What Happened to the Battle That Was Ragin'?

As Jenny Diski says repeatedly in Picador's lovely "BIG IDEAS/small books" edition of The Sixties:  "The music was undeniably as great as we thought it was."  She repeats this over and over again, and over and over again I agreed with her.  She says, perfectly, "The music knew where we were going in our heads and wrote the score."  It reminded me of the scene in The Big Chill when one of Harold's (Kevin Kline's) college friends accuses him of being stuck in the 60's because all he plays on his stereo is 60's music.  One friend says, "Come on, there's been some great music since then", but isn't able to name any.  (That film soundtrack remains one of the best of all time.)

This is a small book, in both size and length, at 134 pages, but Diski is succinct, objective, and honest in her analysis of those times.  She's also a Brit, so it was interesting to read her take on what was happening in the U.S. from someone "across the pond."

I have another book by Diski, Stranger on a Train, (subtitled "Daydreaming and Smoking Around America With Interruptions").  The title alone was funny, and I really enjoyed this addition to the Travel section of my bookcase.  It was much more than a book on her travels by train, and the difficulties of smoking during her travels; like Paul Theroux, she has a knack for writing memorable portraits of the people she meets, and for writing profoundly on life in general as she makes her way to her destination.

I'm glad Diski made clear at the beginning of the book that:

"The Sixties, of course, were not the decade of the same name.  They began in the mid-1960s with the rise of popular culture. . . aided by a generation of people who did not have an urgent economic fear, nor (in Britain) a war to deal with, and it ended in the mid-1970s when all the open-ended possibilities we saw began to narrow. . ."

She says that the "big idea" we had, that included "freedom, liberty, permission, a great enlarging of human possibilities" was "an idea we failed to think through.  It was a failure of thought essentially, rather than a failure of imagination."  This is crucial.  What made those times so exciting and made them feel so open-ended was the power of our imaginations.  We had a great sense of play. 

She talks about the "terrible clarity of vision" that's "available to the young of every generation, and those who look become the trouble-makers, the difficult ones, that the elders complain about eternally."  How much better could the gist of those times be stated?  This also rang a bell to me personally, as I have always felt that I'm the "difficult" one of my siblings, the one unafraid to pull the covers off the truth and talk about what lies underneath.  I think a lot of those who were close to me at the time held that same spot in their family dynamic.

Diski is truthful about the failures of those times, but also kind toward our youthful hopes and dreams.  "Like the young at all times, I imagined that such as us had never happened before, and that nothing was ever going to be the same again once the old had passed into their pottering retirement.  What the young don't get is that they are young; the old are right, young is a phase the old go through."

To paraphrase Dylan, there are certainly still "battles ragin'", but I don't see youth on the front lines of those battles (against war and various oppressions) like we were in the 60's.  There are surely youth out there who are pursuing their ideals, and those ideals surely include freedom and liberty.  But despite the proliferation of media tools for networking and the spread of information, I don't hear or see much real rebellion in the air, at least not from youth.  Diski thinks the generations older and younger than us "are more inclined than we were to reproduce for their young what they experienced in their childhood, rather than offer them Wonderland.  We were stardust, we were golden and we had to get ourselves back to the garden. . ."

 

The Passage

Recently, I find myself pulling fantasy novels off my bookshelf. Is it because I need an escape from the debilitating and constant unemployment situation? Because of the continuing and futile war, disappointment in Obama, floods and earthquakes killing so many people? Although I’ve always enjoyed fantasy and sci-fi (I loved Anne Rice 's vampire series, and the heroine in Dana Gabaldon’s Outlander series is one of the all-time greats of any genre), they don’t form the bulk of my library, and recently, I’ve been reading a lot of nonfiction. But it’s also true that since childhood, I’ve loved myths and fairy tales. I still periodically re-read them, and just bought a nice leather volume of Bullfinch’s Mythology at the latest AAUW Book Sale. Myths are, after all, our oldest stories. Stories of quests, strange creatures, and the battle of good versus evil remain as popular today as eons ago. (Also, the first novel I wrote turned out to be a fantasy novel – did I subconsciously want to write a tale like those that first hooked me on reading?)

My nephew recently lent me The Book of Lost Things by John Connolly, which was very well-written. I particularly enjoyed his history of the fairy tales used in the book, in an appendix to the novel.

The book that’s lingered in my head for weeks now, though, through others I’ve read in the meantime, is The Passage, by Justin Cronin. I bought the book after reading an interview with him on the Powell’s Books website (http://www.powells.com/); the book sounded intriguing, and I was in the mood for escape after the two tomes I’d just finished (see earlier blog).

