seem to grow more tenuous, for each age will want the tale told as if it were of its own making.

Thus the pagan will be sanctified, the tragic become laughable; great lovers will stoop to sentiment, and demons dwindle to clockwork toys.

Nothing is fixed. In and out the shuttle goes, fact and fiction, mind and matter woven into patterns that may have only this in common: that hidden among them is a filigree that will with time become a world.

This book was written a little before The Great and Secret Show, and has a lot of similarities to it. There’s a magical world bordering on ours, which people can access at rare times, but which is normally hidden and forgotten. Instead of existing outside, though, the secret magic is woven into a carpet, hidden in plain sight. And instead of having the two-journey structure, this book is in three volumes, and those volumes are subdivided into thirteen books. It brings to mind the twelve-part epics (plus one, to evoke the number of horror) as well as the Victorian three-deckers. Also like TGSS, there’s this amazingly powerful heroine.

“You’re a strange woman,” he said as they parted, apropos of nothing in particular.

She took the remark as flattery.

Suzanna is a regular person, in this book called Cuckoos, but when she faces a magical antagonist she gets access to the power of the menstruum, and while that word isn’t always associated with power, in this book it is. The menstruum is the source of magic, and when used appropriately, can give a woman so much power she becomes revered as a goddess. She has the task of protecting the Fugue, the magical place hidden in the weave, and the people who live there. She is assisted in this task by a lovable not-quite-hero, a cute boy who seems sort of worthless until he’s inspired by love to do incredible things.

And what lesson could he learn from the mad poet, now that they were fellow spirits? What would Mad Mooney do, were he in Cal’s shoes?

He’d play whatever game was necessary, came the answer, and then, when the world turned its back he’d search, search until he found the place he’d seen, and not care that in doing so he was inviting delirium. He’d find his dream and hold on to it and never let it go.

Cal is sort of like Christopher Moore’s Beta Males, more secondary protagonist than hero, but he loves the Fugue and will do anything to preserve it.

True joy is a profound remembering; and true grief the same.

Thus it was, when the dust storm that had snatched Cal up finally died, and he opened his eyes to see the Fugue spread before him, he felt as though the few fragile moments of epiphany he’d tasted in his twenty-six years – tasted but always lost – were here redeemed and wed. He’d grasped fragments of this delight before. Heard rumor of it in the womb-dream and the dream of love; seen its consequence in sudden good and sudden laughter; known it in lullabies. But never, until now, the whole, the thing entire.

It would be, he idly thought, a fine time to die.

And a finer time still to live, with so much laid out before him.

As with many other novels I love, this one follows the natural cycles: events usually slow down in the winter, as the British retreat to their fireplaces and let the snows rage around them, and then things pick back up in the spring and get really intense in the summer. The Fugue is a place of creation, so it is often allied with the spring.

Of course, there are antagonists. Immacolata wants to unleash the Scourge and destroy the Fugue, and Shadwell her minion wants to take over. I once read that the protagonist is often considered the character who changes the most, and Shadwell changes a lot over the course of the book, so maybe it’s his story and not so much Suzanna’s and Cal’s. In the first part he’s a salesman, in the second he’s a prophet, and in the third he’s a destroyer, but it is sort of implied that the three roles are all the same, really. He has a magic jacket that shows people the thing they want most and gives them the illusion of attaining it – as I reflected on this and the fact that the thing I want most is love and a man to share it with, I wondered what Shadwell’s jacket would show me. After all, the first time we see it, Shadwell just opens his coat and asks Cal, “See something you like?” as if he were displaying his body and inviting Cal to touch him, but with that slightly menacing tone that says that if he takes the bait he’s going to get beat up for it. The Scourge itself is amazingly powerful, like the dragons of ancient stories, and has lost sight of who he is because of those ancient stories. At one point it’s said that he’s been corrupted by loneliness, and I wonder how much loneliness it takes to turn someone’s mind like that. And I wonder how much time I have left, before I decide that romance is unattainable in this life and that I need to get on without it. Like in Moana, the danger has to be healed instead of destroyed, so this is ultimately a hopeful book, despite all the death and destruction and loss that comes before the end. Which you would sort of expect in a book that I feel with enough intensity to cry at the end.

The thing I wasn’t expecting from this book was racism. The term Negress is outdated, but can be read as descriptive and not pejorative, but there are other words for persons of African descent that are unequivocally used to denigrate (a word which means, to make blacker). I know that word was only used by a bad guy, but even when racism is only used to mark unsympathetic characters it still bothers me. There is also a random offensive comment on the Cherokee, in the narrator’s voice and serving no purpose but to dehumanize a nation whose roots extend beyond our human understanding of history. And another thing: what is this thing that British authors have with writing about gay Arabs? (Neil Gaiman, I’m looking at you and your American Gods.) Does this go back to Rumi and Shams of Tabriz, or did T. E. Lawrence depict the Middle East as some sort of nonstop gay sex party? If so, then there’s no reason for Lawrence of Arabia to be such a dull film (I’ve heard; I’ve never actually seen it). In this book, the homosexual desire is acknowledged, but not celebrated – that will come later in Barker’s career, after he comes out publicly.

The other day I drove back through the old neighborhood in Asheville where The Ex and I used to live, and it was strange and different. On a Saturday in December, there should have been endless traffic, but it was just like a Saturday in any other month – I guess the new outlet shops at Biltmore Square have finally succeeded in diverting holiday drivers away from downtown and the mall area. Less traffic is welcome, but the other changes were less so. I lived in the Charlotte Street area for a year, and I heard more angry honking in half an hour in 2017 than in all of 2009. I commented on this to The Ex, and she agreed that Asheville’s energy has gotten really angry in the last few years, so much so that she doesn’t enjoy coming into town as she used to. In my memory, Asheville is preserved as a magical place where people are kind and mindful of the life around them; the city may still recycle, but they’ve lost their attention to each other. It’s become crowded and distressing, the city’s music transformed into noise. Perhaps there are still oases of comfort, but the city itself is not the oasis it once was. I remember people worrying about gentrification and what would happen when artists and the poor could no longer afford to live downtown, and now we’re seeing it. The problem isn’t with public art or community events (Bel Chere is privatized, but not dead) – the problem is with the people. I wonder if it’s all newcomers; I’ve been getting intensely angry with the world lately, and a lot of it has to do with the way the American government is turning the country to shit and how powerless I feel to do anything about it. I would guess that’s a big part of Asheville’s problem right now too.

But, much like the Fugue, my communities can be saved. Suzanna’s grandmother leaves her a book of German fairy tales, with the inscription:

Das, was man sich vorstellt, braucht man nie zu verlieren.

Which Barker translates as:

That which is imagined need never be lost.

But looking back at the German, I appreciate the fact that it uses indefinite pronouns and active verbs, so that a more literal translation could be: That which one imagines, she never needs to lose, or One never need shed what she imagines. Despite all my anger at how very disappointing life in the United States has been the last few years, I still hope for something better. I’m still imagining the life I want, and trusting the stories that tell me that if I can dream it, I need not lose it. Nothing that we imagine can be lost forever.

 “It’s all the same story.”

“What story?” Cal said.

We live it and they live it,” she said, looking at de Bono. “It’s about being born, and being afraid of dying, and how love saves us.” This she said with great certainty, as though it had taken her a good time to reach this conclusion and she was unshakeable on it.

It silenced the opposition awhile. All three walked on without further word for two minutes or more, until de Bono said, “I agree.”

