The Children’s Hour, Pros and Cons

Eastman Johnson, "Christmas Time"

Eastman Johnson, “Christmas Time”

Over the weekend I got to wrestle on the living room floor with my two-year-old grandson Alban. As I did so, I flashed on Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s poem “The Children’s Hour.”

This 1863 lyric was a popular favorite for decades, one of those poems that children were regularly required to memorize. I encountered it first when my father read it to me as a child, and my second encounter was when I saw Don Martin’s Mad Magazine spoof of it. Martin, of course, took shots at its sentimentality.

But Mad wasn’t the first publication to question “The Children’s Hour.” Lillian Hellman in 1934 played off against the poem by using its title for her own play about a disaffected girl in a boarding school. In order to avoid being sent back to the school, she accuses two of her teachers of having a lesbian love affair, thereby destroying their lives. In other words, so much for the innocence of little girls.

The problem with oversentimentalizing children is that it doesn’t do justice to their full personhood. When one has rigid expectations of what innocence is supposed to look like, one doesn’t give children room to breathe. I get a sense of suffocation when the narrator of Longfellow’s poem talks of trapping his three daughters, even though the trap is “the round tower of my heart”? That image, it is worth noting, follows up a genuinely disturbing image of Bishop Hatto being eaten alive by the mice that invaded the tower where he was hoarding grain from the starving peasants. I wonder if some part of Longfellow doesn’t feel nervous about how vulnerable children make him feel.

But that being said, I felt no cynical distance when I was wrestling with Alban. Instead, “The Children’s Hour” affected me as Longfellow no doubt intended. I was totally sentimental. Here’s the poem:

The Children’s Hour

By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Between the dark and the daylight,
     When the night is beginning to lower,
Comes a pause in the day’s occupations,
     That is known as the Children’s Hour.
I hear in the chamber above me
     The patter of little feet,
The sound of a door that is opened,
     And voices soft and sweet.
From my study I see in the lamplight,
     Descending the broad hall stair,
Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra,
     And Edith with golden hair.
A whisper, and then a silence:
     Yet I know by their merry eyes
They are plotting and planning together
    To take me by surprise.
A sudden rush from the stairway,
     A sudden raid from the hall!
By three doors left unguarded
     They enter my castle wall!
They climb up into my turret
    O’er the arms and back of my chair;
If I try to escape, they surround me;
     They seem to be everywhere.
They almost devour me with kisses,
     Their arms about me entwine,
Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen
     In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine!
Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti,
     Because you have scaled the wall,
Such an old mustache as I am
     Is not a match for you all!
I have you fast in my fortress,
     And will not let you depart,
But put you down into the dungeon
     In the round-tower of my heart.
And there will I keep you forever,
     Yes, forever and a day,
Till the walls shall crumble to ruin,
     And moulder in dust away!

One other thought: We had a party for two-year-olds yesterday afternoon and I recalled another association I had for “the children’s hour” when my own were small. Successful though the party was, at around 5 all the children began to get tired and to melt down. Each parent there recognized the signs.

Julia and I used to call this “the arsenic hour” although I can’t remember why. Maybe it was because our children seemed poisonous to us at those moments. Or maybe it was because we thought that only arsenic would quiet them. At these moments, sentimental poems about children seem a mockery and one resorts to gallows humor to survive.

I once hypothesized that child cuteness, starting with those large eyes, is a biological defense mechanism to protect children from the parents who they are preventing from sleeping and who are crazed with fatigue.

Of course, the nice thing about being a grandparent is that you get to pass the child back to the parents when he or she starts acting up. You can wrestle with them to your heart’s content. Someone else gets up in the middle of the night.

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A Divine Stairway of Sharp Angles

William Blake, "Jacob's Ladder"

William Blake, “Jacob’s Ladder”

Spiritual Sunday

Today’s Old Testament reading in our church is about Jacob’s ladder, the dream vision that Jacob receives from God about his future. Denise Levertov uses the story to describe how poetry is composed.

First, here’s the account in the Book of Genesis (28:10-19a):

Jacob left Beer-sheba and went toward Haran. He came to a certain place and stayed there for the night, because the sun had set. Taking one of the stones of the place, he put it under his head and lay down in that place. And he dreamed that there was a ladder set up on the earth, the top of it reaching to heaven; and the angels of God were ascending and descending on it. And the LORD stood beside him and said, “I am the LORD, the God of Abraham your father and the God of Isaac; the land on which you lie I will give to you and to your offspring; and your offspring shall be like the dust of the earth, and you shall spread abroad to the west and to the east and to the north and to the south; and all the families of the earth shall be blessed in you and in your offspring. Know that I am with you and will keep you wherever you go, and will bring you back to this land; for I will not leave you until I have done what I have promised you.” Then Jacob woke from his sleep and said, “Surely the LORD is in this place– and I did not know it!” And he was afraid, and said, “How awesome is this place! This is none other than the house of God, and this is the gate of heaven.”

So Jacob rose early in the morning, and he took the stone that he had put under his head and set it up for a pillar and poured oil on the top of it. He called that place Bethel.

In Levertov’s 1961 poem, the stairway is the transcendent poem. It must be built of the tool we have, which is imperfect language. Rather than directly expressing radiant and evanescent angels, the poet must deal with sharp angles. The doubting night gray of the sky testifies to the challenge he or she faces.

It is a theme in much of Levertov’s poetry, however, that struggling in the face of doubt is how we experience the divine. Men may not be angels and the rocks we use for building may scrape our feet.  Nevertheless, just as Jacob, his head pillowed on a rock, sees a stairway to heaven, so does our rock have “a glowing tone of softness.” The poet feels the light brush of angel wings and the poem ascends:

The Jacob’s Ladder

By Denise Levertov

The stairway is not
a thing of gleaming strands
a radiant evanescence
for angels’ feet that only glance in their tread, and
need not touch the stone.

It is of stone.
A rosy stone that takes
a glowing tone of softness
only because behind it the sky is a doubtful,
a doubting night gray.

A stairway of sharp
angles, solidly built.
One sees that the angels must spring
down from one step to the next, giving a little
lift of the wings:

and a man climbing
must scrape his knees, and bring
the grip of his hands into play. The cut stone
consoles his groping feet. Wings brush past him.
The poem ascends.

I pick up at least two other poems that Levertov may be alluding to. In “The Altar,” George Herbert talks about the paradox of a hard stone altar being a means of opening a hard heart to God. (See my post on “The Altar” here.)

A HEART alone
Is such a stone,
As nothing but
Thy pow’r doth cut.
Wherefore each part
Of my hard heart
Meets in this frame
To praise thy name.

The other is Yeats’ “The Circus Animals’ Desertion,” which has an image of a ladder. The poet laments the end of his youthful romanticism, which once gave him marvelous poetic images (his circus animals). Now, however, he feels trapped in his own grimy and mundane reality.

Those masterful images because complete
Grew in pure mind, but out of what began?
A mound of refuse or the sweepings of a street,
Old kettles, old bottles, and a broken can,
Old iron, old bones, old rags, that raving slut
Who keeps the till. Now that my ladder’s gone,
I must lie down where all the ladders start
In the foul rag and bone shop of the heart. 

The miracle is that, out of this unpromising material, Yeats constructs the ladder that is his poem. For those of you wrestling with your doubts about whether transcendence exists, you can look to the miraculous existence of poetry and be reassured.

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Strong in Will vs. Time & Fate


Sports Saturday

A couple of times over the past two years I have invoked Tennyson’s “Ulysses” while talking about my favorite aging athletes, Roger Federer and Peyton Manning (here and here). Ulysses starkly sets forth two possible futures for those heroes who continue to defy Father Time:

Come, my friends,
‘T is not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.

The gulfs washed Manning down last February and they did the same to Federer two weeks ago in the Wimbledon finals.

For a few brief moments, it appeared that Federer might indeed touch the Happy Isles of an improbable Grand Slam victory to add to his record total. Down 5-2 in the fourth set after having dropped two of the first three, he somehow fought back to extend the match into a fifth set.

But in the end, the younger Djokovic, who in commentator John McEnroe’s opinion boasts the best return-of-service in the history of the game, pounced on three of Federer’s second serves to break him in the tenth game to take the tournament. Being strong in will may not ultimately save one who has been made weak by time and fate:

Tho’ much is taken, much abides; and tho’
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

And yet maybe, after all, Federer did touch those happy isles where, according to Homer, Achilles strides over fields of asphodel. Ulysses is talking about the Elysian Fields, that place in Hades reserved for heroes and mortals related to the gods. If any tennis player has touched those shores while still alive, it is Roger Federer. There were people calling for his retirement two years ago and had he done so—think of retirement as a metaphorical death—he would have received a direct ticket. Instead, he chose to keep on seafaring, even though few thought he would make it to another grand slam final, much less win one.. Yet there he was, playing beautiful tennis and almost, almost, pulling out a victory.

“I’ll see you next year,” he said in the awards ceremony afterwards. One could almost believe him.

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The Tiny Rituals that Make a Marriage

Hopper, "Room in New York"

Hopper, “Room in New York”

My book discussion group talked about Alice McDermott’s luminescent novel Someone (2013) last evening. Among the virtues of this quiet story about the life of a woman growing up in a Brooklyn neighborhood in the 1930s and ‘40s is the way that it captures small precious moments in ordinary lives. Because I have been married for 41 years, I was particularly attuned to its description of the routines that Marie and Tom settle into. Profound conversations often occur in the bedroom.

In one scene, Marie is worried that her brother Gabe is gay and, indeed, a mental asylum appears to have attempted to “cure” his homosexuality. Her big-hearted husband calms her with a wonderful plea for openness. The conversation has a special glow because of how the author frames it within the couple’s routines. To show McDermott’s touch, I quote here the frame rather than the conversation itself (although I do include Tom’s final words):

I went through my fusty bedtime routine. Turned the clock around on my night table. Poured some hand cream into my palms and spread it up and down my arms. Placed a pale blue hairnet over the back of my head. Turned off the lamp that had been my mother’s in the old apartment and slipped off my glasses. The room contracted and lost every edge. I got into bed and, as was our routine, turned on my side to face Tom as he read. I closed my eyes. As was his routine, Tom lowered his arm to the mattress beside me, giving it to me. I put my two hands on his forearm, moved to put my lips to his skin.

And later:

Tom flipped the magazine closed with one hand and placed it on his nightstand. He took his reading glasses off and leaned toward the light, keeping his arm on the mattress beside me, pulling away just a little to reach the cord. He sat back. It was his habit to ease himself into bed as a man might sink into a tub. He moved under the sheet just a little, keeping his back against the pillows that were piled against the headboard. Again, idly, he moved his hand against my breast.

And later:

In the darkness, I felt him sink himself a bit farther into the bed, as was his routine.

And finally:

I felt Tom lean down in the darkness to kiss the top of my head, and in doing so, he put his hand to my arm, my elbow. “Now, I’m not saying I know anything about this guy who was here tonight,” he said. “All I’m saying is, we should let Gabe be. He’s been poked and prodded and shocked and, worse yet, talked at till he’s blue in the face, out there in that place.” The awful name now forever expelled from our conversation with his turn of phrase. “I got sick of it myself, and I was only visiting, the way they wanted to reduce everything to a couple of easy words about sex.” He paused, as if to consider. “I don’t know,” he whispered. “Maybe it’s me. Maybe I see things too simply.” He eased himself down, into the comfort and the darkness of our bed. “Who can know the heart of a man?” he whispered, and pulled the thin sheet up, over my shoulders and his, as was his habit before we went to sleep. “Especially a man like your brother.”

I found myself reliving Julia’s and my bedroom rituals and our late night conversations as I read Someone. Fiction is amazing that way.

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Silko Foretells the “Brown Surge” North

children on the border

The images of children crossing the U. S. border, sometimes accompanied by their mothers and sometimes alone, has gotten me thinking about Leslie Marmon Silko’s Almanac of the Dead. The novel is a dystopia foretelling increasing instability in the Americas. Among the characters are two twin brothers who, taking instructions from macaws and their own dreams, are walking north towards the U.S.-Mexico border followed by a “brown surge” of hundreds of thousands of people. Although they are “unarmed and humble as they walk[ ] northward to fulfill an ancient prophecy,” there are so many of them that no fence and no army will be able to stop them.

Silko is a Laguna Pueblo writer who believes that the Indian Wars have never ended in the Americas. She says that the Native Americans “acknowledge no borders; they seek nothing less than the return of all tribal lands.” As she sees it, the European settlers are just a blip in American history. The Indians were here long before the Europeans arrived and will outlast them. This is what is known as taking the long view.

Published in 1991, Almanac of the Dead is a grim novel that puts its finger on a number of the challenges we face, including unscrupulous realtors draining the aquifers, frightened millionaires retreating into gated communities and hiring private militias to protect them, and drugs-for-arms dealers whose lawlessness is driving people northward. It’s worth noting that, while the book appeared before all the talk of climate change, Silko predicts significant droughts.