The theory voiced most often in the media in explanation of the spate of films and novels about vampires and zombies in the past few years is this: We feel helpless in relation to the economy, environmental disasters, and endless and futile wars (sounds like I fit right in). These vampire/zombie films and novels voice our helplessness in the face of implacable foes that can’t be killed and which we can’t control.

From the first chapter, Cronin convinces us that his world is real. It could be our world, which is what makes it truly frightening. Although The Passage is dark and terrifying, it’s also full of compassion for its characters. The unlikely heroine is a child, but there is another character whose presence remains throughout the book even after he’s physically left the scene, and was, to me, the true hero.

These vampires are unapproachable and not the least enigmatic, unlike Lestat or Louis (or Edward in the Twilight series). They’ve been created by man, and man can’t fix the terror he’s unleashed.

My only complaint is the ending. I felt the same way after reading the long and creepy, and sometimes maddeningly repetitive novel, Drood. This ending isn’t as frustrating, but I did have the same urge, though only momentary this time, to toss the book across the room. Then I re-read the last chapter and thought maybe it had to end that way. Or did it? Cronin’s definitely left things open for a sequel.

Two Massive Tomes

My sister Lydia usually reads several books at a time.  I may have a book of poetry on my coffeetable that I'll read to break up a long novel or book, but I usually just concentrate on one book, preferring to lose myself in that one world and give it my full attention.

For a change, though, I decided to tackle both the 1200+-page history Gotham by Burrows and Wallace, and the 800+-page novel NewYork by Edward Rutherfurd.  I'm coordinating the chapters by date, i.e., I'll read the history of New York through a certain date, and then the novel through that same time span.  It's easy to link the two because Rutherfurd's chapters are subtitled by date, and the massive history can easily be stopped when I reach the stopping end of an era, so to speak.  Gotham ends in 1898, while the novel takes us through the September 11th attacks on the World Trade Center.

What's interesting about doing the reading this way is seeing how the novelist makes the historical record come alive (although Gotham wasn't his only source).  We care about these characters.  What made one man or woman a Loyalist and others Patriots?  The fictional characters interact with historical ones like Ben Franklin and George Washington.

We follow several families through the generations, with certain talismans being passed down from one to the next.  The most poignant thread was that of the wampum belt, which we encounter toward the beginning of the novel, and which ends up being worn (and disintegrates) during the World Trade Center attacks.

Burrows and Wallace's writing, although like a textbook, is not dry.  The biggest difficulty I had with it was the weight of the book itself - how to hold it without making dents in my legs or ending up with aching wrists! 

I discovered many facts about New York City that were unknown to me before this reading, such as the fact that NYC was one of the largest slaveholding sites, fighting long and hard against abolition, and that NYC was our first capitol.  Of great interest to me was reading about the history of the publishing industry, how it began and evolved.  The footnotes were as interesting as the text - here's a sample, regarding the sewing industry:

"Singer introduced a family machine in 1856.  Home sales were sluggish at first, until Singer offered them at half price to ministers' wives and to sewing societies connected with churches, after which sales to "respectable" women picked up. . ."

The Draft Riots of 1863 detail the lynching and burning of blacks.  This is but one of the horrifyingly violent episodes in NYC's history, and one of Rutherford's characters, whose family we've come to care about, is a victim of this horror.

There's so much here - women's history, mercantile history, wars and battles and greed and generosity, writers and artists, plagues and inventions, common sense and blindness.  As I love the intensity, excitement, bustle and uniqueness of our most exciting city, it was a pleasure to discover its history.  I was touched that Rutherfurd ended his novel shortly after one of his characters visits Strawberry Fields, and then finds out that a Freedom Tower is to be erected at Ground Zero.  His character says: 

"That Strawberry Fields garden he'd come from, and the Freedom Tower he'd been thinking of:  taken together, didn't they contain the two words that said it all about this city, the two words that really mattered?  It seemed to him that they did.  Two words:  the one an invitation, the other an ideal, an adventure, a necessity.  'Imagine' said the garden.  'Freedom' said the tower.  Imagine freedom.  That was the spirit, the message of this city he loved."

It was an interesting experiment on my part, tackling these two books this way, and I'm glad I did it.  I'd recommend this method to anyone, but you may want to purchase a lapdesk first. . .