She looked up at him.

“You do?” she said, plainly surprised.

He nodded. “One story?” he said. “Yes, that makes sense to me. Finally, it’s the same for you as it is for us, raptures or no raptures. Like you say. Being born, dying: and love between.”

 

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I know that normally I skip the introductions, but here’s a good bit from Fromm’s:

I wish to express my gratitude to my wife not only for the many suggestions which have been directly incorporated into these chapters but, far beyond this, for what I owe to her searching and penetrating mind which has so greatly contributed to my own development and hence indirectly to my ideas about religion.

The 1950s were a time when women couldn’t get a lot of recognition, so I’m glad Fromm gives credit where it’s due. It’s unfortunate that when he talks about all of humanity he uses masculine pronouns – it was standard practice back then, but now we recognize that it excludes somewhere around half of the population. I know that there are slightly more women than men, worldwide, but I’m not sure if those figures account for transpeople, and I don’t know whether there is a statistically significant difference in the number of transmen and transwomen. So yeah, the book is all sexist and transphobic, but that’s the time Fromm was writing in.

This book is a continuation of Man for Himself, Fromm’s book on psychoanalysis and ethics that I read back in June. He refers back to Escape from Freedom a lot as well, so it really seems like he’s building each book on the previous writings published in English, so this business of reading his books in order of publication was probably a good idea. This one is also really short, so it could be considered a final section to the previous book on ethics. As ever, he uses a lot of italics, so the italics in the quotations below are all his, not mine.

He issues a caveat close to the beginning, that even though we usually associate the word religion with Christianity in this country, he doesn’t intend that connotation.

For lack of such a word I shall use the term religion in these chapters, but I want to make it clear at the outset that I understand by religion any system of thought and action shared by a group which gives the individual a frame of orientation and an object of devotion.

Which means that, for the purposes of today’s discussion, anything can be a religion. Writing about literature, for instance, or the pursuit of romantic love. I’ve been getting agitated with facebook recently, and I think it’s because my friends are getting so insistent on their secular religions. Even my friends who embrace a belief system tend to orient their lives around a secular concept to which they give their devotion. To some it’s patriotism and the flag, which I disagree with completely because I think dividing people into nations is useful in governing them but dangerous in the tendency to nationalism and partisanship. To some it’s guns, and I explicitly unfollow these people. But to others it’s social justice, and while I’m in favor of that, their passion and extreme devotion to the specific aspect of injustice that bothers them is difficult for me. I have people posting that not enough of us are talking about Puerto Rico, but I feel like a third of the things I see are about the disaster there. I see so many terrible things in the news that I’ve become less sensitive to tragedies that I don’t see with my own eyes. There are so many tragedies that I’m exposed to that I seem to have lost the ability to be surprised by them, and without the element of surprise I don’t get shocked, angry, or passionate about things the way my friends do. I feel like I’ve lost some essential human element in my personality – it often feels like a physical pressure bearing down on me, that I don’t care enough about people-first language or injustices that don’t affect me personally. Think about the metaphor for feelings from Brave New World – a pipe with one leak builds up a lot of pressure and shoots that water pretty far, but the more leaks there are the weaker the pressure. My facebook newsfeed is like this leaky pipe, and every fresh injustice pokes a new leak, so that I feel like I don’t have any empathy left over for people outside the gay community. The demand to care about every single person on earth is draining, and it leaves me feeling tribal and misanthropic. It makes me think that the world is an awful place full of horrible people, which includes everyone I know. I don’t actually believe that, and it hurts to have those ideas pushed into my head. I am already in pain; stop poking my bruises with sharp sticks.

In some ways, I was better at loving people en masse back when I was more explicitly religious. I was raised in an authoritarian version of Christianity, and as an adult I tried to embrace a more humanist version, but after reading Fromm I’m not so sure whether I was successful. According to Fromm, the authoritarian/humanist divide cuts across all faiths, and he clearly favors the humanist side. In describing the effect of authoritarian religion, of projecting authority and virtue to a being outside of ourselves:

When man has thus projected his own most valuable powers onto God, what of his relationship to his own powers? They have become separated from him and in this process he has become alienated from himself. Everything he has is now God’s and nothing is left in him. His only access to himself is through God. In worshiping God he tries to get in touch with that part of himself which he has lost through projection. After having given God all he has, he begs God to return to him some of what originally was his own. But having lost his own he is completely at God’s mercy. He necessarily feels like a “sinner” since he has deprived himself of everything that is good, and it is only through God’s mercy or grace that he can regain that which alone makes him human. And in order to persuade God to give him some of his love, he must prove to him how utterly deprived he is of love; in order to persuade God to guide him by his superior wisdom he must prove to him how deprived he is of wisdom when he is left to himself.

I’ve lost God, but I haven’t recovered the parts of myself that I gave up ten years ago. Maybe in some ways I still feel like a sinner, but one that is no longer penitent. If I’m a sinner, then I love the sin in me as well as the virtue. The Ex never could quite understand that there were some things that I believed to be wrong, but that I did anyway because I enjoyed the wrongness of them, and maybe that’s still true of me. These days I damn myself through projection differently, thinking and saying that my kids have the best parts of myself, as if I lost some virtue in giving it to them. But this is illogical, because that’s not how genetics works. When I see my personality traits in my children, but without the anxiety, I get excited and happy, but those traits are still present in me, and I want to be better at recognizing my strengths and not only my limitations.

When he gets into talking about love, I do see my limitations quite clearly.

The command to “Love thy neighbor as thyself” is, with only slight variations in its expression, the basic principle common to all humanistic religions. But it would indeed be difficult to understand why the great spiritual teachers of the human race have demanded of man that he should love if love were as easy an accomplishment as most people seem to feel. What is called love? Dependence, submission, and the inability to move away from the familiar “stable,” domination, possessiveness, and the craving for control are felt to be love; sexual greed and the inability to stand solitude are experienced as proof of intense capacity for love. People believe that to love is simple but that to be loved is most difficult. In our marketing orientation people think they are not loved because they are not “attractive” enough, attractiveness being based on anything from looks, dress, intelligence, money, to social position and prestige. They do not know that the real problem is not the difficulty of being loved but the difficulty of loving; that one is loved only if one can love, if one’s capacity to love produces love in another person, that the capacity for love, not for its counterfeit, is a most difficult achievement.

[…]

Psychoanalysis also shows that love by its very nature cannot be restricted to one person. Anyone who loves only one person and does not love “his neighbor” demonstrates that his love for one person is an attachment of submission or of domination but not love. Furthermore, anyone who loves his neighbor but does not love himself shows that the love of his neighbor is not genuine. Love is based on an attitude of affirmation and respect, and if this attitude does not also exist toward oneself, who is after all only another human being and another neighbor, it does not exist at all. The human reality behind the concept of man’s love for God in humanistic religion is man’s ability to love productively, to love without greed, without submission and domination, to love from the fullness of his personality, just as God’s love is a symbol for love out of strength and not out of weakness.