Silko is best known for her 1977 novel Ceremony, which is more hopeful in that it concludes with a belief that Indian stories and Indian wisdom will save Indians and whites both. The author appears to have become much more pessimistic since then. Almanac of the Dead is unrelentingly grim unless you think that the reappearance of the Pueblo’s giant stone snake at the end of the novel presages some kind of hope. If nothing else, Almanac of the Dead provides a narrative articulating much of our current dysfunction.

Here’s a passage, set in Albuquerque, that seems particularly relevant today:

Albuquerque appeared to be booming. Sterling looked out the window at people walking to their cars from the shopping malls and from the K marts. The faces he saw were placid. The shoppers didn’t seem to have a clue about what was happening. Maybe they had noticed a few more U.S. government cars on the street, or increased military-helicopter flyovers, but that was all. On the West Side, Sterling could tell the people didn’t know either, because the faces had been excited, happy, even joking. They didn’t know, and Sterling knew even if someone told them, they would not believe it. Sterling had not believed the old prophecy either, but he had seen what was happening in Tucson with his own eyes…

What would these people in Albuquerque do when they heard about the twin brothers and their followers? How would the Native Americans and Mexican Americans in New Mexico react when the U.S. military opened fire on the twin brothers and thousands of their followers, mostly women and children? How many of these Chicanos and these Indians had ever heard the old stories? Did they know the ancient prophecies? It all seemed quite impossible, and yet one only had to look as far as Africa to see that after more than five hundred years of suffering, slavery and bloodshed, the African people had taken back the continent from European invaders. Sterling shuddered when he remembered the terrible price the tribal people of South African had had to pay while the nations of the world had stood back and watched.

Lecha warned that unrest among the people would grow due to natural disasters. Earthquakes and tidal waves would wipe out entire cities and great chunks of U.S. wealth. The Japanese were due to be pounded by angry earth spirits, and the world would watch in shock as billions of dollars and thousands of lives were suddenly washed away. Still there would be no rain, and high temperatures would trigger famines that sent refugees north faster and faster. The old [Mayan] almanac said “civil strife, civil crisis, civil war.” Allies of the United States would decline to intervene or send military aid. England and France would cite the distances and the costs and point out that no “armed force” threatened the U.S. border, only thousands of defenseless and hungry refugees from the war-torn South…Of course all of the northern European nations would find themselves in similar predicaments with massive onslaughts of refugees from the South.

In some ways, Silko shares an apocalyptic vision with those right wingers who also describe the current situation in extreme terms. I like to think that there are certain things we can do, such as working to promote economic and political stability in Honduras, El Slavador, and Guatemala, stemming the flow of guns into Central America, changing our strategies for dealing with drugs, passing comprehensive immigration legislation, and the like. Apocalyptic thinking can lead to fatalism or (if you see yourself on the right side of the apocalypse) magical optimism. But that being said, I find it unsettling that so much of Silko’s dark vision appears to be coming true.

Like all good dystopian literature,  Almanac of the Dead can be seen as a wake-up call.

Added note: I’d forgotten that I’d applied Almanac of the Dead to the situation at the border two years ago. I repeat here some of the ideas in the previous post but the passages I use are different. You can go here to read it.


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In Praise of Light Summer Reading

Paul Louis Oudart, "French Nightingale"

Paul Louis Oudart, “French Nightingale”

Here’s an enjoyable summer fable by my father, who was a French professor. In this poem, the heaviness and earnestness of the classical languages have given way to the lightness of the romance languages—which I suppose could be seen as analogous to serious literature giving way to beach reading.

Tereus is the Thracian king who in Greek mythology raped his sister-in-law Philomela and then pulled out her tongue and held her captive so that she couldn’t expose him. After an act of revenge which involved Tereus’ wife discovering the crime and serving up their son for dinner, Philomela was turned into a nightingale. The nightingale in the poem isn’t anywhere near so tragic as she chooses to read the feminist writer Simone de Beauvoir and whistle tunes from a popular French opera.

Or maybe the poem is about how women’s lives becomes a lot less tragic–a lot less Greek–once they embrace feminism and become empowered. The sad story of Manon Lescaut becomes an opera comique from la belle époque.

Anyway, enjoy the poem as you sink into your summer reading:

The Romantic Nightingale

By Scott Bates

A Nightingale I know
Has learned to speak
Romance Languages
She has forgotten Greek

And although she still sings in the middle of the night
Like Homer
And still detests Tereus
With all her might

I find her now in hedgerows
Of a summer’s day
Reading Simone de Beauvoir
Or whistling Manon by Massenet.

Further thoughts: I’m already beginning to think that I’ve misinterpreted the poem. Now I’m wondering if it’s a poem about a rape survivor, especially after hearing a segment on MSNBC’s All In with Chris Hayes yesterday. The show was about how there is an epidemic of sexual assaults on college campuses, so much so that that one expert said that, if a college doesn’t acknowledge that date rapes are occurring, then it is covering them up.

Anyway, from that point of view, Simone de Beauvoir is helping with the recovery process as Philomela is venturing out into the world. The singing in the middle of the night sounds as though she is still having nightmares, and she hasn’t forgotten what happened to her. But she has found a way to move on.

But if that’s what the poem is up to, then “Romantic Nightingale” seems to sound a false note. The poem sounds too light for the subject matter, which is what threw me off about it. So I’m still not sure.

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Whisky, an Ethereal Marchioness

Edgar Degas, "L'Absinthe"

Edgar Degas, “L’Absinthe”

Here’s a novel to enhance the food that you eat and (in line with today’s theme) the alcohol you drink. Muriel Barbery’s Gourmet Rhapsody (2000) is about a famed food columnist who is dying. In the process, he revisits his most memorable food moments as he attempts to recall “a flavor that has been teasing my taste buds and my heart.” As he notes,

I know that this particular flavor is the first and ultimate truth of my entire life, and that it holds the key to a heart that I have since silenced. I know that it is a flavor from childhood or adolescence, an original, marvelous dish that predates my vocation as a critic, before I had any desire or pretension to expound on my pleasure in eating. A forgotten flavor, lodged in my deepest self, and which has surfaced at the twilight of my life as the only truth ever told—or realized. I search, and cannot find.

The man’s relatives, and also the reader, await to hear what he will order for his last meal, understanding that he will reveal this ultimate flavor at that point. I won’t spoil the ending by revealing what food he settles on.

I thought of the book recently as Barrett Emerick, a philosophy colleague who is staying with us this summer, offered me some of his Famous Grouse Scotch whiskey. We sat around drinking it and talking about a conference paper he is writing on how social justice requires us to acknowledge our biases (we all have them) as we deal with issues of race and other charged subjects. I also told him about Barbery’s testimony to whisky.

The food columnist is remembering an adolescent experience in a wine cellar. At this age he has not learned to appreciate wine. His host, understanding his situation, offers him another drink. Here’s his experience:

[T]he unfamiliar aroma unsettled me beyond anything I thought possible. Such formidable aggressiveness, such a muscular, abrupt explosion, dry and fruity at the same time, like a charge of adrenaline that has deserted the tissues where it ordinarily resides in order to evaporate upon the surface of the nose, a gaseous concentration of sensorial precipices…Stunned, I discovered that I liked this blunt whiff of incisive fermentation.

Like some ethereal marchioness, I cautiously ventured my lips into the peaty magma and…what a violent effect! An explosion of piquancy and seething elements suddenly detonates in my mouth; my organs no longer exist, no more palate or cheeks or saliva, only the ravaging sensation that some telluric warfare is raging inside me. In raptures, I allowed the first mouthful to linger for a moment on my tongue, while concentric undulations continued to engage it for a long while. That is the first way to drink whisky: absorb it ferociously, inhaling its pungent, unforgiving taste. The second swallow, on the other hand, was undertaken precipitously, as soon as it had gone down, it took a moment to warm my solar plexus—but what warmth it was! The stereotypical gesture of the man who drinks strong liquor—swallowing down the object of his desire in one gulp, then waiting, then closing his eyes from the shock and exhaling a sigh of mingled ease and commotion—offers a second manner of drinking whisky, where the taste buds are almost insensitive because the alcohol is merely passing through one’s throat, and the plexus, perfectly sensitive, is suddenly overwhelmed by the heat as if a bomb of ethylic plasma had landed there. It heats, and heats again, it disconcerts and rouses. It feels good. It is a sun whose blessed rays assure the body of its beaming presence.

The memory occurs near the end of the novel, and although whisky is not the flavor that the columnist is searching for, the vividness of the memory makes him realize that he may have to focus on unsophisticated foods. (The whisky description comes two chapters after a paean to the American breakfast, which the critic finds far superior to the French.) As he explains his rediscovered infatuation,

 [T]hroughout my career I have never considered whisky to be anything more than a drink which, however delightful, is nevertheless of secondary importance: only the gold of wine could deserve my praise and the most significant prophecies of my oeuvre. Alas…it is only now that I understand: wine is the refined jewel that only a grown woman will prefer to the sparkling glossy trinkets adored by little girls. I learned to love what was worthy but in doing so I neglected to entertain the sudden passion that had no need of education. I truly love only beer and whisky—even though I do acknowledge that wine is divine. And as it has been decreed that today will be little more than a long series of acts of contrition, here is yet another: oh, Mephistophelean whisky, I loved you from the first swig, and betrayed you from the second—but nowhere else did I ever find, amidst the tyranny of flavors imposed upon me by my position, such a nuclear expansion capable of blasting my jaw away with delight… [all the ellipses are Barbery’s]

The description takes me back to my own experience as an adolescent with Normandy calvados, which is an apple brandy. When I was studying in Caen during my sophomore year of college, I had a friend, a farmer’s son, who would fill bottles from his father’s operation (which was highly illegal) and we would take it on picnics. I told my father about this and he recollected carrying calvados around Normandy in his canteen during World War II. He said he traded it for items from the supply sergeant.

And one final story: In 1978, when I revisiting Caen, the head of a pastry shop—the father of one of my father’s colleagues in the Sewanee French Department—introduced me, my wife, and my food chemist sister-in-law, to the farmer who supplied him with his butter, cream, and cheese. (My sister-in-law was the reason we asked for the introduction.) The farmer liked Americans because he had been imprisoned by the Germans and so served us up 35-year-old calvados in large coffee cups.

I have never been able to drink calvados since because every other version is just a pale imitation of what I remember.

Added note: My colleague Ben Click, a Mark Twain specialist, pointed out to me this passage on whisky (or whiskey) from Life on the Mississippi:

How solemn and beautiful is the thought, that the earliest pioneer of civilization, the van-leader of civilization, is never the steamboat, never the railroad, never the newspaper, never the Sabbath-school, never the missionary–but always whiskey! Such is the case. Look history over; you will see. The missionary comes after the whiskey– I mean he arrives after the whiskey has arrived; next comes the poor immigrant, with ax and hoe and rifle; next, the trader; next, the miscellaneous rush; next, the gambler, the desperado, the highwayman, and all their kindred in sin of both sexes; and next, the smart chap who has bought up an old grant that covers all the land; this brings the lawyer tribe; the vigilance committee brings the undertaker. All these interests bring the newspaper; the newspaper starts up politics and a railroad; all hands turn to and build a church and a jail– and behold, civilization is established for ever in the land. But whiskey, you see, was the van-leader in this beneficent work. It always is. It was like a foreigner–and excusable in a foreigner– to be ignorant of this great truth, and wander off into astronomy to borrow a symbol. But if he had been conversant with the facts, he would have said–

Westward the Jug of Empire takes its way.

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Deutschland über Alles

Mario Gotze's spectacular goal

Mario Gotze’s spectacular goal

I was rooting for Argentina in yesterday’s World Cup because I love the play of Lionel Messi, but I was relieved that the game didn’t go to penalty kicks and that it was won with a spectacular goal. I was also very impressed with the German team, which swarmed relentlessly every chance it got.

I remember watching Germany play Brazil in the 2002 finals. I didn’t have a rooting interest for either team and decided that I would root for the one that was playing the most interesting game. It only took me five minutes to choose the Brazilians as the Germans were hunkered down in an unimaginative defensive posture.

This team, by contrast, was anything but dull. They attacked constantly and moved the ball in intricate ways. Argentina fought back valiantly in a thoroughly entertaining game but in the end were outclassed. The Germans are worthy successors to the great Spanish team that won the World Cup four years ago.

In their honor, here are the words of their national anthem, written by the poet August Heinrich Hoffmann von Fallersleben in 1841. At the time the words were associated with liberals who wanted to unify Germany and the poem was considered to be radical. Because German nationalism acquired such a bad reputation with the Nazis, however, the post-World War II government chose to sing the third stanza rather than the first, which had been emphasized by the Nazis. You’ll see why when you read the poem in its entirety:

Germany, Germany above everything,
Above everything in the world,
When for protection and defense, it always
takes a brotherly stand together.
From the Meuse to the Memel,
From the Adige to the Belt,
Germany, Germany above everything,
Above everything in the world! 

German women, German loyalty,
German wine and German song
Shall retain in the world
Their old beautiful chime
And inspire us to noble deeds
During all of our life.
German women, German loyalty,
  German wine and German song!  

