something about Franz Kafka's diaries, 1909-1923

 
I brushed against Kafka's sense of isolation as I read this collection of his diary entries. The experience of reading this is alienating because there is no point of entry; the text and its author seem impenetrable. I was stuck outside, roaming a perimeter while he repeatedly disappeared in himself. But this reading experience is consistent with the themes found in his formally published work: anxiety, absurdity, and, of course, alienation. These entries date from 1910 to 1923, a year before the Czech writer died (probably from complications from tuberculosis) at age 40. I was stirred by his brief descriptions of social awkwardness and family tension. He was often frustrated with himself for not writing or for writing poorly. I do not think this work is all that readable; my attention would fade when he made random notations on dreams and story openings, which he often did.

Note:
Is this an invasion?

(posts) two performances of "Oh, Sarah" by Sturgill Simpson

or

a hasty and uninvestigated thought on "The Hunger Games"

In the the movie, "The Hunger Games" (the first in the series), the worst violence does not happen during the games. The movie is half over before the games even begin. The worst violence occurs with the social destruction caused by commercial exploitation—the tearing apart of families and friends and the compromising of values for money.

about a sunny winter day in St. Louis

Try to recognize the city's constancy. Mortar, red brick; work, manufacturing, beer; centered, unswept; the seam of the nation's identity. (Blight, represented by vacant, deteriorating husks in some sections, yes; but, even there, where history has paused, one can identify with the condemned.) Remember driving down Chouteau one February morning, old red-brick buildings on your right, and how rusted-out gutters, flecked in sea green, plunged down from the rooftops to lie shedding in time's gardens of grit and debris.


Note: Also remember the colors of the changing Maples on X Street, next to the house; Broadway's beautiful industry buildings (never could figure out if people were actually working there); mothers walking kids to the school buses on Chippewa; and smelling bread while walking to the front gate on a chilly day.

something about Ernest Hemingway's "The Sun Also Rises"

Most critics recognize The Sun Also Rises as Hemingway's best work. Published in 1926, the story follows an American expatriate traveling from Paris through Spain in the company of other American and British expatriates. Literary commentary inevitably refers to how the novel captures the Lost Generation's sense of disillusionment. Sure enough, Book I of this slim novel passes time in Paris, and there we see how unbearable disillusioned people can be, conspicuously bored and uncomedically witty. But after Book I, The Sun Also Rises reveals itself to be a potent, beautifully rich novel. Even the waste and cruelties of Book I become meaningful when recast in the violence at the fiesta.

There are so many wonderful lines. Examples:

Robert Cohn was a member, through his father, of one of the richest Jewish families in New York, and through his mother of one of the oldest.

And,

"How did you go bankrupt?" Bill asked.
"Two ways," Mike said. "Gradually and then suddenly."

And that phrasing is called back later:

The bull gathered himself, then his head went forward and he went over slowly, then all over, suddenly, four feet in the air.

But maybe my favorite part is the chapter in which Jake is drunk in his hotel room, thinking through his views on life. This chapter includes the following:

Women made such swell friends. Awfully swell. In the first place, you had to be in love with a woman to have a basis of friendship. I had been having Brett for a friend. I had not been thinking about her side of it. I had been getting something for nothing. That only delayed the presentation of the bill. The bill always came. That was one of the swell things you could count on.

I thought I had paid for everything. Not like the woman pays and pays and pays. No idea of retribution or punishment. Just exchange of values. You gave up something and got something else. Or you worked for something. You paid some way for everything that was any good. I paid my way into enough things that I liked, so that I had a good time. Either you paid by learning about them, or by experience, or by taking chances, or by money. Enjoying living was learning to get your money's worth and knowing when you had it. You could get your money's worth. The world was a good place to buy in. It seemed like a fine philosophy. In five years, I thought, it will seem just as silly as all the other fine philosophies I've had.

Perhaps that wasn't true, though. Perhaps as you went along you did learn something. I did not care what it was all about. All I wanted to know was how to live in it. Maybe if you found out how to live in it you learned from that what it was all about.