As I think over my relationships, I think that Fromm is more correct than I want him to be. In fact, I feel a bit like he’s pulled my pants down in a public place – not embarrassed exactly, but exposed to the possibility of being perceived as inadequate. I do sometimes wonder if the emotion I excite in people is not love so much as pity, since I do very little to hide my suffering, and I seem prone to suffer at the least inconvenience. And while my relationship with him may have started in a good place, it ended up in possessiveness, dependence, sexual greed (on my part), and the inability to move away from the familiar “stable” (on his part). Then I think about my life here without him, and I’m shy about meeting new people because I’m concerned about not being thin enough, or wealthy enough, or cultured enough, or interesting enough, or handsome enough, and it’s a well-documented fact that our community focuses more on the external than heterosexuals do. A friend told me recently that there’s nothing quite so attractive as a rich, handsome lawyer in his jogging outfit. So maybe what I really want is not love, but just to find someone who will touch me. I’m not saying the two are mutually exclusive, but they do present a very different focus, and probably a different approach (if I knew anything about locating men for either purpose, I could be more specific about this).

I was chatting with a medium I know – practicing my tarot readings, learning more about the symbology – and she introduced me to a divination schema I had never heard of before. The main takeaway point I got was the idea that this instability and restlessness that I’ve been suffering from my whole adult life is not a trial; it’s who I am. The argument is that for me (not for everyone, mind you) it’s my desires for stability and domesticity that are culturally determined and foreign to my nature: the ease with which I get bored isn’t a flaw that I need to correct, it’s just me. Some of us just have explorer personalities, which means that I’ll be better and happier, more my natural self, if I stop thinking of my journey as having a destination and just focus on making sure it doesn’t end. For me, the joy will have to be here and now, in the temporary and elusive, because the permanent will always leave me unsatisfied and the future will never look as I think it will. I was talking it over with another friend, and she pointed out that this doesn’t mean I have to keep up the nomadic lifestyle. It just means that I have to keep looking for something to explore, something new. Life always has something new to offer – new activities, new ideas, new disciplines of study, for example. This self-evaluation meshes well with my Gallup Strengths Finder results and my Myers-Briggs type, which is why I think it’s worth relating. I know that astrology isn’t science and there’s no logical reason to believe in it, but I left that conversation feeling more comforted, more at peace with myself than I have in weeks, and I’m not going to let the logical voice in my head take that away from me.

As with any book about religion, Fromm has a clear goal for us and our belief systems, and I think it’s a good one:

Our unconscious – that is, that part of our self which is excluded from the organized ego which we identify with our self – contains both the lowest and the highest, the worst and the best. We must approach the unconscious not as if it were a God whom we must worship or a dragon we must slay but in humility, with a profound sense of humor, in which we see that other part of ourselves as it is, neither with horror nor with awe. We discover in ourselves desires, fears, ideas, insights which have been excluded from our conscious organization and we have seen in others but not in ourselves. It is true, by necessity we can realize only a limited part of all the potentialities within us. We have to exclude many others, since we could not live our short and limited life without such exclusion. But outside the confines of the particular organization of ego are all human potentialities, in fact, the whole of humanity. When we get in touch with this disassociated part we retain the individuation of our ego structure but we experience this unique and individualized ego as only one of the infinite versions of life, just as a drop from the ocean is different from and yet the same as all other drops which are also only particularized modes of the same ocean.

Or, more concisely:

The psychoanalyst is in a position to study the human reality behind religion as well as behind nonreligious symbol systems. He finds that the question is not whether man returns to religion and believes in God but whether he lives love and thinks truth. If he does so the symbol systems he uses are of secondary importance. If he does not they are of no importance.

One of the reasons that this book is so short is that Fromm circumvents a lot of the religious debates by focusing on the issue of his previous books, authoritarianism. As mentioned, authoritarianism exists in all religions, and he finds it more productive to focus on this difference than the differences between Buddhism and Catholicism, or between Mormons and Muslims. And I think he’s right, that the outward trappings of belief statements and whether you say ‘debts’ or ‘trespasses’ are really unimportant, far less important than whether your faith leads you to love yourself and others or to hate yourself and others. Any faith group where people are increasing in love is okay with me, and any in which people are sowing the seeds of destruction is not. The fact that the same group can have both tendencies just makes it complicated, and reminds me that it’s not my job to judge someone else’s beliefs.

I do want to disagree with Fromm on one point: he argues that secularists don’t have rituals, and I disagree. I may have given up prayer as an individualized ritual of finding comfort through communing with my subconscious, but I’ve switched to tarot readings, which for me have very little sense of mysticism and more to do with the logical application of symbols. There are other rituals I do every day, like flossing, brushing my teeth, and rinsing with mouthwash before going to bed. Or, I fasten my safety belt, put the key in the ignition, press and hold the brake, turn the key, release the parking brake, and then shift into gear before releasing the brake. These may not confirm my position in a group, but they are established patterns of behavior that I hope will bring me safety and good oral health. We all have our rituals, but I guess in 1950 it was a little harder to recognize the secular ones for what they are. Fromm only recognizes ritual in the community sense, as in taking Communion as a congregation.

The shortness of the book does make me wonder how comfortable Fromm was writing on this topic. However, the shortness of it also means that I read it in one day, even though it’s taken me three more to write about it. Life is getting busy. Sometimes a shorter text serves as a good introduction to a writer’s thought, but because this one relies so heavily on the ideas in his other two books, I’d still recommend people start with Escape from Freedom.

For the last two weeks, I’ve been working on grading some research projects, and the teacher gave them all the same topic, so it’s been a little hard to focus on because my mind keeps wandering away from globalization to other things. Any other thing. This morning I was finishing the last of it, and I had some coffee to help me wake up and focus, and I listened to exciting swing music, so now I have all this energy and not much to do with it.

Globalization is becoming rather a pertinent topic lately, with Brexit and Trump’s increasingly intolerant policies. These current struggles are foreshadowed in this book, describing Turkey a good twenty or thirty years ago. Thinking back over Pamuk’s career and the books of his that I’ve read, The Black Book was written before he became internationally famous, and the dominant feeling is the author’s deep love for Istanbul. Then there was this one, The New Life, which expands over all of Turkey, but the optimism implied in the title is misleading. This is an angry, unhappy book. Then there was the first one I read, My Name is Red, the historical murder mystery that helped him really ‘make it’ in the world market. A few years later he was awarded the Nobel Prize, and quickly became the best-selling Nobel author in history.

So, Reader, place your faith neither in a character like me, who is not all that sensitive, nor in my anguish and the violence of the story I have to tell; but believe that the world is a cruel place. Besides, this newfangled plaything called the novel, which is the greatest invention of Western culture, is none of our culture’s business. That the reader hears the clumsiness of my voice within these pages is not because I am speaking raucously from a plane which has been polluted by books and vulgarized by gross thoughts; it results rather from the fact that I still have not quite figured out how to inhabit this foreign toy.

First-person narrator is not a happy guy. The book starts off promising, but it actually goes south pretty quickly.

I read a book one day and my whole life was changed. Even on the first page I was so affected by the book’s intensity I felt my body sever itself and pull away from the chair where I sat reading the book that lay before me on the table. But even though I felt my body dissociating, my entire being remained so concertedly at the table that the book worked its influence not only on my soul but on every aspect of my identity. It was such a powerful influence that the light surging from the pages illumined my face; its incandescence dazzled my intellect but also endowed it with brilliant lucidity. This was the kind of light within which I could recast myself; I could lose my way in this light; I already sensed in the light the shadows of an existence I had yet to know and embrace.