Unity, Justice and Freedom
For the German Fatherland!
Let us all strive for this purpose
Brotherly with heart and hand!
Unity, Justice and Freedom
Are the Pledge of Happiness;
Bloom in the Glow of Happiness,
  Bloom, German Fatherland!

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Broken in Pieces All Asunder

Flannery O'Connor

Flannery O’Connor

Spiritual Sunday

I use today’s post to call your attention to a wonderful website. Daniel Clendenin’s superb weekly essays at Journey with Jesus are thoughtful meditations on religious poetry. This week’s post also examines the Christian vision of Flannery O’Connor, who Clendenin says walked a fine line between (in her words) “Despair and Presumption.” O’Connor turned to both her faith and her writing to handle the lupus that killed her at 39. As Clendenin writes,

[L]iving in the tension between despair and presumption is a good if difficult place to live as a believer. We should be wary of both extremes.

We ping pong between the realities of human nature (described so graphically in her fiction) and our hope to experience the mystery of divine grace. Between the Already of God’s kingdom and the Not Yet of its consummation.

I love the George Herbert “Affliction” poem that Clendenin chooses to capture this tension:

Affliction (IV)

By George Herbert

BROKEN in pieces all asunder,
Lord, hunt me not,
A thing forgot,
Once a poor creature, now a wonder,
A wonder tortured in the space
Betwixt this world and that of grace.

My thoughts are all a case of knives,
Wounding my heart
With scattered smart ;
As wat’ring-pots give flowers their lives.
Nothing their fury can control,
While they do wound and prick my soul.

All my attendants are at strife
Quitting their place
Unto my face :
Nothing performs the task of life :
The elements are let loose to fight,
And while I live, try out their right.

Oh help, my God !  let not their plot
Kill them and me,
And also Thee,
Who art my life : dissolve the knot,
As the sun scatters by his light
All the rebellions of the night.

Then shall those powers which work for grief,
Enter Thy pay,
And day by day
Labour Thy praise and my relief :
With care and courage building me,
Till I reach heav’n, and much more, Thee.

Clendenin concludes,

Despite her many “passive diminishments” (a concept from Teilhard de Chardin that she liked), O’Connor stayed true to God’s call on her life. She rejected pious platitudes and sentimentality for the hard truths of Christian realism. She reminded us that “grace changes us and [that] change is painful.”

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The Return of King James

Lebron James

Sports Saturday

I’m struck by how moved many people are—and how moved I myself am—by Lebron James’ decision to return to Cleveland. We are impressed in part because of James’ heartfelt explanation in Sports Illustrated, but I think there is also something archetypal about the decision. It’s a “return of the king” story.

The returning king I have in mind is not Arthur but Odysseus, the protagonist of what in my mind is literature’s greatest story. “King James” left the Cleveland Cavaliers four years ago to fight in foreign lands but now, citing a calling higher than basketball, he is returning to his home team. Here’s an excerpt from his explanation:

I feel my calling here goes above basketball. I have a responsibility to lead, in more ways than one, and I take that very seriously. My presence can make a difference in Miami, but I think it can mean more where I’m from. I want kids in Northeast Ohio, like the hundreds of Akron third-graders I sponsor through my foundation, to realize that there’s no better place to grow up. Maybe some of them will come home after college and start a family or open a business. That would make me smile. Our community, which has struggled so much, needs all the talent it can get.

In Northeast Ohio, nothing is given. Everything is earned. You work for what you have.

I’m ready to accept the challenge. I’m coming home.

Perhaps one can think compare Lebron’s four years in Miami to Odysseus’ sojourn on Circe’s and Calypso’s islands (eight years in all). Calypso promises Odysseus immortality if he were to reside with her always, and while Miami General Manager Pat Riley couldn’t promise the same, Lebron achieved one kind of immortality through his two championships with the Heat. In the end, however, Odysseus feels compelled to return home and sets out on an uncertain path to get there. Likewise, it’s not clear that Lebron will ever win an NBA championship in Cleveland, surrounded as he will be by young (albeit talented) players. Nevertheless, he has launched himself into the sea.

It’s worth noting that Odysseus’ homecoming doesn’t look like he must have imagined it, and I’m not just talking about the suitors. (By the way, I see Cleveland’s owner as no less boorish and conceited than some of the suitors, say Antinous.) When Odysseus first returns to Ithaka, he doesn’t recognize it because it is covered by a mist, and I suspect that Lebron too will encounter some adjustment issues.

But in Odysseus’ case, all the toil and danger are repaid when Athena lifts the fog and he sees his homeland. Here’s Athena:

“Now I shall make you see the shape of Ithaka.
Here is the cove the sea lord Phorkys owns,
there is the olive spreading out her leaves
over the inner bay, and there the cavern
dusky and lovely, hallowed by the feet
of those immortal girls, the Naiadês—
the same wide cave under whose vault you came
to honor them with hekatombs—and there
Mount Neion, with his forest on his back!”
She had dispelled the mist, so all the island
stood out clearly. Then indeed Odysseus’
heart stirred with joy. He kissed the earth,
and lifting up his hands prayed to the nymphs:
“O slim shy Naiadês, young maids of Zeus,
I had not thought to see you ever again!
O listen smiling
to my gentle prayers, and we’ll make offering
plentiful as in the old time, granted I
live, granted my son grows tall, by favor
of great Athena, Zeus’s daughter,
who gives the winning fighter his reward!”

James may not kiss the Cleveland court, but we can think of the Cavaliers as his tall son. If Athena proves kind, the king and his court will receive a winning fighter’s reward. Or as James puts it in his article, “what’s most important for me is bringing one trophy back to Northeast Ohio.”

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Austen on Bad Reasons for Getting Married

Scott, Bamber and Benjamin as Charlotte, Mr. Collins and Sir Lucas

Scott, Bamber and Benjamin as Charlotte, Mr. Collins and Sir Lucas

When I attended grad school (Emory University) in the second half of the seventies, formalist criticism still held sway, although just barely. The purpose of literary criticism, we learned, was to uncover the underlying unity of a work. (Structuralism, which was coming in, seconded this agenda and then deconstruction exploded it–although deconstructionists relied on someone else insisting on a supposed unity so that they would have something to unravel or deconstruct.)

I remember my Shakespeare teacher, Frank Manley, both teaching this approach and questioning it. On the one hand, he introduced us to Francis Fergusson’s theory in The Idea of a Theater, which ultimately goes back to Aristotle, that a play is the working out of a single central action. (Thus, as Fergusson sees it, Hamlet is the attempt to find out and destroy the rottenness that is eating away at Denmark.) On the other hand, Manley told us a funny story about teaching Fielding’s Joseph Andrews. Thinking that he had done a brilliant job showing how the same theme recurs repeatedly throughout the novel, thereby proving that it has dramatic unity, he was blindsided by a student who said he didn’t like the book. “It says the same damn thing over and over,” the student reportedly complained.

I reveal my own early formalist training in the way I read Pride and Prejudice, even though I am anti-formalist and don’t believe that unity is a good in and of itself. There are more interesting things to do with a novel than show how all the different parts cohere. But when I scrutinize how Pride and Prejudice can help us live better lives, I am struck that the entire novel seems to revolve around a central question: what should one look for in a partner? While presenting us with the good reasons that guide her hero and heroine (see my recent post on this subject), Austen systematically and efficiently examines a number of bad reasons as well. It’s as though she’s presenting us a do’s and don’t of marriage in disguise.

Here are her examples of bad reasons for getting married:

Security – Charlotte Lucas and George Wickham want someone to support them and will marry virtually anyone with money (Collins, Mary King);

Vanity and a desire for power – Caroline Bingley is driven by the dream of becoming mistress of a great estate while Mrs. Bennet vicariously pursues the same dream through her daughters;

Custom – Collins marries because Lady Catherine de Bourgh expects her rector to be married.  Miss de Bourgh, similarly under the sway of Lady Catherine, might also feel pressured by custom;

Sexual desire – Mr. Bennet, to his everlasting regret, has married a once pretty face, and Lydia is attracted to anyone in a soldier’s uniform.  Lydia needs marriage if she is to follow her inclinations legally.    

These motivations aren’t limited to early 19th century century Regency England, as you will realize if you think of broken marriages you yourself have witnessed. Perhaps you know people who have married for money or because they thought marriage would impress others or because they didn’t like the image of themselves unmarried or because the partner was drop-dead good looking. Of these various motivations, Austen is most tolerant of the desire for security. Elizabeth comes to appreciate, if not approve of, Charlotte’s decision to marry Collins. Security also factors into her decision to marry Darcy, although it’s a secondary reason. But ultimately Austen sees marriage as a sacred union. To treat it otherwise is a violation.

Note that the society as a whole bears much of the blame for the bad marriages in Austen because it threatens to reduce the sacrament from a union of souls to a mercantile exchange. In one of literature’s most famous openings, Austen uses economic language to show how marriage has become tainted. Especially worrisome is the word “property”:

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.

However little known the feelings or views of such a man may be on his first entering a neighborhood, this truth is so well fixed in the minds of the surrounding families, that he is considered as the rightful property of someone or other of their daughters.

This is comic irony at its best.  Through it, Austen invites us to join her in criticizing her society while getting our own values straight. Irony involves saying one thing while meaning another, and by being ironic Austen treats us as intelligent and moral beings who share her beliefs and understand what she means. We are in with her on the joke, knowing that she doesn’t really think that a young man with a fortune must be in want of a wife. We can join her in laughing at the Mrs. Bennets and Lady Lucas and any other matrimonial horse traders. If more of us reject our materialistic tendencies, fewer will “universally acknowledge” the Bennet/Lucas truth.

Unfortunately, materialism is as formidable a force in Austen’s world as it is in our own. The mothers function as entrepreneurs, seeking to parlay limited financial resources into substantial pay-off. At stake are the financial futures of their daughters, not to mention bragging rights. The fathers, by the way, are not blame free. They just leave it up to their wives to do the dirty work.

Austen admits that young people can’t live without money and knows they must be practical. But money as an obsession sullies everything. When Mrs. Bennet, the poster child of greed, thinks Jane’s marriage to Bingley is certain, she is “incapable of fatigue” as she enumerates all the advantages of the match to the Lucases.  (“In your face, Lady Lucas!” one imagines her saying. And then one sees the Lucas family’s immense satisfaction—payback time—when Charlotte, not Elizabeth, marries Mr. Collins.) Following Jane’s marriage proposal, Mrs. Bennet tells her, “I was sure you could not be so beautiful for nothing!” Her favorite daughter is whoever manages to land the richest husband. When Elizabeth proves to be that “dearest child,” all Mrs. Bennet can think about is the pin money, the jewels, and the carriages. Without defending Lydia, Charlotte or Wickham, one can see where they get their values.

Novels are more powerful than advice books because they plunge us into lived situations so that we experience their wisdom, as it were, from the inside. It is up to our reflective process to ferret out the lessons. So here is the advice that I extract from Pride and Prejudice on the danger of marrying for the wrong reasons, presented as a self-help questionnaire. The advice is still timely:

Desire for Security (Charlotte Lucas and George Wickham)

Do you long for someone to enter your life and take care of your problems for you?  You may make do in such a relationship.  But by focusing only on how another can support you, you don’t acknowledge that you have the capabilities of supporting yourself.

Vanity (Caroline Bingley)

Do you imagine exciting the admiration and envy of those around you with a partner, and do you hope that his or her glory will rub off on you?  Do you think everything will be wonderful once you are Mistress of Pemberley?  Be aware that borrowed light satisfies for only a short time and doesn’t encourage you to develop your own light.

Sexual attraction (Mr. Bennet, Lydia Bennet)

Are you attracted to a pretty face or handsome man in a blue coat coat?  The problem with appearances, of course, is that they are only skin deep and can condemn you to a shallow or a loveless relationship.

Custom (Mr. Collins)

Do you think that your life is supposed to look a certain way, which is to say, partnered?  Are you prepared to partner up just so that you can assure others, and yourself, that you are doing the right thing?  As long as you are obsessed with what others think, you will not concentrate on finding your own happiness.

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Raised in Foster Care, Saved by Oates


My novelist friend Rachel Kranz sent me a must-read Buzzfeed article about the impact that Joyce Carol Oates’ Wonderland Quartet had on a woman who grew up in foster care. Since I wrote on Tuesday about how Alice in Wonderland changed Oates’ own life, it seems appropriate to write about how the author did the same for someone else.

Marsha Chadburn begins her article by talking about her reading experiences in a group home:

When it came time for lights out in the group home, I’d keep reading, blanket over my head, flashlight in my hand. Books can take you somewhere else, can be a balm and comfort both. The flip side is that they can hurt you just as deeply. Reading under that blanket, I was assaulted again and again by bootstrap narratives of self-resilience. You know the ones: With enough determination and enough perseverance you too can accomplish anything. Oh, could I? All these novels were just an incredibly fancy way of saying, “Try harder.” It was as if someone had a pen to write with and instead used it to stab me in the heart — me, or any of the kids in the home. 