Please Go to "Please Give"

My Aunt Moogs conscientiously made small donations to many different charities; my mom does the same; I continue to do so despite being unemployed.  The desire to support causes we believe in (and believing that our doing so helps) runs in the family.  So I could identify with Kate's (Catherine Keener's) guilt and angst in Nicole Holofcener's Please Give, now playing at the 19th Street (Civic Little) Theatre in Allentown, at 7:30 tonight through Thursday.

The question is:  Where does it stop?  Do our small donations make a dent in the suffering all around us?  Are our assumptions about charities valid?  Once we start giving, the pleas quickly become a deluge.  Are we better off making one lump-sum donation to a single cause?  Do we stop giving and worry about ourselves?  Or do we just do what we can and try not to lose sleep over all that's undone?

In this film, Kate (Catherine Keener) wonders how to justify a purchase of expensive jeans for her daughter when people on the street below her (lovely and amazing) apartment freeze and go hungry.  And how does she justify making a profit re-selling old furniture at a huge mark-up, purchased from sellers ignorant as to its value -- does she tell them, and watch her own livelihood disappear?  Or learn to live with the guilt?

Nichole Holofcener has an ear for the way real people talk and act, especially women experiencing various degrees of crisis or stasis.  She presents her characters as they are, leaving us to judge them, as she does not.  Some scenes are uncomfortable to watch, as when Kate's daughter Abby receives a facial and her pimples are literally squeezed, but we cringe as well when Kate attempts to give her restaurant leftovers to an elderly gentleman outside a restaurant.  He's waiting in line to be seated, and Kate's and her family's embarrassment at her mistaking him for homeless is palpable.  This kind of discomfort -- the recognition it sparks and the questions it raises -- is one of the reasons film can have such power to move us.

The well-to-do vintage furniture store owners Kate (Catherine Keener) and Alex (Oliver Platt) have arrangements to purchase (or have already purchased) the apartment next-door.  This apartment is presently occupied by an elderly woman (Ann Morgan Guilbert as Andra), grandmother to Mary (callous) and Rebecca (kind and dutiful, played by Rebecca Hall, so beautiful in Vicky Christina Barcelona).  Kate and Alex can't expand into the apartment next door until Andra dies.  They wonder and worry how this agreed-upon transaction appears to Andra and her granddaughters, and how their friendly (and sometimes calculated) overtures appear.  The granddaughters don't seem bothered by the arrangement.  And crotchety Andra?  There are indications that she may not be too batty to be unoffended. 

The acting is splendid all around.  Sarah Steele deserves a Supporting Actress nomination for her role as Abby, accurately and perceptively capturing the surface concerns (the desire for expensive jeans), the backtalk, and the depth of a smart 15-year-old girl.  During the facial scene mentioned above, her complexion and expression minutely change as she listens to offhand news from Mary (Amanda Peet) that she realizes holds more import than her young heart can bear.  I was happily surprised to see Sarah Vowell in a small part as one of Kate's store patrons. 

The Roches "No Shoes" perfectly opened the film, a perfect fit in tone and content -- "I complained that I had nothing left to lose/And then I met a manWho had no shoes... "

Rah Rah for the Ri Ra Pub!

Why is the Tropicana casino in Atlantic City such a maze?  My brother says casinos are deliberately designed that way so that you're enticed to gamble at every turn.  We all surely got our exercise over the few days we were there.  After winding our way past the fountain and the ceiling palm fans, we found the Ri Ra (sorry, can't seem to add accents to this font) to get something more substantial than Boardwalk food.

There was a soccer game in progress on several big-TV screens in this Irish pub, the fans openly expressing their enthusiasm with cheers and moans when one of the players got kicked in the nose.  My brother used to play soccer, so was into it.  Despite some annoying distractions, I relished my lunch.

Everyone was pleased with their food here, from kids to parents to grandmother.  I ordered a Reuben (yes, I know, I had one in an earlier blog, but I love them) and it was, I think, the best one I've ever had, due in large part to the delicious thick bread that was used to enclose lots of lean corned beef and the Ri Ra special sauce.  I didn't feel guilty, as I knew I'd make up for the ingestion of so many calories with plenty of walking later.  Plus, aren't vacations made for guilt-free indulging?

A friend had recommended the Fiesta buffet, which we tried on a later night (I would have foregone the mediocre seafood there for the melt-in-your-mouth pot roast once I discovered it on second go-round). I think it was unanimous that we enjoyed the Ri Ra more; in fact, most of us returned there before we left for home and had another delicious lunch.