Most of us who love reading have had this sort of experience, and I think that we’re especially susceptible to it when we’re young, as he is. Early 20s, still at the university, a time when we are acutely aware of the fact that we are transforming ourselves into the people we want to be. But for most of us, the research we do into the books we read, no matter how emotional we feel about them, is essentially impersonal. We don’t meet our favorite authors, in my case because they’d been dead for over a hundred years. For Protagonist, though the book leads him into intensely personal spaces.

In the life of those people like me whose lives have slipped off the track, sorrow presents itself in the form of rage that wants to pass itself of as cleverness. And it’s the desire to be clever that finally spoils everything.

He reads the book, and it’s so powerful for him that he wants to meet with the girl who first made him aware of it. They do meet again, but she’s not really into him; she’s all over the guy who introduced her to the book, Mehmet. Mehmet isn’t as into her as she is into him. One day, Protagonist is looking for them and sees Mehmet get shot in the street, right next to her. He asks around and gets really contradictory information about what happened, whether Mehmet is alive or not, still studying at the university or not, still in town or not. Eventually he gives up and takes to the buses. At this point I really started to feel like I was reading a book by David Lynch – the critics say Kafka, but I haven’t made it through The Trial, and I have made it through Eraserhead. They all three share this phantasmagoric quality, which feels sort of allegorical but is not transparent enough for me to find the meaning.

He’s riding buses, changing destinations at random, and Turkey is a big country. There’s plenty of room to get lost in. Then his bus crashes. Then another bus crashes. Then he starts looking for buses that are likely to crash. He thinks he’s being led intuitively by the book, but this section (Act 1 of 3) is full of random accidents. He starts to see that the new life he’s looking for is really close to death. Indeed, his obsession with bus crashes seems to lead toward death. And crime, since he robs the newly dead to keep buying bus tickets. He does run into the girl again – her name is Janan, and in keeping with Pamuk’s habit of portentous names for female characters, it means Soulmate. They ride the buses together, still looking for crashes, both now also looking for Mehmet. In one of the crashes, they meet a couple who had been going to a dealers’ convention to meet Doctor Fine, so they steal their identities and destination.

Act 2 is at Doctor Fine’s. Unbeknownst to Janan and himself, Doctor Fine is Mehmet’s father. Mehmet is an identity that he stole later on. Doctor Fine thinks that his son is dead, and he blames the book for polluting his son with Western influences. Because he hates the book so much, he has spies all over the country looking for the people who read and are affected by the book, and if they seem to be spreading the book they get shot. This is where the similarity to ultra-nationalists like the Americans who support Trump and the British who support Brexit became a little uncomfortable for me. There’s nothing wrong with patriotism, and I personally love North Carolina quite passionately, but I don’t believe any community is served by extreme conservatism. Things change. Cultures change. It’s what happens. But Doctor Fine and his followers are devoted to preserving one aspect of culture as Turkish and rejecting the ways that their culture is changing. No culture can be distilled to a single issue, and choosing the making of local goods and crafts instead of mass-produced imports only makes sense to them because they are dealers trying to preserve their livelihoods. As with our conservatives, they assume that what is good for them personally is good for the nation as a whole, and as with our conservatives, they pick and choose which parts of the country and the culture are Turkey and deny the existence of others. A significant portion of Turkey is European, it borders on Greece and Bulgaria, but European influence is bad for Turkey, which they perceive to be an Asian, Muslim country. And how much of America is heterosexual, white, and Christian? Not all of it. Not even most of it. A recent study showed that white Christians have become a minority group (comprised mostly of people over 30), and if you subtract the gay white Christians, they’ll be even smaller.

The pleasure of reading, which natty older gentlemen complain is lacking in our culture, must be in the musical harmony I heard reading the documents and murder reports in Doctor Fine’s mad and orderly archive.

It’s not that reading was lacking, but that people weren’t reading what their parents read. Just consider the furor that this book is raising, not because young people weren’t reading but because they were reading the wrong thing. Like that time I almost got into a fight with an older colleague over the value of graphic novels. Really? Your worst fear is that your students would rather read Death Note or Black Butler than The Canterbury Tales? What if they never stepped foot in a library or read anything at all? Wouldn’t that be worse? And isn’t that happening? In the place where I used to live in the Midwest, the libraries only serve people who live in the cities. If you live in the county, but in a small town or village outside of the two main cities, you have to spend $75 to get a library card. People in the rural areas are unlikely to be able to afford that, or to prioritize it. I may have ended up spending more than that at the used bookstore, but it wasn’t all in a lump sum. This is just one of the ways that American society punishes people for being poor. If a kid lives out in the country, where cell towers are few and internet signal is weak, his only access to information is through his school library, and teachers are often so pressured to spend every moment of class time preparing to meet state and national standards that they don’t have time to take their classes to the library. Kids can go to the library before or after classes begin, but if students ride the bus, they arrive at school with only a few minutes to get to class and they have to leave immediately after classes end. Again, no time for the library. In that part of the Midwest, access to information is limited to children whose parents can afford to live in the city. How are we supposed to have an educated populace if we restrict who can use the library, or if we dictate which books are to be read? I think we’ll be much better served if we teach children that the world is knowable and available to them and that learning is interesting and rewarding than if we explain patiently to them all the metaphors in Chaucer or lock them out of the library because their parents are poor farm workers.

There and then, as here and now, the conservatives blame foreign influences for the natural changing of culture. Trump’s immigration policies show a great deal of prejudice and a great deal of ignorance about how our country actually works. We’re in a less extreme version of what’s happening in Saudi Arabia: as higher education becomes more available, fewer Americans are taking ‘vocational’ positions. We are expecting a produce shortage soon, because most of the fruit pickers in California are being deported and Americans are not willing to take those jobs. We’ve been conditioned to believe that we won’t get hired for that work, and that we’re too good for that sort of manual labor anyway. You want to get rid of the people doing the lowest paid work? Okay. That means that pretty soon we’ll have no electricity, all the toilets will be clogged, there won’t be any good fruit, and new construction will grind to a halt. In Ray Bradbury’s Something Wicked This Way Comes there’s a janitor at the library who spends half the night reading the books after the building is closed to the public. This character felt unrealistic to me in a way that I wish he didn’t – he combines a lifelong love of learning with a contentment to work in a low-paying job that doesn’t require an education. We invest education with this sense of vocation, as if I have a duty to work in the field of literature because I have a degree in it. And now I’m unfit to do manual labor because employers expect me to be too snobbish to do the work. We need to instill a sense of pride in all sorts of work, and relax our expectation that every American needs to go to a four-year university. We need plumbers and construction workers, and right now we need them more than we need more English teachers (a dime a dozen, we are). We need to forget this idea that the life of the mind and the work of the hands are incompatible, and raise up more young students to become like Bradbury’s janitor.

Drifting back to Pamuk. Protagonist does finally find Mehmet, living under a new name and copying the book for select friends and acquaintances. His life is like that of the monks before the printing press, writing the scripture over and over again.

What I do might appear simple, but it requires great care. I keep rewriting the book without missing a single comma, a single letter, or a period. I want everything to be identical, right down to the last period and comma. And this can only be achieved through inspiration and desire that is analogous to the original author’s. Someone else might call what I do copying, but my work goes beyond simple duplication. Whenever I am writing, I feel and I understand every letter, every word, every sentence as if each and every one were my own novel discovery. So, this is how I work arduously from nine in the morning until one o’clock, doing nothing else, and nothing can keep me from working.