I like how Chadburn mentions the damage that fiction can do (she particularly has Ayn Rand in mind). As Wayne Booth observes in The Company We Keep: The Ethics of Fiction, we can’t legitimately say that fiction can do great good unless we are willing to acknowledge its capacity to do great harm. Chadburn found great good in the Wonderland Quartet:

It wasn’t until years later, when I was in my twenties, that I found the counternarrative, the response I had been seeking for so long. In a set of four books collectively called the Wonderland Quartet, Joyce Carol Oates redefined for me what books could teach me about the world I’d grown up in. In the small world where I grew up, there was only fast food and public transportation and cockroaches and rabbit ears extended with hangers on top of the television and having to stand in the right place for reception. What I knew were stories of a cycle that held people down. The Wonderland Quartet gave words to things I already knew: The problem faced by poor people is poverty. Or rather, the opposite of poverty is not wealth; the opposite of poverty is justice. The sort of terror that dwells deep in the meat of my psyche — everything I need to tell you about me, about people, about power — is brought to life by the men and women of these books. 

Chadburn finds passages in each of the novels that articulate her childhood reality. Her favorite is them, the third book in the quartet:

Of the four books in the Wonderland Quartet, I related to the central character Loretta of them most. If you have time for only one of these novels, or if you have time for only one more novel in your life, read them. Love-struck, 16-year-old Loretta, hours after losing her virginity, loses her first lover to a bullet fired by her brother. Within a few desperate hours, she gains a husband. Loretta then moves to roaring Detroit, where she grapples with desperation and hunger. This was my plight, thinking a powerful person would be my solution, when powerful people only exacerbated my powerlessness. 

Reflecting on what drew her to Oates, Chadburn says that the author helped her both to make sense of a confusing world and to escape the destructive cycles that poverty sets in motion:

I am drawn in by all our naughty raw bits. I want to know your insides, your intentions, but only to put my fingers to the keyboard over and over again to attempt to make sense of things, attempt to not repeat things.

Ultimately, the Wonderland Quartet taught her that poor people, including herself, are not inherently vicious but can be rendered so by inequality, systemic exploitation, and the fear of being poor and powerless:

In the afterward to them, Oates quotes the poetic epigram from John Webster’s tragedy The White Devil, which asks the vital question, “…because we are poor/Shall we be vicious?” This is the question to which the Wonderland Quartet provides an extended answer. The short answer is no, that in fact most of the central characters begin poor and powerless and as the narrative progresses they gain some wealth or power, sometimes it is artificial or fleeting, and therefore is rooted in fear and insecurity. It is the greed and the desire to hold on to any gains that make them vicious, even more so the systemic exploitation, the inequities overall. Like my loving terrier guarding her food against a lion or a banker. It is not the terrier that is vicious, nor has the food made her vicious — but the disparity of the thing.

Yet one more inspiring example of how novels throw us vital lifelines.

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Fences Entrap Rather than Protect

Robinson Crusoe

We are, it seems, becoming more and more a nation of gated communities. As the income gap between the wealthiest Americans and everyone else grows ever greater, we see an increased use of fences and gates, whether literal (gates for wealthy mansions and for high-end housing developments) or metaphorical (special preserves, including schools, which only the wealthy can afford) or legal (restrictions designed to keep poor people from voting). The country itself functions as one giant gated community, attempting to bar entrance to the waves of immigrants coming from the south, whether to escape violence or just to find better economic opportunity.

Daniel Defoe’s Robinson Crusoe has cautionary words for those who think that well constructed fences will keep them safe. There is a psychological price paid by those who insist upon absolute borders: the thicker the barrier, the thicker  the fear and paranoia. This helps explain why the hysteria of American nativists is swamping the efforts of moderate Republicans to work with Democrats to enact comprehensive immigration reform.

Crusoe engages in incessant labor to build an impregnable fortress for himself—but in an ironic twist that I think shows how walling out the world actually increases feelings of vulnerability, his own security becomes trap.

First of all, we see Crusoe completing what appears to be a perfect enclosure:

I worked excessive hard these three or four months to get my wall done; and the 14th of April I closed it up, contriving to go into it, not by a door but over the wall, by a ladder, that there might be no sign on the outside of my habitation.

April 16.—I finished the ladder; so I went up the ladder to the top, and then pulled it up after me, and let it down in the inside.  This was a complete enclosure to me; for within I had room enough, and nothing could come at me from without, unless it could first mount my wall.

The problem is not from without, however, but from within. Less than 24 hours after he completes his fortress, he is almost buried by it:

The very next day after this wall was finished I had almost had all my labor overthrown at once, and myself killed.  The case was thus: As I was busy in the inside, behind my tent, just at the entrance into my cave, I was terribly frighted with a most dreadful, surprising thing indeed; for all on a sudden I found the earth come crumbling down from the roof of my cave, and from the edge of the hill over my head, and two of the posts I had set up in the cave cracked in a frightful manner. 

Crusoe, who spends much of the book acquiring or constructing possessions, comes to define himself by them and appears almost more worried about losing them than he does about his own personal safety:

I was so much amazed with the thing itself, having never felt the like, nor discoursed with any one that had, that I was like one dead or stupefied; and the motion of the earth made my stomach sick, like one that was tossed at sea; but the noise of the falling of the rock awakened me, as it were, and rousing me from the stupefied condition I was in, filled me with horror; and I thought of nothing then but the hill falling upon my tent and all my household goods, and burying all at once; and this sunk my very soul within me a second time.

The more one has, the more frightened one becomes of losing it. In a further ironic twist, Crusoe discovers that he must cut a hole in his fortification to keep from drowning:

But the rain was so violent that my tent was ready to be beaten down with it; and I was forced to go into my cave, though very much afraid and uneasy, for fear it should fall on my head.  This violent rain forced me to a new work—viz. to cut a hole through my new fortification, like a sink, to let the water go out, which would else have flooded my cave. 

This isn’t the only time in the book when that Crusoe regards that which is supposed to keep him safe as a liability. His feelings of mastery are later undermined and he suffers an acute panic attack when he encounters the footprint. All that he has built now seems useless:

Oh, what ridiculous resolutions men take when possessed with fear!  It deprives them of the use of those means which reason offers for their relief.  The first thing I proposed to myself was, to throw down my enclosures, and turn all my tame cattle wild into the woods, lest the enemy should find them, and then frequent the island in prospect of the same or the like booty: then the simple thing of digging up my two corn-fields, lest they should find such a grain there, and still be prompted to frequent the island: then to demolish my bower and tent, that they might not see any vestiges of habitation, and be prompted to look farther, in order to find out the persons inhabiting.

These were the subject of the first night’s cogitations after I was come home again, while the apprehensions which had so overrun my mind were fresh upon me, and my head was full of vapors.  Thus, fear of danger is ten thousand times more terrifying than danger itself, when apparent to the eyes; and we find the burden of anxiety greater, by much, than the evil which we are anxious about…

Even when he is not dealing with a footprint but an actual person, Crusoe continues to construct elaborate defenses. Note how he deals with the newly rescued Friday:

The next day, after I came home to my hutch with him, I began to consider where I should lodge him: and that I might do well for him and yet be perfectly easy myself, I made a little tent for him in the vacant place between my two fortifications, in the inside of the last, and in the outside of the first.  As there was a door or entrance there into my cave, I made a formal framed door-case, and a door to it, of boards, and set it up in the passage, a little within the entrance; and, causing the door to open in the inside, I barred it up in the night, taking in my ladders, too; so that Friday could no way come at me in the inside of my innermost wall, without making so much noise in getting over that it must needs awaken me; for my first wall had now a complete roof over it of long poles, covering all my tent, and leaning up to the side of the hill; which was again laid across with smaller sticks, instead of laths, and then thatched over a great thickness with the rice-straw, which was strong, like reeds; and at the hole or place which was left to go in or out by the ladder I had placed a kind of trap-door, which, if it had been attempted on the outside, would not have opened at all, but would have fallen down and made a great noise—as to weapons, I took them all into my side every night. 

Eventually he learns that his fears are groundless and he has nothing to worry about—which America might conclude as well if it were to stop obsessing over dark-skinned people:

But I needed none of all this precaution; for never man had a more faithful, loving, sincere servant than Friday was to me: without passions, sullenness, or designs, perfectly obliged and engaged; his very affections were tied to me, like those of a child to a father; and I daresay he would have sacrificed his life to save mine upon any occasion whatsoever—the many testimonies he gave me of this put it out of doubt, and soon convinced me that I needed to use no precautions for my safety on his account.

Okay, so this is paternalistic and I’m not holding it up as a model for white-black friendships. But I do find it interesting how Crusoe periodically has his cultural assumptions upended. At one point he discovers that Europeans—I have in mind the mutineers who find their way to the island—can be no less savage than the cannibals.

The bigger point is that, when we insist on fences, we become defined by our fears, which threaten to bury us like Crusoe’s earthquake. Whereas when we open ourselves up to the Other, we may find a friend. May all Americans be open to this truth as we deal with the latest Latin American immigrants.

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“Alice” Shaped Joyce Carol Oates

Tenniel, "Alice in Wonderland"

Think of Oates as Alice in this Tenniel illustration

It’s always great to hear a shout out to Alice in Wonderland, which Joyce Carol Oates does in the recent issue of AARP (June/July 2014). According to the novelist, it’s “the book that changed my life—that made me yearn to be a writer as well as inspired me to ‘write.’”

Joyce reports that,

Like any child enraptured with a favorite book, I wanted to be Alice. It must have occurred to me that Alice was unlike any girl of my acquaintance; she seemed to belong to a foreign, upper-class environment with custom (teatime, crumpets, queens, kings, footmen) utterly alien to the farming society of Millersport, New York. I think that I learned from Alice to be just slightly bolder than I might have been, to question authority—that is adults—and to look upon life as a possibility for adventures.

Oates continues,

If I’d taken Alice for a model, I was prepared to recognize fear, even terror, without succumbing to it. There are scenes of nightmare illogic in the Alice books—dramatizations of the anxiety of being eaten, for instance—yet Alice never becomes panicked or loses her common sense and dignity.

Joyce adds that she was also aware that Alice wasn’t telling her own story—that someone called “Lewis Carroll” was—and this realization opened up the possibility that she could become a storyteller as well. (Maybe it helped that they sort of share a name.) She therefore spent hours as a child, on lined tablet paper, creating a fantasy world, “not of adults or even children but of cats and chickens.”

Joyce concludes,

Out of Alice in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass have sprung not only much of my enthusiasm for writing but my sense of the world as an indecipherable, essentially absurd but fascinating spectacle.

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Steinbeck Described Anti-Migrant Protests

Murrietta residents protesting Latin immigrants

Murrietta residents protesting Latin immigrants

Yesterday in our church choir we led the congregation in singing “The Battle Hymn of the Republic,” it being the July Fourth weekend. Encountering the Biblical allusion to “the grapes of wrath” was timely as I had been thinking of Steinbeck’s novel after seeing a California community lash out against the wave of immigrants we are seeing. Here’s from the account in the New York Times:

When the three busloads of immigrant mothers and children rolled into town for processing at a Border Patrol station this week, they were met by protesters carrying American flags and signs proclaiming “return to sender” as they screamed “go home” and chanted “U.S.A.” Fearing for the safety of the migrants and federal officers, immigration officials decided to reroute the buses to San Diego, an hour south.

And a day after many here celebrated what they saw as a temporary victory, more than a thousand residents packed a high school auditorium on Wednesday night for a town-hall-style meeting that lasted more than four hours, voicing fears about an influx of migrants.

“What happens when they come here with diseases and can overrun our schools? How much is this costing us?” one resident, Jodie Howard, asked the mayor.

And now here’s the description of California protesters as described in Grapes of Wrath. In Steinbeck’s case, the migrants are small farmers thrown out of work by the Dust Bowl and by the rise of technology. But whether driven by hunger or by fear of Central American violence, the migrants trigger a similar sequence of events. Here’s Steinbeck:

The great highways streamed with moving people. There in the Middle—and Southwest had lived a simple agrarian folk who had not changed with industry, who had not farmed with machines or known the power and danger of machines in private hands. They had not grown up in the paradoxes of industry. Their senses were still sharp to the ridiculousness of the industrial life.

And then suddenly the machines pushed them out and they swarmed on the highways. The movement changed them; the highways, the camps along the road, the fear of hunger and the hunger itself, changed them. The children without dinner changed them, the endless moving changed them. They were migrants. And the hostility changed them, welded them, united them—hostility that made the little towns group and arm as though to repel an invader, squads with pick handles, clerks and storekeepers with shotguns, guarding the world against their own people.

In the West there was panic when the migrants multiplied on the highways. Men of property were terrified for their property. Men who had never been hungry saw the eyes of the hungry. Men who had never wanted anything very much saw the flare of want in the eyes of the migrants. And the men of the towns and of the soft suburban country gathered to defend themselves; and they reassured themselves that they were good and the invaders bad, as a man must do before he fights. They said, These goddamned Okies are dirty and ignorant. They’re degenerate, sexual maniacs. Those goddamned Okies are thieves. They’ll steal anything. They’ve got no sense of property rights.