(posts) a sketch of Mao Zedong

about another dumb dream

The President was riding a missile that he ordered launched, like Major T. J. "King" Kong in Dr. Strangelove. With nothing to lose but this life, I hopped on. We soared the skies, and I looked down in fascination at the goings on below--ships sailing seas, wars being waged, people busying beaches and boardwalks. The Earth was a map. I considered our inevitable descent, and how my sense of wonder would shrink into terror and grief. The missile wavered; it would soon begin to sink, then turn slightly this way and that in a gentle turbulence. Finally, we began our approach. At 15,000 feet I bailed, foolishly thinking I might somehow escape. Pushing to the end of the map, the missile, with the President aboard, dropped sharply to Earth; but I fell off, beyond the map page. I tucked and rolled across ground, scratched to a stop, and rose to my knees. A buddy from work was there. I hugged him tearfully, tightly, sobbing, destroyed.


Note: I know that people do not generally like to hear about other people's dreams.

(posts) "Hardball" by D.R.I.

something passing

Here, stashed behind a woodpile, miles from the Capitol, loneliness surfaced at first in moments. The times waiting linger like an anchor. The feeling that one should engage more with the world takes root. But, why, when doing so always ends the same?

something from "Bartleby, the Scrivener" by Herman Melville

"Bartleby, the Scrivener" is one of my favorite pieces of writing. The story's themes of isolation, conformity, and human folly echo loudly. But it is Melville's humor that I heard clearly during my most recent reading. My favorite passage comes when the lawyer, after dismissing Bartleby on a Friday, returns to work Monday morning to find his scrivener still occupying the office. The lawyer, narrating, begins thinking through his next move:

“Not gone!” I murmured at last. But again obeying that wondrous ascendancy which the inscrutable scrivener had over me, and from which ascendancy, for all my chafing, I could not completely escape, I slowly went downstairs and out into the street, and while walking round the block, considered what I should next do in this unheard-of perplexity. Turn the man out by an actual thrusting I could not; to drive him away by calling him hard names would not do; calling in the police was an unpleasant idea; and yet, permit him to enjoy his cadaverous triumph over me,—this too I could not think of. What was to be done? or, if nothing could be done, was there anything further that I could assume in the matter? Yes, as before I had prospectively assumed that Bartleby would depart, so now I might retrospectively assume that departed he was. In the legitimate carrying out of this assumption, I might enter my office in a great hurry, and pretending not to see Bartleby at all, walk straight against him as if he were air. Such a proceeding would in a singular degree have the appearance of a home-thrust. It was hardly possible that Bartleby could withstand such an application of the doctrine of assumptions. But upon second thoughts the success of the plan seemed rather dubious. I resolved to argue the matter over with him again.

about a post-truth, post-fact age and rhetoric

People are trying to win the argument, not eliminate facts.

about maybe the first workday snow of winter

At two o'clock, Monica flitted through the office, teasing, "There's flakes! There's flakes!" We all wanted to be charmed by her, and by snow, but responses were mixed. Nevertheless, the giant panes drew us over and offered us the whole world. We wanted only a world-erasing blanket tumbling down. Finding only flurries and a little sleet, most of us headed back. But some stayed, hopes anchored away, and strained to discover signs that conditions were getting worse.

something about "There Will be Blood"

"There Will Blood" tells the story of an oilman building his empire during Southern California's oil boom in the early 20th century. This masterful epic (distantly inspired by Upton Sinclair's novel, Oil!) was directed by Paul Thomas Anderson and stars Daniel Day-Lewis as the oilman, Daniel Plainview. The film also features Paul Dano playing Eli Sunday, a charismatic young preacher and Plainview's foil. I watched the film again a while back, and considered it as an exploration of the relationship between rhetoric and truth.

Not a word is spoken during the first 15 minutes of the film. During that time, a baby whinnies, Daniel Plainview signs his name to a contract, and later he holds his black-coated finger up to silently signal that he struck oil.

The first spoken dialog in the film comes when Daniel, now with a foothold in the oil business, offers his drilling services to a new oil-struck community. Seated before them, Daniel establishes his ethos: "If I say I am an oilman, you will agree." Throughout the film, characters call attention to their speech acts. Here, Daniel goes on to say he is an experienced oilman with a simple offer: if the town agrees to work with him, he will consume fewer profits than a contractor and be more reliable than a speculator. He points to his young son, H.W., as proof that he runs a family business: honest and trustworthy. But when the town bickers and appears unable to immediately accept Daniel at his word, he leaves and doesn't look back.

Sales pitches--negotiation and manipulation, a play between rhetoric and truth--are heard throughout the film.

The next pitch is Daniel (again with his son at his side) at a kitchen table, an older couple facing him. This time Daniel closes with, "I need you to know what you want to do." This new closing technique is a reaction to the dissolution of his last prospect. The couple acquiesces in silence.