His encounter with Mehmet closes this portion of his life, and I felt like it would have been a good close to the book, but like Mulholland Drive, just when it ought to end it doesn’t, and a dozen years go by in the course of a few pages, and there are fifty more pages that tell about Protagonist’s life when he’s my age, and he goes on another, shorter quest to find out about the book. He reads all the source material, disappointed to find out how much of The New Life is based on La Vita Nuova, and then tries to track down another source of inspiration, the New Life candy wrappers that were around when he was a child. Throughout the book he seeks The Angel, and at first he identifies her with Janan, and later he identifies her with the angel on the candy wrapper, and he finally realizes that The Angel of Desire is really The Angel of Death. There’s been a conflation of Eros and Thanatos since the beginning, experiencing a new life while looking for bus crashes. I suppose there’s some accuracy to the idea that change is a sort of death, but I don’t think that literal death is necessary. Change is one of the characteristics of life; Death is an existence that does not change, where nothing is desired.

As I implied earlier, there is a lot of bitterness in this book. The conservatives long for death so much that they are actively killing the people who disagree with them, and the adherents to the book find madness and death. There are a few, very few, who can give the book a place in their lives without letting it flood everything and take away the good things they had, but our protagonist ends up feeling betrayed by both sides. He’s serious about that line, ‘the world is a cruel place.’ He describes the Turks of his peer group as being like himself, hollow shells of adults who are too tired by the conflicts they live among to do anything toward resolution, change, or happiness.

I wonder if a big part of my problem with this book and the similarities with my own society is my disenchantment with materialism. Here and now, as there and then, most people’s life is about things, whether books or houses or furniture or ornaments or clothes or whatever. The identity of the characters, and even of the book, is unfixed and mutable, while things remain the same. When protagonist borrows some old books, unread for more than a decade, the old woman who owns them asks him to return them quickly so they don’t leave her with an empty shelf. Books containing ancient wisdom and original thought are treated as mere knickknacks. I’m holding onto books that I haven’t read in years, but it’s because they’re hard to find and they mean important things to me. Her books are a reminder of the dead husband who loved his books more than he loved her, but she likes the way they look on the shelf. I suppose I see my books as living things, dear to me because of their uniqueness, and not things like a glass unicorn. They’re not status symbols or proof of wealth. Considering how much money I spend on books that I could be devoting to other things, they’re rather a proof of poverty.

I suppose what I’m saying is, this isn’t a happy book, and it reminds me of all the things in the world that I’m not happy with. If you want a happy book, read something else. If you want to be convinced that people are all basically the same, regardless of time or place, and the same dramas keep getting acted on different stages, by all means. Read this book and compare it to the news from the United States. Collectively, humanity does not learn quickly.

I have to admit, I didn’t see the evil hour this book depicts, at first. It seems pretty normal: the town priest cares for the people and they care for him; the mayor has a toothache but is too proud to go to the dentist; the judge is determined to have sex three times a night even though his wife’s pregnancy is advancing; normal sorts of things. But as the book goes along, you start to see the cracks in society, the party lines, the weaknesses, the power structure, the discontent.

What’s happening is that there isn’t a single fortune in this country that doesn’t have some dead donkey behind it.

There are scandals in everyone’s lives, and the smaller the community, the fewer secrets people are permitted to have. In this community, though, things go beyond idle gossip. Someone starts writing the secrets on paper and posting them on people’s doorways.

“Justice,” the barber received him, “limps along, but it gets there all the same.”

There’s a poster-related death almost immediately, but for the most part, life goes on as it ever did. The posters only reflect the common gossip of the town; there are no real, shocking revelations. It’s a paradox that we in the United States don’t live with, but based on my own experience, it’s what happens in rural, poor South America – everyone is all up in everyone else’s business, but they don’t much care what people say about them, so long as it doesn’t end in violence. Perhaps it’s my experiences in Brazil that lead me to have this attitude: don’t do anything you’re going to be ashamed of, but if you do, face it and accept the consequences. These lampoons, these pasquinades, don’t bother most people that much, nor do they reveal much about the community or individuals. People who were circumspect before become even more so, but otherwise, it’s not that big a deal. For most.

The big deal is how the authorities in the town respond. The religious authority, Father Angel, is completely ineffectual. Some of the parishioners pressure him into writing a sermon about the pasquinades, but he wimps out at the last minute. He’s too afraid of conflict to resolve any of the actual issues. That sounds a lot like me, so I try not to judge too harshly.

It doesn’t seem to be God’s work, this business of trying so hard for so many years to cover people’s instinct with armor, knowing full well that underneath it all everything goes on the same.

This has always been my problem with religion. People are created one way, and then someone tries to make them something else. They surround people with rules to control their behavior, hoping to change them from the outside in. The only empirical evidence we have of God’s character is the personality of the people S/He created, and it’d be much more in line with the divine will to reveal and unfold that personality instead of twisting and pruning it. It would look more like loving God instead of finding fault with Her/His creation. I’ll admit that it’s a tricky business since people get so bent by the bad things that happen to them, but healing God’s children is a more worthy endeavor than torturing them with guilt. Especially things they may not feel guilty about.

There’s also the political authority. As I mentioned, the mayor and Judge Arcadio are two of the most important characters. But these aren’t the patriarchs that I think of when I hear these titles; they’re my age, or younger. The mayor especially is haunted by feelings of inadequacy and illegitimacy. People keep calling him Lieutenant – as time goes on, it becomes clear that the town is under martial law. The mayor is a soldier, not a politician, and he was appointed, not elected. He refuses to go to the dentist because the good doctor is on the opposing side. Eventually he decides to take a strong stand, instituting curfews, hiring extra “police officers,” guys who get pulled out of a bar and handed guns despite their complete lack of credentials. His poor decisions lead to a mass exodus; it’s implied that the community unmakes itself by the end of the story. I suppose it could be argued that the military not-really-mayor undoes it because he keeps the town in an unnatural state of things, a state of fear and the constant threat of danger.

“You don’t know what it’s like,” he said, “getting up every morning with the certainty that they’re going to kill you and ten years pass without their killing you.”

“I don’t know,” Judge Arcadio admitted, “and I don’t want to know.”

“Do everything possible,” the barber said, “so that you’ll never know.”

I’m with the judge on this one. And the barber. Having been born in the United States to a white family, one of my privileges is that the government isn’t trying to kill me. Given that I’m gay and the homophobes are taking over my country, this privilege may not last forever, but I don’t think we’re becoming The Handmaid’s Tale overnight. This situation will change. I believe that people are good, and their collective better instincts will win in the end. Especially in the age of the Internet, when information spreads quickly and widely. It’s not an age of logic or enlightenment; emotions rule the day, and images provoke compassion. I’m still haunted by the pictures of that guy who got beat up in Paris a year or two ago. I don’t remember his name, but his face, with its blood and bruises, stays with me.

I’ve been passing through my own evil hour this summer. Last week he admitted that he’s not emotionally investing in me because he expects me to leave him and go back to the South. It was hard to hear, and I’m trying not to be hurt or paranoid about it, but it makes things simple. When it’s time, I’ll just go. I’m mentally preparing myself to move away, including moving away from him, and it’s not as hard as I thought it would be. I suppose I’m more callous than I like to believe. We’re living more like friends than lovers, and he has plenty of family to fill his time. More than he’d like; there’s a reason he doesn’t know how to love without manipulating and taking advantage of people. But as I said, it simplifies things. Very soon it will be time to go, and I doubt I’ll be coming back.