And the latter was true, for how can a man without property know the ache of ownership? And the defending people said, They bring disease, they’re filthy. We can’t have them in the schools. They’re strangers. How’d you like to have your sister go out with one of ‘em?

The local people whipped themselves into a mold of cruelty. Then they formed units, squads, and armed them—armed them with clubs, with gas, with guns. We own the country. We can’t let these Okies get out of hand. And the men who were armed did not own the land, but they thought they did. And the clerks who drilled at night owned nothing, and the little storekeepers possessed only a drawerful of debts. But even a debt is something, even a job is something. The clerk thought, I get fifteen dollars a week. S’pose a goddamn Okie would work for twelve? And the little storekeeper thought, How could I compete with a debtless man?

And the migrants streamed in on the highways and their hunger was in their eyes, and their need was in their eyes. They had no argument, no system, nothing but their numbers and their needs.

The United States is now facing what other countries around the world have faced when their neighbors face human upheavals. Think of it as a test of everything that we, an immigrant nation, believe in.

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The Evil I Do Not Want Is What I Do

John Eames proposes to Lily Dale (illus. George Housman Thomas)

Eames proposes to Lily  (illus. George Housman Thomas)

Spiritual Sunday 

In today’s Episcopal service we encounter a passage from St. Paul’s letter to the Romans that I particularly like, in large part because it captures an internal conflict that we can all relate to. It also reminds me of a passage from Anthony Trollope’s The Last Chronicle of Barset (1867).

First, here’s St. Paul talking about his internal battle with sin:

I do not understand my own actions. For I do not do what I want, but I do the very thing I hate.  Now if I do what I do not want, I agree that the law is good.  But in fact it is no longer I that do it, but sin that dwells within me.  For I know that nothing good dwells within me, that is, in my flesh. I can will what is right, but I cannot do it.  For I do not do the good I want, but the evil I do not want is what I do.  Now if I do what I do not want, it is no longer I that do it, but sin that dwells within me.  

So I find it to be a law that when I want to do what is good, evil lies close at hand.  For I delight in the law of God in my inmost self,  but I see in my members another law at war with the law of my mind, making me captive to the law of sin that dwells in my members.  Wretched man that I am! Who will rescue me from this body of death?  Thanks be to God through Jesus Christ our Lord! (Romans 7:15-25a)

In the Trollope novel, a young man, John Eames, wants to marry Lily Dale, but she repeatedly turns him down. He resolves to always be true to her, even if she never accepts him, but in the meantime he also decides to amuse himself (innocently, he tells himself) with another woman. Note the Pauline conflict about wanting to do what is good while succumbing to “sin that dwells within me”:

He got into a cab, and bid the cabman drive hard, and lighting a cigar, began to inquire of himself whether it was well for him to hurry away from the presence of Lily Dale to that of Madalina Demolines. He felt that he was half-ashamed of what he was doing. Though he declared to himself over and over again that he never had said a word, and never intended to say a word, to Madalina, which all the world might not hear, yet he knew that he was doing amiss. He was doing amiss, and half repented it, and yet he was half proud of it. He was most anxious to be able to give himself credit for his constancy to Lily Dale; to be able to feel that he was steadfast in his passion; and yet he liked the idea of amusing himself with his Bayswater romance, as he would call it, and was not without something of conceit as he thought of the progress he had made in it. “Love is one thing and amusement is another,” he said to himself as he puffed the cigar-smoke out of his mouth; and in his heart he was proud of his own capacity for enjoyment. He thought it a fine thing, although at the same moment he knew it to be an evil thing—this hurrying away from the young lady whom he really loved to another as to whom he thought it very likely that he should be called upon to pretend to love her. And he sang a little song as he went, “If she be not fair for me, what care I how fair she be.” That was intended to apply to Lily, and was used as an excuse for his fickleness in going to Miss Demolines. 

It’s another example, if another example is needed, that literature provides lots of material for moral instruction.

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World Cup: Some Said It Couldn’t Be Done

U.S. vs. Belgium in World Cup

U.S. vs. Belgium in World Cup

Sports Saturday

As a fan of the American soccer team, I am, like many, very proud of the effort they put forth in the Round of 16. Belgium was clearly the better team, running circles around us for much of the match, so it was probably right that they prevailed in the end. Still, I loved how we never hesitated to attack when we could and how we almost overcame a two-goal deficit at the end.

I found myself applying a whole series of clichés to the team, sounding a bit like an Edgar Guest poem as I did so. I said that we were gritty and determined, that we demonstrated our “never say die” spirit and refused to give up against even impossible odds. My language sounded utterly hackneyed.

Guest was one of America’s most popular poets in the early part of the 20th century, publishing over 11,000 poems in 300 newspapers and other venues including, eventually, The Reader’s Digest. Most famous for his poem “Home” (“It takes a heap o’ livin’ in a house t’ make it home”), Guest captured a certain strain of can-do American optimism in pithy doggerel.

The poem that came to mind as I watched America emerge from “the Group of Death” and hold its own against Belgium was “It Couldn’t Be Done.” “Quiddit,” incidentally, is an obsolete word meaning equivocating:

Somebody said that it couldn’t be done
      But he with a chuckle replied
That “maybe it couldn’t,” but he would be one
      Who wouldn’t say so till he’d tried.
So he buckled right in with the trace of a grin
      On his face. If he worried he hid it.
He started to sing as he tackled the thing
      That couldn’t be done, and he did it!
Somebody scoffed: “Oh, you’ll never do that;
      At least no one ever has done it;”
But he took off his coat and he took off his hat
      And the first thing we knew he’d begun it.
With a lift of his chin and a bit of a grin,
      Without any doubting or quiddit,
He started to sing as he tackled the thing
      That couldn’t be done, and he did it.
There are thousands to tell you it cannot be done,
      There are thousands to prophesy failure,
There are thousands to point out to you one by one,
      The dangers that wait to assail you.
But just buckle in with a bit of a grin,
      Just take off your coat and go to it;
Just start in to sing as you tackle the thing
      That “cannot be done,” and you’ll do it. 

Yes, I know it’s pretty awful. In fact, those who romanticize the days when poetry was much more a part of everyday life need also to remember that this was the kind of poetry that people often turned to. It has been argued, with some justification, that the major reason to read Guest is so that one can appreciate Dorothy Parker’s succinct putdown. Referring to a medical procedure used to detect syphilis, Parker wrote,

I’d rather flunk my Wasserman test
Than read the poetry of Edgar Guest.

If one knows Guest, one can also better appreciate a parody of “It Couldn’t Be Done,” which unfortunately more accurately describes what happened to the U.S. soccer team:

Somebody Said That It Couldn’t Be Done


Somebody said that it couldn’t be done– 
But he, with a grin, replied, 
He’d never be one to say it couldn’t be done– 
Leastways, not ’til he’d tried. 
So he buckled right in, with a trace of a grin, 
By golly, he went right to it! 
He tackled The Thing That Couldn’t Be Done! 
And couldn’t do it.

Oh well, just wait until 2018.

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Learning to Love America

Chaplin, Purviance in "The Immigrant"

Chaplin, Purviance in “The Immigrant”

Fourth of July

It’s difficult to feel entirely celebratory about the 4th of July this year, what with thousands of children trying to crash the border while American nativists raise a hue and cry. Some members of the GOP are actively talking about deporting the so-called Dreamers as well, those people who crossed the border as children years ago and who know no other country than this one.

It’s a wrenching drama but hardly a new one. Many of those Americans who are now comfortably ensconced as citizens had forefathers and mothers who were similarly spurned. If we don’t want waves of immigrants from Latin America, then we need to support those countries so that their people don’t have to leave. Barring that, we must be as humane as we can. Fanning the flames of xenophobia creates nothing but toxicity.

Here’s a poem by a Malaysian-Chinese immigrant that reminds us that those who come here, if allowed to stay, will come to love America just as we who came earlier have come to love it. This process is what we celebrate today.

Learning to Love America

By Shirley Geok-lin Lim

because it has no pure products

because the Pacific Ocean sweeps along the coastline
because the water of the ocean is cold
and because land is better than ocean

because I say we rather than they

because I live in California
I have eaten fresh artichokes
and jacaranda bloom in April and May

because my senses have caught up with my body
my breath with the air it swallows
my hunger with my mouth

because I walk barefoot in my house

because I have nursed my son at my breast
because he is a strong American boy
because I have seen his eyes redden when he is asked who he is
because he answers I don’t know

because to have a son is to have a country
because my son will bury me here
because countries are in our blood and we bleed them

because it is late and too late to change my mind
because it is time.

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SCOTUS Traps Women in Doll’s House

Fonda in "The Doll's House"

Fonda, Warner in “The Doll’s House”

I’ve always been reluctant to use “war” as a metaphor in our political battles, such as “war on crime,” “war on drugs,” and (most recently) “war on women.” There’s enough hyperbole already in politics without having to supercharge the language. That being said, however, I think significant elements in the GOP, while not “waging a war” on women, are in fact trying to reassert control over women.

We’ve been seeing this especially in the systematic attempt in many states to deny women access to abortion and in Senate Minority Leader Mitch McConnell’s promise to pass more restrictive abortion laws if the GOP wins back the Senate. We also saw increased attempts to control women’s reproductive choices in the Supreme Court’s decision Monday to allow certain companies to refuse women access to free contraception in their health plans.

Don’t be fooled into thinking that the issue was religious freedom. Justice Alito, writing for the majority, noted that the ruling only affected contraception, not other health considerations (such as, to cite Justice Ginsburg’s examples, “blood transfusions (Jehovah’s Witnesses); antidepressants (Scientologists); medications derived from pigs, including anesthesia, intravenous fluids, and pills coated with gelatin (certain Muslims, Jews, and Hindus); and vaccinations.” No, the Hobby Lobby owners believe that certain forms of contraception are tantamount to abortion and, whether they are right or wrong, a “sincerely held religious belief” (Alito’s phrase) is what matters.

Justice Ginsburg further pointed out that “[t]he exemption sought by Hobby Lobby and Conestoga would…deny legions of women who do not hold their employers’ beliefs access to contraceptive coverage” and that “[i]t bears note in this regard that the cost of an IUD is nearly equivalent to a month’s full-time pay for workers earning the minimum wage.”

So why all this focus on contraception and abortion in recent years? A cynic might see this as the ultimate wedge issue, a way that the establishment GOP can continue to hold on to its Tea Party base while still keeping its Wall Street constituents happy. But I think the reason goes deeper than this and that Ibsen’s A Doll’s House (1879) casts some light on what’s going on.

I think that the GOP no longer thinks it can manage the economy or the climate or the demographic future of the United States. To restore a feeling of masculine control, it seeks therefore to control what it can—which in red states is America’s women, especially poor women. Women are hearing the message which is why, in increasing numbers, they are voting Democratic, especially those who are young and/or single.

Before I turn to Ibsen, here are a couple of women columnists pointing out what is frightening about the Supreme Court’s recent decision. First, Kate McDonough of Salon:

To sum it up, five male justices ruled that thousands of female employees should rightfully be subjected to the whims of their employers. That women can be denied a benefit that they already pay for and is guaranteed by federal law. That contraception is not essential healthcare. That corporations can pray. That the corporate veil can be manipulated to suit the needs of the corporation. That bosses can cynically choose à la carte what laws they want to comply with and which laws they do not. Each specific finding opens a door to a new form of discrimination and unprecedented corporate power. If you think this ruling won’t affect you, you haven’t been paying attention. If you think these corporations are going to stop at birth control, you’re kidding yourself.

And now Slate columnist Amanda Marcotte writing for Reproductive Health (although unfortunately she uses the “war on women” metaphor):

Bit by bit, they can make us accustomed to the idea that contraception is “controversial” and whether or not you get pregnant is a matter of public debate instead of a private choice.

Why should they doubt that this strategy will work? It took four decades, but the chipping away strategy has started to pay off in the war on abortion access, with many states on the verge of having no abortion providers whatsoever. They may never be able to get contraception banned, but they can definitely do some serious damage to women’s ability to access it. They are waging a “war on women,” after all, so every woman felled by unwanted pregnancy is a victory in and of itself.

In The Doll’s House, Nora Helmer for years plays along with—enables—her husband’s need to feel in control. She uses her “feminine wiles” (now there’s an outmoded expression) to get him to take a life-saving trip to Italy and she hides her means of financing it. (As she puts it, “how painful and humiliating it would be for Torvald, with his manly independence, to know that he owed me anything! It would upset our mutual relations altogether; our beautiful happy home would no longer be what it is now.”)