So if you're in Atlantic City and near the Tropicana, try the Ri Ra.  It's on the second floor in the Havana Tower.  I had hoped to try the Cuban restaurant also, but couldn't get anyone else to accompany me.

Now I'm home again, with food in the house, and tried a new curried chicken recipe last night that turned out great, from the Penzey's Spices catalogue.  This week:  a BBQ'd brisket, which makes lots of leftovers.  It always feels good to be cooking again after vacation food.  Since I ignored the temptations to gambleat every turn of the maze, I came home able to afford food despite the continuing unemployment situation.  I must eat, musn't  I?  So must we all, and enjoy it as much as we can.

A Masterpiece

Roberto Bolan͂o's  2666, the 3-volume boxed set of paperbacks, had been sitting on my bookcase for well over a year, like a giant whose footprint lay hidden in the woods waiting to be discovered.  I would look at it and then forget about it, moving on to other less intimidating books, but last week took it off my shelf and parted the leaves.  Like the four critics in Part One of the book, I felt the exhilaration of discovering an author whose words will excite controversy and multiple interpretations until 2666 and beyond. 

I don't know what the title means, but it doesn't matter.  The book itself is full of mystery, a slow and quiet suspense that draws the reader in.  There's the mystery of the elusive Archimboldi, the obvious mystery of the murders in Mexico, the mystery of each life that passes through the pages, the mystery of life itself.  Characters, even minor ones, begin talking and go off on a monologue or tale that seems to have nothing to do with the main story, but advances our understanding of the world in the way that both fables and reportage do, in their different ways. 

Part Four, "The Part About the Crimes", differs from the other parts of the book in that it matter-of-factly describes murder after murder.  Yes, mingled with these descriptions are investigations involving reporters and police, and other characters enter and occasionally deliver short monologues, but reading the factual descriptions of victim after victim becomes numbing.  I kept on, not skipping over any, realizing this was done to convey the horror of these still-unsolved crimes, and to force us to remember these women - they each had a name, they each had individual characteristics, they're each gone. 

Jonathan Lethem's excellent review in the New York Times on November 9, 2008, describes his excitement about 2666, and gives some background on Bolan͂o, as well as discussing the author's wish to publish the five parts of the book separately (he died before the book was printed), but as parts of one large work.  If Bolan͂o had written nothing else, this novel is enough to immortalize him (the meaning of literary fame is one of the pervasive themes of this book).

Bolan͂o's earlier novel The Savage Detectives, which has been on my "Books Wanted" list for sometime, has now moved to the top of that list.  To those of you who have 2666 waiting on your bookshelf, yet to be open and discovered:  prepare yourselves for a turbulent and rewarding meeting with a giant.

An Imminent Danger

This is very disturbing news from the New York Times:

"A federal judge in New Orleans issued an injunction against a six-month moratorium on new deep-water oil and gas drilling projects that was imposed by the Obama administration after an explosion on a drilling rig led to a vast oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico, the Associated Press reported.

The White House said the administration would appeal the ruling. Ruling in favor of oilfield services companies whose business suffered under the moratorium, District Judge Martin Feldman said that the Interior Department failed to provide adequate reasoning for the moratorium, and instead merely seemed to
assume that one rig failure meant all deep-water drilling posed an imminent danger."
Read More:  http://www.nytimes.com/aponline/2010/06/22/us/AP-US-Gulf-Oil-Spill.html?emc=na

Why doesn't this "one rig failure" mean all deep-water drilling poses an imminent danger?  Couldn't the same thing happen to the other rigs, with the same oversights and shortcuts being taken?  We won't know for a long time just how great a catastrophe this spill has been, and how far-reaching the damages.  Many people along the coast are already out of work - people who could be put to work and want to work.  It's way past time that we seriously engage ourselves in alternate, clean energy sources -- I'm not saying that people who have spent their lives fishing will be able to suddenly change careers -- I ache for them -- but we should investigate ways for them to maintain their livelihoods.

I think it'd be great if President Obama  instituted a new WPA, (see http://www.economicpopulist.org/content/do-we-need-another-wpa

not only to employ manual laborers to repair our infrastructure (to avoid future structural disasters like the Minneapolis bridge collapse), but to put writers to work, as was done with the WPA Federal Writers' Project.  According to Kevin Nance in the current issue of Poets and Writers Magazine, "Employing up to 7,500 people annually during its four-year run, the Writers’ Project nurtured a generation of authors who otherwise might have been forced into nonliterary careers." 

Why not do the same again?