The film establishes that Daniel's voice, with its apparent directness, and the proximity of his young son are a big part of how Daniel communicates. With these tools he signals authority and legitimacy. However, we soon discover that Daniel's plain speaking is not so plain.

In the next pitch scene, roles are reversed, and Daniel finds himself in the role of customer. Paul Sunday (Eli Sunday's twin brother) comes to Daniel looking to sell information: the Sunday family farm is oil-rich: "If I told you I know a place that has oil, what do you think it would be worth?" When Daniel asks questions, poking around at the edges of Paul's secret, Paul flattens: "I'd like it better if you did not think I was stupid." When the cash-for-details trade is done, Paul closes: "The oil is there. I'm telling you."

Again, a character calls attention to his speech act.

With his interest piqued by Paul's revelation, Daniel and his son H.W. visit the Sunday family property posing as quail hunters. H.W. has learned to be the silent partner, and we get the impression that he has some awareness, if only vaguely, that he is a prop in these negotiations and his presence speaks volumes. When Daniel finally gets to negotiate--under the false pretense of buying the land for quail hunting and recreation--Daniel starts in, saying, "I believe in plain speaking." But this is a lie; his plain speaking is anything but. Eli steers the negotiation toward oil, and they all agree to deal.

Again and again, facts are minimized or misrepresented in speech. And with the introduction of Eli, we walk into a rhetorical web-tangling business masking brutality.

Later, when H.W. is alone with Mary, a young Sunday family member, she asks about the money that could be made from the oil pumped out of her family's land. H.W. withholds. After buying up all the nearby land, Daniel makes his pitch to the surrounding community. He appeals to them on the grounds that he comes to them without ceremony or intermediaries; he is there to talk to them "face to face" so that his motives and character are "no great mystery." Again he says, "I like to think of myself as an oilman," and then, "I hope you will forgive old-fashioned plain speaking." Then he describes how he believes family is important, and he enumerates all the benefits he will bring them, including schools, wells, crops, and roads.

As Daniel makes his final preparations to drill, Eli approaches and says he wants to bless the well when the community gathers there at the beginning of operations. Eli's instruction to Daniel is that "When you see me, you will say my name." Then, according to his pitch, Eli will step forward and give a simple blessing that he describes as "just a few words." But when the occasion arrives and the community gathers, Daniel is the demure master of the ceremony: "I'm not good at making speeches." Then Daniel plagiarizes Eli's "simple blessing."

Daniel humiliates others. The rhetorical situation is an opportunity to wield power.

Midway through the film, Daniel's son H.W. loses his hearing (the music in the soundtrack during this scene is all heavy percussion). But during the disaster that robs H.W. of his hearing, Daniel is intoxicated by the thought of all the oil he has found. But he can no longer be heard or understood by his son, H.W.

When Daniel's half-brother Henry arrives unannounced, Henry does not immediately make his intentions clear, and Daniel firmly demands, "I'd like to hear you say you'd like to be here" and Henry obliges. Eventually, Daniel, drunk, tells Henry that he hates people, and that he does not want anyone else to succeed. Daniel claims that he gets all of the information he needs about a person on first sight; yet, Daniel is deceived when he takes Henry's word that they are related.
 
In exchange for getting the final piece of land he needs to build his oil-carrying pipeline to the sea, Daniel agrees to be baptized in Eli's church. The speech act here is confession. Eli asks Daniel to confess (Eli must make multiple verbal demands: "I'll ask it again!"). Daniel answers, "What do you want me to say?" "Say 'I am a sinner!'" Daniel acquiesces. Eli hammers, "Say it louder!" Amid the church-house fervor, under his breath, Daniel whispers "There's a pipeline!"

As the film draws to a close, H.W. marries Mary Sunday. When he comes to his reclusive father, H.W. tells Daniel of his intention to drill for oil in Mexico. Daniel, enraged, mocks him: "You can't speak, so flap your hands! ... you're killing my image of you as my son." Daniel claims H.W. was adopted and used so Daniel would look more sympathetic and honest during negotiations. H.W.'s inability to speak is Daniel's weapon; Daniel's conception of others can only survive if nurtured by speech.

Eli arrives at the recluse Daniel's mansion during the film's final scene. Eli needs money. Daniel asks Eli to confess aloud that he is a false prophet and say that there is no God. "Say it like you mean it!" Daniel demands. Eli waits for the Lord's Word. In a most undivine ending, Daniel kills Eli by pummeling him to death with a bowling pin. Exhausted from having delivered the beating, Daniel announces, "I'm finished."