When the truth comes out that she has forged her father’s signature to obtain a loan (women can’t get loans without a man’s signature) and that she has been secretly paying off the loan with her household allowance (Torvald thinks she’s a spendthrift “little squirrel”), there is a blow-up. But the blow-up proves salutary because Nora suddenly acknowledges that her husband has no real respect for her. It’s the moment of truth she needs if she is to grow. Here’s their conversation:

Nora [shaking her head]. You have never loved me. You have only thought it pleasant to be in love with me.
Helmer. Nora, what do I hear you saying?
Nora. It is perfectly true, Torvald. When I was at home with papa, he told me his opinion about everything, and so I had the same opinions; and if I differed from him I concealed the fact, because he would not have liked it. He called me his doll-child, and he played with me just as I used to play with my dolls. And when I came to live with you–
Helmer. What sort of an expression is that to use about our marriage?
Nora [undisturbed]. I mean that I was simply transferred from papa’s hands into yours. You arranged everything according to your own taste, and so I got the same tastes as you. Or else I pretended to, I am really not quite sure which–I think sometimes the one and sometimes the other. When I look back on it, it seems to me as if I had been living here like a poor woman–just from hand to mouth. I have existed merely to perform tricks for you, Torvald. But you would have it so. You and papa have committed a great sin against me. It is your fault that I have made nothing of my life.
Helmer. How unreasonable and how ungrateful you are, Nora! Have you not been happy here?
Nora. No, I have never been happy. I thought I was, but it has never really been so.
Helmer. Not–not happy!
Nora. No, only merry. And you have always been so kind to me. But our home has been nothing but a playroom. I have been your doll-wife, just as at home I was papa’s doll-child…

And then Nora states what she must do:

Nora. I must try and educate myself–you are not the man to help me in that. I must do that for myself. And that is why I am going to leave you now.

I suspect one reason why so many women are leaving—or not joining—the GOP is because they are educating themselves about Republican positions. They feel patronized and unsupported.

The Doll’s House holds one thread of hope for Republicans. If Torvald’s fundamental attitude were to change—if he were to truly respect Nora, allowing her autonomy and deciding that she is capable of making her own decisions—then their marriage could be saved. As Nora puts it, “the most wonderful thing of all would have to happen.”

Helmer. Nora–can I never be anything more than a stranger to you?
Nora [taking her bag]. Ah, Torvald, the most wonderful thing of all would have to happen.
Helmer. Tell me what that would be!
Nora. Both you and I would have to be so changed that–. Oh, Torvald, I don’t believe any longer in wonderful things happening.
Helmer. But I will believe in it. Tell me! So changed that–?
Nora. That our life together would be a real wedlock. Goodbye. [She goes out through the hall.]
Helmer [sinks down on a chair at the door and buries his face in his hands]. Nora! Nora! [Looks round, and rises.] Empty. She is gone. [A hope flashes across his mind.] The most wonderful thing of all–?

So can our Torvald Helmers decide that women should be free to make their own reproductive choices? It would mean taking abortion and contraception out of the public realm and leaving it up to women and their doctors. That indeed would be the most wonderful thing of all.

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Viagra and the Drums of War

Former Vice President Dick Cheney

Former Vice President Dick Cheney

As Iraq has been falling apart, many are wondering why the original architects of the war aren’t keeping their mouths shut. Shouldn’t they be humble and contrite over the fact that practically every one of their predictions has been wrong? But no, they loudly accuse Obama of pusillanimously pulling out American  troops and losing the country. Former Vice President Dick Cheney has all but accused the president of treason and Senator John McCain hammers him mercilessly.

Over the past few years McCain, who appears regularly on the Sunday morning talk shows, has called for invading or militarily intervening in Afghanistan, Iraq, Georgia, (to oust the Russians), Libya, Iran, Syria, the Crimea (to oust the Russians), Nigeria (to free the girls captured by terrorists), and now Iraq again. Imagine if he has been elected president!

How is one able, especially at Cheney’s and McCain’s ages (73 and 77), to remain in what appears to be a perpetual state of belligerence? If my father were alive today, I suspect he would points us to the following poem, which appears in his ZYX of Political Sex.

As a soldier in the Third Army of General Patton, whom he despised, my father worried a lot about the harm that machismo was visiting upon the world. (Check out this poem where he goes after the National Rifle Association.) In “Viagra,” he counts on the natural cycle to offset Yeats’ predicted second coming. That is, until men find new ways to stay pumped up.


By Scott Bates

According to sleep scientists,
every man has a minimum of four to six
erections a night
during his dreams,
so why does he need Viagra?

A minimum of 1,174,944 erections a night in
the city of Milwaukee alone!
not to mention the suburbs and outlying precincts;
and in Chicago,
it staggers the imagination.

What a rising and falling of tents!
What a mustering of ammunition!
Spermatazoa of the universe arise,
you have nothing to lose but your asteroids!

But no,
the erection apocalypse is not upon us yet,
the final shoot-out is not imminently forthcoming;
the fireworks fizzle,
the dynamite dampens,
the tide retreats;
Peter Pan panics and peters out;
the sleeping spouse sighs and turns over on her stomach;
blood slips back to the edge of the world;
dawn breaks.

Dark beasts yawn and amble home to their dens;
soldiers fall asleep by the dying embers of their fires;
paleolithic night succumbs
to polluted sewer pipes
and dangling day.

And then he takes his Viagra.

Dangling day isn’t half as exciting as armed combat. But maybe Cheney and McCain don’t need viagra. Maybe war fervor has the same effect.

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Going to Bed before It’s Dark

Myrtle Sheldon, illus. from "Child's Garden of Verses"

Myrtle Sheldon, illus. from “Child’s Garden of Verses”

I’m currently visiting my two-year-old grandson Alban and remembered a poem from my own childhood as he was being put to bed last night. There was still some daylight left, and Robert Louis Stevenson “Bed in Summer” captures a child’s sense of injustice at having to go to bed before it’s completely dark.

I devoured Stevenson’s A Child’s Garden of Verses when I was young and part of the reason may have been that I always felt that he understood me and was on my side. The greatest children’s poetry always gives that sense.

Bed in Summer

By Robert Louis Stevenson

In winter I get up at night   
And dress by yellow candle-light.   
In summer, quite the other way,   
I have to go to bed by day.       

I have to go to bed and see          
The birds still hopping on the tree,   
Or hear the grown-up people’s feet   
Still going past me in the street.       

And does it not seem hard to you,   
When all the sky is clear and blue,   
And I should like so much to play,    
To have to go to bed by day?

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It’s Not Always More Blessed to Give

Mary Snow

Millais, “Angel of Light” (Trollope’s Mary Snow)

I want to follow up yesterday’s post about idealizing self-sacrifice. If I have suddenly and unexpectedly become enthralled with the novels of Anthony Trollope, it is in part because I find in them many of the Victorian values that I was raised on. One of these is denying one’s own desires to help someone else out.

In yesterday’s post I gave an example of a narcissist, Mrs. Dobbs Broughton, who thinks she is selflessly giving up a painter with whom she flirts but, by any objective measure, she is guided only by her own selfishness (which includes seeing herself as a heroic self sacrificer). But while she herself is a fraud, Trollope has any number of heroines who heroically surrender their own claims for the happiness of the man they love.

I remember ascribing to this vision of virtue when growing up and of burying many of my own needs. I felt guilty asking for things that I wanted—would I be seen as greedy?—and regularly censored my desires. The result was that I didn’t know what it was I truly wanted. I was impressed with people who demanded that things be a certain way since I was always willing to be satisfied with whatever I received.

Some deep part of myself must have chafed against this vision, however, because I thrilled to authors who challenged this perspective. I now realize they were rebelling against visions such as Trollope’s.

First of all, there was Shaw’s devil in Man and Superman, which I read as a high school senior. At one point he asserts that “an Englishman thinks he is moral when he is only uncomfortable.” Shaw was drawing on Nietzsche, who I encountered in a sophomore ethics class with a thrill of recognition. In Genealogy of Morals, Nietzsche argues Christian self-sacrifice is not noble but rather a plot of a slave religion to subjugate the the free spirited Ubermensch/Superman.

Above all, I was drawn to D. H. Lawrence, also inspired by Nietzsche, who in The Man Who Died imagines a different Jesus than the one Victorians conceptualized. This Jesus lives for himself rather than sacrificing himself for others. A characteristic passage from the novella is this post-crucifixion interchange between Jesus and Mary Magdalene:

 “Do you want to be alone henceforward?” she asked. “And was your mission nothing? Was it all untrue?”

“Nay!” he said. “Neither were your lovers in the past nothing. They were much to you, but you took more than you gave. Then you came to me for salvation from your own excess. And I, in my mission, I too ran to excess. I gave more than I took, and that also is woe and vanity. So Pilate and the high priests saved me from my own excessive salvation. Don’t run to excess now in living, Madeleine. It only means another death.”

She pondered bitterly, for the need for excessive giving was in her, and she could not bear to be denied.

“And will you not come back to us?” she said. “Have you risen for yourself alone?”

He heard the sarcasm in her voice, and looked at her beautiful face which still was dense with excessive need for salvation from the woman she had been, the female who had caught men at her will. The cloud of necessity was on her, to be saved from the old, wilful Eve, who had embraced many men and taken more than she gave. Now the other doom was on her. She wanted to give without taking. And that, too, is hard, and cruel to the warm body.

“I have not risen from the dead in order to seek death again,” he said.

By the end of the work, Jesus is having an affair with a priestess of Isis and learning what it is to accept the body. To a college student in the flush of his hormones who felt vaguely guilty about sex—who felt the virtue meant denying the desires of the body–this was powerful stuff. Looking back, Jesus’ climactic moment some sees overwrought but it didn’t read that way to a 21-year-old:

Now all his consciousness was there in the crouching, hidden woman. He stooped beside her and caressed her softly, blindly, murmuring inarticulate things. And his death and his passion of sacrifice were all as nothing to him now, he knew only the crouching fullness of the woman there, the soft white rock of life…”On this rock I built my life.” The deep-folded, penetrable rock of the living woman! The woman, hiding her face. Himself bending over, powerful and new like dawn.

He crouched to her, and he felt the blaze of his manhood and his power rise up in his loins, magnificent.

“I am risen!”

Magnificent, blazing indomitable in the depths of his loins, his own sun dawned, and sent its fire running along his limbs, so that his face shone unconsciously.

He untied the string on the linen tunic and slipped the garment down, till he saw the white glow of her white-gold breasts. And he touched them, and he felt his life go molten. “Father!” he said, “why did you hide this from me?” And he touched her with the poignancy of wonder, and the marvellous piercing transcendence of desire. “Lo!” he said, “this is beyond prayer.” It was the deep, interfolded warmth, warmth living and penetrable, the woman, the heart of the rose! My mansion is the intricate warm rose, my joy is this blossom!

I learned from Lawrence that too much self denial is as bad as too little and that it is as bad to give without taking as it is to take without giving.

To be sure, I never took Nietzsche to the point that someone like Ayn Rand did, embracing a philosophy of selfishness. Taking without giving bends the stick too much in the other direction. It still seems heroic to me to sacrifice myself for others, which in my case means for my family and my students.

I’m still Victorian in the sense that I continue to have difficulty acknowledging what I want and valuing my desires. But a stick that was bent too much in a 19th century direction is now a bit straighter.

For all his Victorian sensibility, Trollope has a balance worth striving for. In Doctor Thorne, his wonderfully spunky heroine Mary may be willing to sacrifice her claims on the high-born Frank Gresham but, very refreshingly, she won’t deny that she loves him. She doesn’t censor her desires, even though she governs her conduct carefully. In that way, she is a healthier figure than, say, Lucy Snowe in Charlotte Bronte’s Villette,who denies her feelings so much that she has a mental breakdown.

Trollope offers us a healthy mixture of principled behavior and healthy desire. I’m reluctant to condemn our culture today as shallow, materialistic, and narcissistic because there are many exceptions. But to the extent that this characterization rings true, Trollope provides us with a healthy antidote.

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Reveling in Isaac’s Self Sacrifice

The painting of "Jael" in "Last Chronicle of Barset"

The painting of “Jael” in “Last Chronicle of Barset”

Spiritual Sunday 

Today’s Old Testament reading is Abraham’s planned sacrifice of Isaac, one of the most disturbing stories in the Bible. To approach it on a lighter note, I look at Trollope’s comic use of the passage in The Last Chronicle of Barset. In the process, we are given insight into the machinations of a passive aggressive personality.

In Trollope’s novel, the shallow Mrs. Dobbs Broughton (originally Maria Clutterbuck) spices up her dull marriage by flirting with painter Conway Dalrymple and assisting his project to paint her friend Clara as Jael, the Hebrew heroine famous for driving a stake through the head of attacking general Sisera.

She also takes a hand at matchmaking—between the painter and her friend—but here she is neither honest with herself or with them. Even as she seems to work on their behalf and applauds herself on her heroic self sacrifice, she also sabotages the match at every opportunity.