I think that I want to like Garcia Marquez more than I actually do. He’s a bit like Toni Morrison – terrible stories beautifully written. I need to focus my attention on more uplifting literature.

A friend of mine was asking about this book a few weeks ago, and I’d never read it, or anything by Lewis, so I gave it a go. I studied literature because I wanted to read books and talk about them with intelligent people, so the emailed conversation we’ve been having has been a rare joy. And I’ve realized that I’ve been conflating Sinclair Lewis and Upton Sinclair, which sort of happens when you’ve never really read anything by either.

George F. Babbitt, as my friend pointed out, is the classic Trump supporter, only back in 1920. He’s solid middle class, at a time when that was possible. His is the America that people look back to as being great, prosperous and conformist and sexist and anti-immigration and would probably be racist if there were any other races represented.

Which of them said which has never been determined, and does not matter, since they all had the same ideas and expressed them always with the same ponderous and brassy assurance. It if was not Babbitt who was delivering any given verdict, at least he was beaming on the chancellor who did deliver it.

The people in Babbitt’s life are all pretty much the same. Their god is named Pep, and they all go around “boosting” each other, which I take to mean they advertise each other’s businesses in a loudly jovial fashion. Even their poetry sounds like an ad campaign. Relationships are kind of weird. He never really wanted to marry his wife, he never even asked – one night she was crying on his shoulder and he kissed her and she assumed that meant marriage, so he never contradicted her.

And the strange thing is that the longer one knew the women, the less alike they seemed; while the longer one knew the men, the more alike their bold patterns appeared.

I’d like to talk about gender, because that is one of those things I habitually do, but there’s not a whole lot here. Babbitt tries to avoid spaces that are coded feminine; he doesn’t even sleep in the bedroom, but on a sleeping-porch. He flees his house to get back to masculine spaces, like his real estate office.

The novel is organized as a three-act tragedy. The first part establishes Babbitt’s normal life, with his iron-clad habits and habitual dissatisfaction. The blurbs keep saying this is a book about complacency, but I don’t see the joint pleasure that word implies. His phonograph needle is stuck in this one groove, but he doesn’t like it.

He was conscious of life, and a little sad. With no Vergil Gunches before whom to set his face in resolute optimism, he beheld, and half admitted that he beheld, his way of life as incredibly mechanical. Mechanical business – a brisk selling of badly built houses. Mechanical religion – a dry, hard church, shut off from the real life of the streets, inhumanly respectable as a top-hat. Mechanical gold and dinner-parties and bridge and conversation. Save with Paul Riesling, mechanical friendships – back-slapping and jocular, never daring to essay the test of quietness.

He turned uneasily in bed.

He saw the years, the brilliant winter days and all the long sweet afternoons which were meant for summery meadows, lost in such brittle pretentiousness. He thought of telephoning about leases, of cajoling men he hated, of making business calls and waiting in dirty anterooms – hat on knee, yawning at fly-specked calendars, being polite to office-boys.

“I don’t hardly want to go back to work,” he prayed. “I’d like to – I don’t know.”

But he was back next day, busy and of doubtful temper.

Paul Riesling is important – he and Babbitt complain about their mutual unhappiness, and that releases the pressure so Babbitt can go back to his boringly successful existence. This is the part where I usually speculate on the possibility of their being gay, but no. There are opportunities for that, but I don’t think they go there. It is possible for two heterosexual men to enjoy each other’s company without either of them secretly wanting to have sex.

Act Two describes Babbitt’s rise to power. Lewis always points out the ways that Babbitt is successful, but not the most successful. He belongs to the second-best clubs – nothing is ever quite of the best. But then he starts getting a reputation for being an orator, and makes some well-received public speeches (that to me sound like meaningless jingoism), and he starts climbing the social ladder. In this part of the book, Babbitt is frequently reminded of the fact that there is a pecking order and what his place is in that order – knocked down by those above, slavishly adored by those below.

Frankly, this first two-thirds was sort of dull to me. Conspicuous consumption and the expected indiscretions, like having whisky at a dinner party during Prohibition. His neighbors on either side represent his superego and his id, and it’s all sort of predictable and episodic and boring. Babbitt’s life is boring. It’s hard for me because I see so much of this in my family; they follow the round of business and church and the collective life. There’s a certain degree of comfort in all of it, but it feels like a hairshirt to me. The thing is, that life in gay land isn’t much different. The gay men I’ve met are just as conformist as everyone else, and the cultural push to marriage equality celebrated this fact. Look at us, we’re just as boring as straight people. Don’t get me wrong, I’d like some more prosperity in my life, but I’d prefer a home life with fewer possessions and organizations. Frequent moving has made my life fairly Spartan, both in design choices and social activities. Home is where I go to relax, not to be overstimulated by a lot of people who need attention and a mountain of stuff that needs to be cleaned.

Babbitt’s story gets interesting (to me) when he starts to fall. It starts with Paul Riesling shooting his (own) wife and going to jail. Without that safety valve to release the pressure, Babbitt goes off the rails. His wife goes off for a visit to her sick sister, and he starts going out with a lovely widow who was a lot of young scandalous friends. But as he gets farther and farther into this group, they demand an equal amount of conformity, just of a different variety. They’re just as involved in every aspect of each other’s lives, they just prefer a different sort of life. It’s kind of sad. He learns to hold his liquor and dance the latest steps, but he’s not actually more independent than he was before. His rebellion is as neatly prescribed as his previous life. But then the old crowd cuts him, and he pulls himself out of the new crowd, and he sinks to the bottom. Unlike a good many tragedies, though, he rights himself. His wife gets appendicitis and spends two or three weeks in the hospital. It may seem like the crowning tragedy, but the sympathy generated brings him back into the fold of conservative, right-thinking people. He ends where he began, but with a little less rigidity.

As he began to drift away he also began to see her as a human being, to like and dislike her instead of accepting her as a comparatively movable part of the furniture, and he compassionated that husband-and-wife relation which, in twenty-five years of married life, had become a separate and real entity.

The whole thing does improve his relationship with his wife; at least, he has more respect and consideration, and I guess that can take the place of love. I want to live with someone who is kind, and that seems the most important quality to me these days. My current he is kind to me, and good to his family and friends generally. We have some cultural differences that may be irreconcilable – he doesn’t find the strange to be beautiful – but it works for right now.

This week I read Emerson’s “Self-Reliance” with my advanced class, and Babbitt is the sort of person the essay decries. He flies from one conformity to another, and never really settles into living by his own values and opinions. His independent thoughts are only for private time and aren’t permitted to dictate changes to his public life. I’m not saying that I never do this. It’s not like Emersonian self-reliance is easy, and I don’t think an extreme devotion to it is healthy because we do need to live in communities. But living according to one’s own opinions and values is important; it’s a vital part of what being American means to a lot of us. Maybe twenty-first century mobility and communication have been necessary to both embrace one’s own priorities and still live in a community. If so, the internet is a great gift to the world.

Sinclair Lewis’s style matches his subject matter. It’s clear and impartial, occasionally descriptive but never really effusive. The book is a good one for people who are interested in the daily lives of the Midwestern middle-class in 1920, but my final evaluation is pretty much the same as my evaluation of the protagonist: not bad, but not interesting enough to keep my attention.

This author was recommended to me as something completely different, something that could shock me back into myself. I’ve been feeling disconnected from myself, and a shock could be what I need. As I’ve been thinking about it, I’ve realized that I need to get back to the piano. Playing music is important to me, but I’ve been neglecting it. I suppose part of this is that he isn’t in favor of having a piano in the house. I know they’re heavy, but they’re also meaningful. Meaningful things should have weight.