Notes:
Additional material:
When Eli asks Daniel about money owed to the church, Daniel physically abuses Eli and shoves his face in the mud. Humiliated, Eli later berates his father, Abel. Abel pleads, "I followed his word" (Daniel's word). Eli says Paul told Daniel about their oil-rich land. These speech acts have built an empire. In speech we see tension between business, brutality, honesty, and religion; we see and hear how voice relates to authority.

Later, Daniel meets with oil executives and they ask about H.W.; Daniel explodes, "Did you just tell me how to run my family?...You don't tell me about my son." The executive responds, "I'm not telling you anything. I'm asking you to be reasonable!" The threat of speech draws violent reaction from Daniel. Daniel takes Henry along on negotiations and business trips. But Daniel discovers that Henry lied. Daniel kills Henry because Henry misrepresented who he was.
 
Once H.W. is returned to Daniel's custody, the father and son go to lunch and encounter the oil executives. Daniel hides his face under a napkin and barks out so that the executives can hear, "I told you not to tell me how to raise my family ... I told you what I was gonna do." The executives' (implied) speech act is what injured Daniel, and Daniel's spoken vow affected reality.

about quitting time

The Earth was nudged some, bringing us to late afternoon. I wanted to leave work without being noticed. I wanted to spend the weekend unnoticeable. What choice is there but to acknowledge the impulse to feel shame for such wants? We'll give that impulse a half-hearted exploration over the next three days. When nothing interests you and you do not have fun, what else is there to do?

about borrowing "Ordinary Love and Good Will" by Jane Smiley

Ordinary Love and Good Will is a pairing of short stories written by Jane Smiley. I read "Ordinary Love," but, because that story was unsatisfying, I did not read "Good Will."

"Ordinary Love" transpires during a difficult weekend family reunion in which a 50-something mother of five discloses to her children the extramarital affair that years ago ruptured the family dynamic and prompted the father to steal the kids away to a new life in Europe. Now she is haunted by her choices.

I read reviews of this book and am perplexed because they all imply that in "Ordinary Love" the whole family is discussed thoroughly; my experience was that the mother's thoughts center on her twin sons, and somewhat myopically at that.

(posts) Converge's "A Single Tear"

Note: I enjoy the song very much but not the video.

about the flight in

The Chinese girl was saving the middle seat for her man. She boarded long before him because she checked in on time. He arrived. Between sandy hair and a trim build is the prematurely aged face of hard living; he wears a flannel shirt as though he always does; she wears a flannel shirt to signal union. He leans over to her sometimes and speaks. His voice seems to quietly echo out of his mouth. Later, he will get up to use the restroom and end up waiting several minutes longer for his turn than expected. The Chinese girl will watch him, watching him for minutes while her iPhone continues streaming. Across the aisle from the Chinese girl and her fuckup boyfriend, a man takes a seat next to a young mother who cautions him, "Hope you don't mind a fussy baby!" He smiles and says he does not. The baby will sleep the entire flight, but he will take out a pair of fingernail clippers and go to work grooming at 30,000 feet. On my row, a grandmother pushes up the window shade with both hands, and the sun blasts through my eyes.

(posts) another doodle

(posts) Bon Iver's "29 #Strafford APTS"

Note: Every once in a while I hear a song that is so good I hate the person that wrote it.

something about "The Naked and the Dead" by Norman Mailer

In Norman Mailer's weighty The Naked and the Dead, we join the US Army 112th Cavalry Regiment in the Philippines during World War II. I was drawn to the emotionally resistant character, Red Valsen. And though I struggled to connect with the rest of the cast, I appreciated the way Mailer captures and layers the emotional and physical struggles of these young men. 

This novel, written in 1948, is probably Mailer's best-known book-length work other than The Executioner's Song. I read the fiftieth anniversary edition of The Naked and the Dead; in it, Mailer includes an introduction in which he credits Leo Tolstoy's Anna Karenina as his inspiration at the time. I enjoyed parts of The Naked and the Dead. Mailers technique of splicing in flashbacks and interludes lends his story a film-like quality. Like his characters, Mailer was in the 112th Cavalry in the Philippines during The War. Years ago I read and was much impressed by his novella The Gospel According to the Son, so I was eager to read another by the multivalent American.