She borrows from the Biblical story the image of Issac gathering the fagots that will be used in his own sacrifice. Here she is arranging Clara’s costume for the painting:

Mrs. Broughton had twisted a turban round Clara’s head, as she always did on these occasions, and assisted to arrange the drapery. She used to tell herself as she did so, that she was like Isaac, piling the fagots for her own sacrifice. Only Isaac had piled them in ignorance, and she piled them conscious of the sacrificial flames. And Isaac had been saved; whereas it was impossible that the catching of any ram in any thicket could save her. But, nevertheless, she arranged the drapery with all her skill, piling the fagots ever so high for her own pyre.

When she leaves the room so that Dalrymple can propose to Clara, we learn that he sees through her:

Dalrymple was aware that Mrs. Dobbs Broughton, though she was very assiduous in piling her fagots, never piled them for long together. If he did not make haste she would be back upon them before he could get his word spoken.

And sure enough, she returns to the room in time to interrupt the proposal:

“Just to show you that it is not for the sake of the picture that I come here. Clara—” Then the door was opened, and Isaac appeared, very weary, having been piling fagots with assiduity, till human nature could pile no more. Conway Dalrymple, who had made his way almost up to Clara’s seat, turned round sharply towards his easel, in anger at having been disturbed. He should have been more grateful for all that his Isaac had done for him, and have recognized the fact that the fault had been with himself. Mrs. Broughton had been twelve minutes out of the room. She had counted them to be fifteen,—having no doubt made a mistake as to three,—and had told herself that with such a one as Conway Dalrymple, with so much of the work ready done to his hand for him, fifteen minutes should have been amply sufficient. When we reflect what her own thoughts must have been during the interval,—what it is to have to pile up such fagots as those, how she was, as it were, giving away a fresh morsel of her own heart during each minute that she allowed Clara and Conway Dalrymple to remain together, it cannot surprise us that her eyes should have become dizzy, and that she should not have counted the minutes with accurate correctness.

We think of the Biblical story as being about Abraham, but the Victorians, who valued self denial, were able to identify with Isaac. Even when they weren’t actually self sacrificing, they were fantasizing about doing so.

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Bram Stoker’s Cure for Biting

Suarez bit

Suarez’ bites Italy’s Chiellini

Sports Saturday

What a memorable World Cup this has been! There have been unexpected winners (Costa Rica, U.S.), fabulous saves, and lots of goals, a number of them of the last second variety (Switzerland, Argentina, Portugal). On the negative side, the tournament will also be remembered for Luis Suarez’s bite.

The Uruguayan scoring sensation was caught biting for the third time in his career and has now received a stiff four-month sentence. One ESPN commentator said that the player must be in need of help, which prompted me to check out the solution proposed in the ultimate book about those with biting problems. I have in mind, of course, Bram Stoker’s Dracula.

In the novel, vampire hunter Van Helsing explains why certain people bite:

Before we do anything, let me tell you this; it is out of the lore and experience of the ancients and of all those who have studied the powers of the Un-Dead. When they become such, there comes with the change the curse of immortality; they cannot die, but must go on age after age adding new victims and multiplying the evils of the world; for all that die from the preying of the Un-Dead becomes themselves Un-Dead, and prey on their kind. And so the circle goes on ever widening, like as the ripples from a stone thrown in the water.

I guess this means we should keep a close eye on Italian player Giorgio Chiellini, the victim of Suarez’s chomp.

Special treatment is required if a vampire is ever to find peace again. In this case, Van Helsing informs Arthur Holmwood that he must take drastic action to save the soul of his fiancé-turned-vampire Lucy. Think of Arthur as a member of FIFA, soccer’s governing board that handed down the Suarez punishment:

Brave lad! A moment’s courage, and it is done. This stake must be driven through her. It will be a fearful ordeal—be not deceived in that—but it will be only a short time, and you will then rejoice more than your pain was great; from this grim tomb you will emerge as though you tread on air. But you must not falter when once you have begun. Only think that we, your true friends, are round you, and that we pray for you all the time.”

“Go on,” said Arthur hoarsely. “Tell me what I am to do.”

“Take this stake in your left hand, ready to place the point over the heart, and the hammer in your right. Then when we begin our prayer for the dead—I shall read him, I have here the book, and the others shall follow—strike in God’s name, that so all may be well with the dead that we love and that the Un-Dead pass away.”

Arthur took the stake and the hammer, and when once his mind was set on action his hands never trembled nor even quivered. Van Helsing opened his missal and began to read, and Quincey and I followed as well as we could. Arthur placed the point over the heart, and as I looked I could see its dint in the white flesh. Then he struck with all his might.

The Thing in the coffin writhed, and a hideous, blood-curdling screech came from the opened red lips. The body shook and quivered and twisted in wild contortions; the sharp white teeth champed together till the lips were cut, and the mouth was smeared with a crimson foam. But Arthur never faltered. He looked like a figure of Thor as his untrembling arm rose and fell, driving deeper and deeper the mercy-bearing stake, whilst the blood from the pierced heart welled and spurted up around it. His face was set, and high duty seemed to shine through it; the sight of it gave us courage so that our voices seemed to ring through the little vault.

And then the writhing and quivering of the body became less, and the teeth seemed to champ, and the face to quiver. Finally it lay still. The terrible task was over. 

The intervention proves successful:

There, in the coffin lay no longer the foul Thing that we had so dreaded and grown to hate that the work of her destruction was yielded as a privilege to the one best entitled to it, but Lucy as we had seen her in her life, with her face of unequalled sweetness and purity. True that there were there, as we had seen them in life, the traces of care and pain and waste; but these were all dear to us, for they marked her truth to what we knew. One and all we felt that the holy calm that lay like sunshine over the wasted face and form was only an earthly token and symbol of the calm that was to reign forever.

And then there is one final procedure:

Arthur bent and kissed her, and then we sent him and Quincey out of the tomb; the Professor and I sawed the top off the stake, leaving the point of it in the body. Then we cut off the head and filled the mouth with garlic. We soldered up the leaden coffin, screwed on the coffin-lid, and gathering up our belongings, came away.

Is this equivalent to a four-month, nine-game suspension with a heavy fine? Has FIFA, by putting a metaphorical stake in Suarez’s heart, exorcised the biter within so that the player can emerge cleansed and at peace? Given that the suspension begins with Uruguay’s match in the knockout rounds with Columbia, FIFA has certainly cut off the head of the Uruguayan team, which must feel that that everything is coming up garlic rather than roses.

But if it saves a great soccer player, it’s worth it, right?

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Ask Jane: Advice for Lovers

Knightley, Macfadyen in "Pride and Prejudice"

Knightley, Macfadyen in “Pride and Prejudice”

Last Friday I suggested that the Elizabeth-Darcy union in Pride and Prejudice captures our imaginations because it represents the perfect archetype of marriage. My argument was that it fits Thomas Moore’s description in Soul Mates that marriage is

an opportunity to enter, explore, and fulfill essential notions of who we are and who we can be.  In this sense marriage is not fundamentally the relationship between two persons, but rather an entry into destiny, an opening to the potential life that lies hidden from view until evoked by the particular thoughts and feelings of marriage.

By marrying each other, I claimed, Elizabeth and Darcy each take significant steps towards fulfilling inner potential that before they only sensed.

In today’s post I’ve extrapolated a set of relationship guidelines from the Elizabeth-Darcy courtship to help you find your own soul mate (if that’s something you want). Think of it as using Jane Austen for self-help.

I pay particular attention to the friction between the couple after essayist Elizabeth Marcus, in a comment on last week’s post,  mentioned her interest in Elizabeth and Darcy’s initial antipathy. As you will see, I argue that the crisis points in the Elizabeth-Darcy relationship are moments of opportunity that point to transformational possibilities. These they can choose either to reject or embrace.

We all encounter such crisis points in our relationships, and they will be presented to us again and again until we deal with them.  It is with all of us as it is with Darcy and Elizabeth. Even were they to seek other partners, the same issues would come up because they are who they are.

In the following guidelines, you can check to see whether you recognize moments in your own relationship(s) and where, in the future, you can make changes. If anyone would be attuned to what it takes to find a soul-filled relationship, it would be Jane Austen. Think of this as the groundwork necessary for finding a soul mate. 

I. First Encounters

 –Initial resistance, even antagonism, towards a person who attracts you

In his first encounter, Darcy may shy away from Elizabeth because he intuitively senses that she represents an opportunity for painful growth.  If we take seriously the antagonism we feel, we may learn something important about ourselves.

–Reluctance to put yourself forward

Luckily for Elizabeth (as it eventually turns out), she has a Sir Lucas who forces her to meet Darcy.   Opportunities may present themselves, even against our will, to enter into a growth possibility.  We need to be aware that they will happen and note how we fight them. We should also be prepared to step forward without help from others, no matter how frightening it may be.

–Emotionally charged exchanges

Darcy refuses to dance with Elizabeth on the grounds that he is in no humor “to give consequence to young ladies who are slighted by other men,” and Elizabeth at one point tells Darcy that his major defect is “a propensity to hate every body.”  Early conversations can go poorly, especially if there is a lot of potential in a relationship.  Again, the awkwardness may signal deeper attraction at work.

II. Retreats

–Rejection and mortification

Elizabeth’s rejection of Darcy’s marriage proposal, and his refusal to apologize for his mortifying comments on her family, point to the hard work the two must undertake.  Conversations that, at first, lead to emotional devastation can be the first steps to a new honesty.  The intense psychic energy in the exchange (not to be found, say, in Elizabeth’s firm and rational rejection of Collins, which hurts his ego but not his heart) points to the great potential in the relationship.  In other words, we should not necessarily take rejection as the final word.

–Blaming the other person

Darcy and Elizabeth’s first inclination after the failed marriage proposal is to blame the other.  We need to move beyond this understandable reflex if we are to grow.

–Severe self-doubt

Coupled with blaming the other is blaming ourselves.  Darcy is mortified by Elizabeth’s rejection, Elizabeth by the contents of Darcy’s letter.  Again, in order to grow, we need to forgive ourselves, just as we must forgive the other.

–Reversion to previous behaviors

Each retreats to isolation.  Darcy returns to the insulated world of his friends while Elizabeth dreams of going to the Lake District, where she can laugh at humankind from a safe distance.  (“What are men to rocks and mountains?” she exclaims.)  When undergoing strain, we may retreat into our most characteristic behaviors, even if they haven’t served us well in the past.  A retreat can also be positive, however, if we use it to engage in honest and clear-headed self-assessment.

III. Process of Change


Darcy and Elizabeth give each other an invaluable gift, albeit a very painful one: honest feedback.  After initial resistance, they then listen to what the other has to say and take an honest look at themselves.  Such self-assessment is imperative if we are to move beyond our wounded feelings.

–Taking Action

Darcy works to become less proud, Elizabeth to become less judgmental.  Each is prepared to treat the other differently should the occasion arise.  Past mortification and suffering can be a blessing if we learn from them and take steps to change.


After they work on themselves, Darcy and Elizabeth coincidentally come together at Pemberley and recognize the changes.  If we improve ourselves, we will get second chances, although we cannot predict the form those chances will take.


Just when Darcy and Elizabeth appear to be heading towards a second proposal, Lydia runs away and Darcy learns that marrying his love will also involve dirtying his hands in the world he has tried to avoid.  Then Lady Catherine shows up at Elizabeth’s doorstep, showing her the arrogance and contempt that Elizabeth will encounter if she marries the man she loves.   A relationship will not survive merely surface change, and the universe will invariably find ways to test our transformations.  We can use these challenges to further our growth.

IV. Happy Endings

–Strong sense of self worth 

Darcy and Elizabeth appreciate the new people they have become.  One of the deepest joys of partnership is the coaching you get to come into alignment with yourself.


Once Darcy and Elizabeth have worked on themselves, the romance novel can close with a convincing and compelling marriage.

V. Conclusion

If the courtship journey seems treacherous and fraught with emotional risk, well, that’s the call for us to become heroes in our own romance novel. We are all potential Darcys and Elizabeths, prone to missteps but also capable of breakthroughs.

What becomes clear from the novel is how much is at stake in our journey.  If we remind ourselves of that in our moments of doubt and draw strength from Austen’s protagonists, we will do all right.  It may not be a truth universally acknowledged, but when you take risks, learn from your mistakes, and work on self-transformation, you draw other worthy people to you.

Posted in Austen (Jane) | Tagged , , , | 2 Comments

Paradise Lost (Scott Bates’ Mole Version)

Romney, "Milton and His Daughters"

Romney, “Milton and His Daughters”

Here’s a satire of Milton by my favorite poet of light verse (my dad). Appearing in his collection of animal fables (Lupo’s Fables), the poem features a mole delivering his version of Paradise Lost. (Paradise is down, not up, for moles.) The “epic mole” promises to justify the ways of God to man, warns of apocalyptic punishments, and promises the “Holey Moley Firmament” to those who behave.

And how is our mole received? Like many poets and prophets, he is all but ignored since most moles are just trying to get by. The poem ends fatalistically with a mole’s version of “sometimes you eat the bear and sometimes the bear eats you.”

I’ve written about how my father was always suspicious of claims of transcendence. He may have idealistically worked for social justice, but he always claimed that people were deterministically guided by self interest and their own material concerns.