The thing that has struck me about Tagore is not his difference, but his similarity. His title points to the parallels between the domestic and public spheres, which I’ve been fascinated with for more than ten years. Think Sense and Sensibility. In fact, I tend to keep a strict delineation between the two. Which is why I don’t invite people to my house. Living with a family is challenging for me because I have to share decision-making and it’s difficult to have a physical space that is only mine. For instance, we took his daughter to a theme park yesterday, but he doesn’t like roller coasters. I was there to spend time with him, so I didn’t ride them. Do you know how dismal and dull theme parks are if you don’t go on the rides?

There are three narrators, but Bimala is the one I find most important. She’s stuck in a triangle with Nikhil and Sandip. Nikhil and Bimala have been married for nine years. He’s an intellectual, seems to be some sort of magistrate for the district, which is in Bengal, the northeastern part of India. A good bit of Bengal is now Bangladesh. Sandip is Nikhil’s friend, who is working for an independent India. Sandip comes over for a day or two, but he decides to extend his visit because Bimala is a special person. She’s not presented as especially beautiful, but she has something. Nikhil has been trying to encourage her to become his equal, but it’s not working. She just keeps being a traditional Indian wife, which to her means complete submission. The women tend to live separated from men, and Nikhil wants to spend more time with her. It’s countercultural, but it’s not illegal or irreligious. He pushes gently, and she remains unmoved. Her job is domesticity, and that means following strict conventions.

And then Sandip notices her. He doesn’t want some weird blurring of society’s gender roles. He doesn’t really want to bring her into a man’s world. To him, Bimala is a goddess. With him, she feels like the divine embodiment of the nation. She gains confidence, not by being invited to share her husband’s life, but by being put on the culturally approved pedestal. Sandip is really good with her (NB: I didn’t say ‘to her’). The prolonged seduction goes very well for a while; he’s a great manipulator, but not even the best can keep it up indefinitely. Eventually he has to make a direct demand, and she sees what he is but is in too deep to turn back.

With Sandip, it’s all about The Cause. His cause is the country. Under British rule, European goods have been flooding into the country. A vital part of claiming their national identity is rejecting foreign goods. Sandip and his followers use Any Means Necessary – if only one guy is still transporting imports across the river, you sink his boat. It looks like a nonviolent protest, but it’s not really. These people are ruining the lives of the very people they claim to want to save. So when Sandip asks Bimala for money to finance the cause, he asks for too much for her to get on her own. When she has to steal for The Cause, she knows she’s gone too far and starts trying to pull herself out.

Nikhil is very much an All Lives Matter type of guy. I don’t mean that he denies the importance of fighting against discrimination, I mean that he really values all lives. India is not as important as Humanity. He’s sort of a stand-in for Tagore, someone who believes that you can’t take away someone’s livelihood without giving him a life of equal or greater value. Home rule for India is important because of the systematic oppression of the Indian people by the English, not because it’s an inherent good. He has a strong value for people, while Sandip cares more about principles. And Sandip’s principles are ethnocentric and misogynistic. He tells people that he only cares about the country, but he’s really in this for himself. He found a way to rise in caste, so he is taking advantage of the personal benefits without being overly concerned about the Motherland.

My theory of life makes me certain that the Great is cruel. To be just is for ordinary men—it is reserved for the great to be unjust. The surface of the earth was even. The volcano butted it with its fiery horn and found its own eminence—its justice was not towards its obstacle, but towards itself. Successful injustice and genuine cruelty have been the only forces by which individual or nation has become millionaire or monarch.

That is why I preach the great discipline of Injustice. I say to everyone: Deliverance is based upon injustice. Injustice is the fire which must keep on burning something in order to save itself from becoming ashes. Whenever an individual or nation becomes incapable of perpetrating injustice it is swept into the dust-bin of the world.

Sandip is concerned with his own greatness, and he doesn’t care who suffers, because he sees it as his right to be unjust to everyone. The only thing that matters is that Sandip remains comfortable and rises to the top. And yes, his sexual politics are as bad as his public policy.

We are men, we are kings, we must have our tribute. Ever since we have come upon the Earth we have been plundering her; and the more we claimed, the more she submitted. From primeval days have we men been plucking fruits, cutting down trees, digging up the soil, killing beast, bird and fish. From the bottom of the sea, from underneath the ground, from the very jaws of death, it has all been grabbing and grabbing and grabbing—no strong-box in Nature’s store-room has been respected or left unrifled. The one delight of this Earth is to fulfil the claims of those who are men. She has been made fertile and beautiful and complete through her endless sacrifices to them. But for this, she would be lost in the wilderness, not knowing herself, the doors of her heart shut, her diamonds and pearls never seeing the light.

Likewise, by sheer force of our claims, we men have opened up all the latent possibilities of women. In the process of surrendering themselves to us, they have ever gained their true greatness. Because they had to bring all the diamonds of their happiness and the pearls of their sorrow into our royal treasury, they have found their true wealth. So for men to accept is truly to give: for women to give is truly to gain.

As things progress, our three narrators start to realize that they don’t understand each other, but while they phrase it as a gender problem, I think it’s bigger than that. Does any person really know another? There are depths that stay hidden. We are always growing and changing, and even people who know each other well have to ask each other what they’re thinking. There is something isolating about being in existence.

There’s more going on. Think about Burke and Austen – there is no distinction between private and public spheres. Sandip and Nikhil represent their ideologies, the revolutionary new India and the colonial establishment. Bimala is the nation, caught between the two. In Tagore’s schema, the revolution doesn’t care about the individual lives of the poor; it only pretends to so that the leaders can enrich themselves and acquire power. The conservatives try to protect and take care of people. The poor may have only partial freedom, but the boundaries of their lives are invisible, like Pierre’s Ambiguities. The purpose of the maharaja is to make sure they don’t feel the ties that bind them, and Nikhil is good at it. Not good enough to stop Sandip’s influence, but good. His rule is sufficiently relaxed that disorder can grow up fairly quickly because Nikhil will not infringe on the revolutionaries’ right of self-determination. So long as they’re not hurting someone else. Sandip isn’t opposed to hurting others, and he ends up damaging himself in the process. Not physically, but he is disdainful of Nikhil’s intellectualism even though he spends more of his narration time on abstraction than Nikhil. Nikhil is interested in realities; Sandip is interested in justifying his self-centeredness.

So. Passionate manipulator vs intellectual idealist? It reminds me of the current presidential race in America. Sandip is Mr Trump, fighting to advance his position even though he’s unsuited to greater power, and destroying everyone he comes into contact with. He’s like the Russians who engineered a Communist revolution to concentrate an entire nation’s resources in the hands of a select few. Nikhil is like President Obama, idealistic and hopeful, struggling to guide people into happiness without the success he’d like. It’s difficult to make people both free and well behaved. I think Trump’s entire campaign is utter lunacy. The fact that the Republican Party chose a candidate that has no experience in diplomacy is baffling, and the fact that enough Americans admire him that he actually has a good chance of winning the election is proof of massive ignorance. People are afraid, so they trust the one who tells them they are right to be afraid.

In both the book and in reality, Muslims are an issue. For them, there is something more important than national identities or the rights and wrongs of politics. The world is full of suffering, but it’s possible to rise above the suffering by submitting one’s will to God. All kinds of suffering. The flavor of the suffering is immaterial, since suffering is temporary and God gives us the strength to overcome it. Accepting suffering is essential to submission and brings glory to God. These ideas are inimical to revolution, even the type of revolution Trump is working toward. Minimizing one’s own suffering thus is important and healthy, whether a belief in God is involved or not. Minimizing the suffering of others is dangerous and can lead to fanaticism. When a person believes that causing suffering that others submit to brings glory to God, that person is dangerous and the world needs him to have as little power as possible. Causing suffering is bad, I’d even say evil, and people who do it carelessly do not deserve to become President of the United States.

Tagore may not have been shock therapy, but it has gotten me reading again. I’m grateful for the suggestion; it’s provoked the response I needed. Thanks, E.

I read this on Project Gutenberg, which leads me to distrust the ellipses. I read a book on PG once that had whole paragraphs missing. This is a good book, sort of sad, but beautiful. And it’s a warning. Electing Trump will give us the worst case of Buyer’s Remorse in American history. Don’t do it. Do whatever you can to prevent this, even if it means voting for a woman you don’t really believe in. He must be stopped. Some people talk about moving out of the country, but will that be safe? Is there any corner of the world that will be safe if DT has access to the American military?

People have been telling me to read Pratchett for quite some time now, but I have not yet succumbed to the attractions of Discworld. I’m a bit nervous that once I get started, it’s going to take over my life, and I don’t really want that. I’ve read a bit of Neil Gaiman, though, and this is sort of what I expect from a combination of the two. You remember the old practical joke, where you balance a bucket of water on top of a half-open door, and then someone walks through the door and gets soaked? Funny, right? Now imagine that the someone walking through the door is one of the Lords of Hell, bent on dragging you down to the Underworld to be punished by Mr Big-and-Scaly himself. And imagine that the bucket is full of holy water, which will dissolve the corporeal manifestations of demons on contact. Imagine further that the you running from this demon is also a demon, albeit of a lesser order, and that sloshing any of the holy water on you will dissolve you just as effectively. What was a funny situation is now a game of life or death with eternal stakes. For me, the life-and-death struggle undercuts the jokes.

What happened to England? At one time they were the mightiest empire on the planet. Then they were the only nation to stand up to Hitler and the Nazis, and through the strength of their endurance they won. But sometime during the second half of the twentieth century the national identity shifted to focus on antisocial, xenophobic, inefficient, and unintelligent behaviour. Somehow they went from Winston Churchill to John Cleese. This is one of the things that I admire about Doctor Who: its insistence that no life is unimportant, and that the British people will continue until the end of the universe. The show is making an attempt to restore English nationalism.

The Antichrist is born on earth. Since this book is a little dated, the Antichrist was born the same year I was, and at the time the story takes place he’s eleven years old. He was accidentally put in a normal British family, so he grows up a fairly normal boy, though with a stronger love of home than I had. When he reaches the age of eleven, the hellhound comes to join him, but the boy’s sense of normal infects the dog, and he becomes a normal dog.

It’s time for the great war between heaven and hell, and all the heavenly and infernal hosts are massing together, ready to strike. Earth is the battlefield, and will likely be annihilated. Well, there’s a demon who doesn’t want this to happen. There’s an angel who feels the same way. Aziraphale tries to avoid heaven, and Crowley hell, in order to reach the Antichrist and save the world. Their jobs have been pretty easy until now, human beings being both worse than demons and better than angels. So they use their earthly tricks to dodge the supernatural and get to the boy. This is the type of antihero, praise-of-mediocrity stuff I was mentioning earlier.

This is all laid out in prophecy, of course. Three hundred years ago Agnes Nutter saw it all and wrote it down, quite literally. But like Cassandra of old, no one understands or believes her. Her book is now in the possession of her descendant Anathema Device. Newt Pulsifer, witch hunter, comes to find her and he falls in love (quite a change from Newt’s ancestor, who led the team that burned Agnes to death). His commander in the Witchfinder Army also gets ensnared by a fortune-teller/aging courtesan. (cf antihero, praise of mediocrity)

And there are the Four Horsepeople of the Apocalypse: Scarlett, Dr Sable, Mr White, and The Other One. Scarlett bounces around the world bringing armed conflict wherever she goes, which seems to be not-quite-industrial societies; Dr Sable is leading a revolution in nutrition in America, feeding us all on fillers without any actual nutritional value; and Mr White brings trash and oil spills everywhere. War, Famine, and Pollution (Pestilence retired after we scientized medicine in the early twentieth century). Death is always present, following the other three but stronger than them all. And they’re coming to start the war that will end everything.

But that normal boy doesn’t want to end everything. He loves his home. He’s spent eleven years making Tadfield the perfect place for a boy to grow up, and he doesn’t want a bunch of angels and demons ruining it. The two factions are equally indifferent to humanity, each intent on bringing glory to their commander by defeating their opponent. But what would happen after? An eternity of nothing. Heaven and hell are both short-sighted in their ambitions. The real goal is play, an activity that has no other goal but its own perpetuation.

I love moments of convergence, when the disparate strands of a story come together at the climax. All these groups find each other at the Air Base that controls England’s nuclear missiles. The missiles are somewhere else, of course, but all the controls are in Tadfield, and the Four Horsepeople are ready to get things moving.

The ancients were always so convinced that the world was going to end. I’m not. The world continues, and life endures. Sometimes it’s funny; sometimes it’s intense; sometimes it’s awful and pointless (full of antiheroes who praise mediocrity), but life goes on. Endings scare us; Death endures when all other spirits have passed. Apocalyptic maunderings are all about the fear of death. When one of us dies, however, the rest go on. The world doesn’t stop for a death. The end of life is natural, mundane. Even if all of humanity died, the world would continue; some forms of life would continue even after a nuclear holocaust. I guess having survived the Cold War gives me a different perspective than people had in 1990.

And I guess that’s what this is really about: heaven and hell and their mutually assured destruction are uncomfortably similar to the United States and the Soviet Union, where ultimately the two sides are working for the same goal, the destruction of everything, and are indifferent to other nations, even their allies. I’ve seldom considered what that would look like to the rest of the world; as an American, I haven’t had to. Sometimes the modern world feels like an old Western movie, and every so-called terrorist organization is waiting to see who’s finally going to kill the aging gunslinger. It may happen soon.

We are a group of former British colonies that were largely settled by Germans, so we have the Nazi viciousness and ravenousness combined with the English endurance and self-control.  No wonder people hate and fear us. For all that Good Omens is billed as a comedy, it’s a Lenny Bruce routine, laughing at what has you scared shitless. Perhaps on subsequent readings I’ll laugh more, but this time I saw this as a book of fear.

The trouble with trying to find a brown-covered book among brown leaves and brown water at the bottom of a ditch of brown earth in the brown, well, grayish light of dawn, was that you couldn’t.

It wasn’t there.

Anathema tried every method of search she could think of. There was the methodical quartering of the ground. There was the slapdash poking at the bracken by the roadside. There was the nonchalant sidling up to it and looking out of the side of her eye. She even tried the one which every romantic nerve in her body insisted should work, which consisted of theatrically giving up, sitting down, and letting her glance fall naturally on a patch of earth which, if she had been in any decent narrative, should have contained the book.

It didn’t.

Which meant, as she had feared all along, that it was probably in the back of a car belonging to two consenting cycle repairmen.