At the very least, such skepticism serves to check head-in-the-clouds idealism and overly grandiose claims for poetry. “Epic Mole” has a touch of Auden’s contrasts in “Musée des Beaux Arts”:

How, when the aged are reverently, passionately waiting
For the miraculous birth, there always must be
Children who did not specially want it to happen, skating
On a pond at the edge of the wood…

And now for the poem:

The Epic Mole

By Scott Bates

A blind and
Philosophic Mole
Too old
To cultivate his hole

Dictated to
His daughters three
Immortal Epic

He sang of Heaven
Deep inside
The Earth and of
The Sin of Pride

That Satan Mole
Was guilty of
And how he fell
To Hell above

And how he tried
To discontent
The Holey Moley

He sang how every
Mole could find
The awful truth
Of all Molekind

And how it went
From Bad to Worse
In his
Apocalyptic verse

And how a few
Still might be saved
If Mighty Mole
Thought they behaved

He sang
And found himself ignored
By all the lesser
Molish horde

Who went on
Careless of their souls
Pursuing worms
Pursuing moles

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Monarch Butterflies in Danger

Monarch migration

Monarch migration

Earlier this month I came across a discouraging Slate article about how habitat destruction is threatening the monarch butterfly. I can recommend a very good novel about dwindling monarch populations if this is a subject that interests you.

First of all, here’s Slate’s explanation: 

The long-term loss of habitat has been due to the adoption of herbicide-tolerant crops. As herbicide-tolerant crops really began to increase in about the year 2000, then we began to see an impact on the population. The reason for that is monarchs are dependent on milkweeds, and it turned out that milkweeds were actually growing in corn and soybean fields, in modest numbers — not enough to cause crop damage or interfere with crop production. Monarchs are totally dependent on milkweeds to reproduce; without milkweeds there are no monarchs. So as these herbicide-tolerant plants were adopted more and more, we saw progressive elimination of milkweeds in the field crops. I should mention that the reason the milkweeds still persisted in the field crops was that prior to the year 2000 most of the weeds were controlled by tillage. Milkweeds survived that better than most weeds did, and that’s why they still persisted in those fields despite the fact there was weed control. But once we had the herbicide-tolerant plants coming into the system we lost the milkweeds.

Barbara Kingsolver’s Flight Behavior (2012) describes what happens when millions of monarchs suddenly appear on a mountaintop in southern Appalachia. The main character is a sheep farmer’s wife, Dellarobia, who feels stuck in a rut, and the monarchs open up new possibilities for her.

As one who was raised in the Appalachians (albeit in a more privileged environment than Dellarobia’s), I can vouch for the accuracy of Kingsolver’s descriptions. She gives us characters who want to make a buck from irresponsibly logging the mountainsides, even though such logging could lead to the same kinds of mud slides that displaced the monarchs from their Central American home, and characters who are so struck by the beauty of the butterflies that they unexpectedly become environmentalists. But even as Kingsolver finds hope for the environmental movement in unexpected places and even as she rakes over the media for its unwillingness to fully acknowledge global warming, she also satirizes professional environmental activists, noting that some fail to acknowledge the needs and sensibilities of the lower middle class.

Like many of Kingsolver’s novels, Flight Behavior is a story that uses an engaging, tough-talking woman to raise environmental awareness. Here’s a passage that describes Dellarobia’s first encounter with the insects. She is climbing a mountain on her way to an adulterous rendezvous that will probably ruin her family. She’s not sure what she is seeing because she has forgotten her glasses, but the seemingly miraculous vision sets her on a healthier track:

A small shift between cloud and sun altered the daylight, and the whole landscape intensified, brightening before her eyes. The forest blazed with its own internal flame. “Jesus,” she said, not calling for help, she and Jesus weren’t that close, but putting her voice in the world because nothing else present made sense. The sun slipped out by another degree, passing its warmth across the land, and the mountain seemed to explode with light. Brightness of a new intensity moved up the valley in a rippling wave, like the disturbed surface of a lake. Every bough glowed with an orange blaze. “Jesus God,” she said again. No words came to her that seemed sane. Trees turned to fire, a burning bush. Moses came to mind, and Ezekiel, words from Scripture that occupied a certain space in her brain but no longer carried honest weight, if they ever had. Burning coals of fire went up and down among the living creatures.

The flame now appeared to lift from individual treetops in showers of orange sparks, exploding the way a pine log does in a campfire when it’s poked. The sparks spiraled upward in swirls like funnel clouds. Twisters of brightness against gray sky. In broad daylight with no comprehension, she watched. From the tops of the funnels the sparks lifted high and sailed out undirected above the dark forest.

So much beauty threatened by our never ending assault on the earth.

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Oedipus in Iraq


What a whirlwind we are reaping in Iraq! Unfortunately, it is not only the United States that is paying the price of having opened Iraq’s sectarian can of worms. For all the money and human resources America squandered in this endeavor, the Iraqi people have suffered ten times as much, and there don’t appear to be any good options ahead of them.

Literature can’t begin to do justice to the horrors that we are witnessing, but Tom and Daisy Buchanan come to mind in describing America’s instigation of the war:

They were careless people, Tom and Daisy- they smashed up things and creatures and then retreated back into their money or their vast carelessness or whatever it was that kept them together, and let other people clean up the mess they had made.

Even more than The Great Gatsby, however, Oedipus Rex helps us see the situation clearly.

First of all, there’s George W. Bush’s Oedipal conflict with his father George H. W. Bush. Regarded as the lesser of the Bush sons, George W. may have been trying to prove himself by doing what his father wasn’t willing to: depose Saddam Hussein, the tyrant who enjoyed railing at the United States.  As in the play, where the killing of King Laius opens up a leadership vacuum into which Oedipus steps, so the overthrow of Hussein propelled the United States into “nation building.”

And then there was George W’s cocky confidence, which is a lot like that of Oedipus. George W declared “mission accomplished” and proclaimed America’s special mission. Oedipus, meanwhile, sets forth his accomplishments in a tirade against Creon and Teiresias, whom he thinks are trying to undermine him. Note how little humility he shows in his mention of the gods:

When that hellcat the Sphinx was performing here
What help were you to these people?
Her magic was not for the first man who came along:
It demanded a real exorcist. Your birds–
What good were they? or the gods, for the matter of that?
But I came by,
Oedipus, the simple man, who knows nothing–
I thought it out for myself, no birds helped me!

Instead of ushering in a new era of peace and prosperity, however, Oedipus has unleashed a plague by having killed his father. The Iraqi version of this plague is sectarian strife, which Hussein brutally kept in check, sometimes through massacring Kurds and Shiites. Once Hussein and then the U. S. were gone, it could break out again in full force.

Oedipus, a compassionate man who feels his people’s suffering, thinks that, through force of will and personality, he can straighten everything out. He’s a can-do leader who won’t let anything stand in his way. Bush was not headstrong in this particular way, but as a “compassionate conservative” he thought that he could impose a U. S. style democracy upon Iraq. Like Oedipus, he had no clue what he was dealing with.

Interestingly, I detect an underlying lack of self-confidence in both Bush and Oedipus. If Oedipus is as paranoid as he is, sensing conspiracies all around him and lashing out, it may be because he doesn’t feel an entire confidence in his position. Perhaps Bush too, in the Oedipal drama I have mentioned, felt that he could compensate for perceived weakness by involving America in two simultaneous wars. As often occurs in Oedipal dramas, his father, who showed restraint, now appears the bigger man.

With the disintegration of Iraq, the truth of the situation is breaking in on America and perhaps on George W, just as the consequences of his regicide eventually break in on Oedipus. Only one of the two appears to take responsibility and experience self-lacerating shame, however.

Oedipus provides America with an important object lesson. Whenever we think we can use our immense wealth and overwhelming military power to impose our will on the world, the play reminds us that there will always be much that we don’t understand. In our blindness, we are always capable of unleashing a plague.

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Trollope and a Family Road Trip

Mangle and Crawley in "Last Chronicle of Barset"

Mangle and Crawley in “Last Chronicle of Barset”

Last week I took a road trip with my mother through the Midwest, starting with a wedding in Des Moines (or rather a wedding-turned-family-reunion as the wedding itself was canceled at the last moment) and moving on to visits with each of my brothers (in Madison, Iowa City, and Clarksville, Tennessee). As we drove, my mother told me family stories, filling in the gaps about my Iowa cousins, some of whom I was meeting for the first time. When we weren’t talking, we were listening to Anthony Trollope’s The Last Chronicle of Barset (1867). After a while, family history became suffused with a Trollopian aura.

Trollope’s Barsetshire novels—there are six of them—describe the loves, ambitions, rivalries, and other interactions of a set of families in a fictional British county in the mid-19th century. Characters who are peripheral in one novel become central in another while formerly central characters play bit parts in subsequent novels.

This is also how my lessons in family history functioned. There were names that, while I had heard them all my life, were only vague markers. My mother’s grandmother, our common ancestor, was Elvine Robins Jackson, her sister was  Phoebe, and the names “Jackson,” “Robins” and “Phoebe” appear regularly in the family genealogy. My mother is Phoebe Robins Strehlow Bates, and I, of course, am Robin. (My father was a poet and, while the family didn’t approve of my parents dropping the “s,”  “Robins” doesn’t scan well with “Bates.”)  Figuring out all the family members was like reading a novel and stopping for a moment to get all the characters straight. Likewise, meeting Phoebe Cornelia Montgomery, now retired in Des Moines, and Phoebe Robins Hunter, who works in the Student Life office at the University of Montana, was like witnessing minor characters who suddenly bloom into major figures.

Also resembling a novel were the fascinating career arcs, tragedies, marriages, and divorces connected to the names. Also novelistic were the small personal incidents, which added color and cast light on the different personalities. I found myself drawn to stories of cousins interacting at Lake Okoboji during summer vacations and at Peoria during Thanksgiving reunions.

I came to Trollope, as I did to my family history, in a disjointed way, checking out whichever disk versions of Trollope the library happened to have. I therefore started with the second novel in the series (Barchester Towers, 1957), moved on to the sixth novel (Last Chronicle) and am now listening to the third novel (Doctor Thorne, 1958, which promises to be one of the best). I therefore have a sense that, while I am privy to only sections of a larger picture, I am making progress towards mapping the whole. Names start sticking after I have encountered them two or three times. Of course, every advance involves new names that await further exploration.

Adding further to the enjoyment is Trollope’s Victorian setting since both my mother’s and my father’s family have English roots in the 19th century. I am well aware, however, that my own family, had they shown up in the novels, would be the domestic servants and gamekeepers, the brick makers and coachmen, that are peripheral to the lives of Trollope’s main characters. “Jackson” is hardly an elevated named and “Bates” may be a diminutive of the trade name “boat’s man.”

In some ways, my mother’s and my journey through the Midwest was itself a means of shoring up a family narrative. America, of course, is a far more mobile society than Europe, especially 19th century Europe, and my siblings and I are now spread over the landscape. And to take a step up the family tree, the larger Bates clan—my father was one of three boys—is now trying to figure out how to handle the increasing expenses of our Maine cottage, built by my great grandmother Sarah Ricker on an apple farm that my cousins the Rickers still run. If we were to relinquish the cottage, a symbol of our connection, would we disintegrate into an atomistic existence, located as we are in Maine, New York, Maryland, the District of Columbia, Pennsylvania, Tennessee, Texas, Missouri, Illinois, Iowa, Wisconsin, Colorado, California, and Oregon?

While life in Barsetshire sometimes feels claustrophobic to those living in it, it has a certain attraction for American readers today, given the diaspora that is an integral part of American history. Maybe that’s why there are a number of enthusiastic Trollope readers in this country. It doesn’t matter that many of the characters are petty, snobbish, vindictive, manipulative and self-absorbed. What matters is that they are part of a larger web.

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A New Song Comes out of the Fire


Spiritual Sunday

Ramadan begins this coming Saturday so it’s fortuitous that today’s Old Testament lectionary reading should overlap with the Muslim faith. The story tells of Hagar and Ishmael’s exile, which is believed to have resulted in the founding of the Arab people.

Here’s a Rumi poem celebrating Ramadan. Note that the Sufi poet himself has no problem with borrowing images from other faith traditions to capture his deep sense of divinity moving in the world. The Kaaba, incidentally, is the sacred mosque in Mecca towards which all Muslims direct their prayers.

There’s hidden sweetness in the stomach’s emptiness.
We are lutes, no more, no less.

If the soundboxes stuffed full of anything, no music.
If the brain and belly are burning clean with fasting,
every moment a new song comes out of the fire.
The fog clears, and new energy makes you run
up the steps in front of you.
Be emptier and cry like reed instruments cry.

Emptier, write secrets with the reed pen.
When you’re full of food and drink,
Satan sits where your spirit should,
an ugly metal statue in place of the Kaaba.
When you fast, good habits gather
like friends who want to help.
Fasting is Solomon’s ring.

Don’t give into some illusion and lose your power,
but even if you have, if you’ve lost all will and control,
they come back when you fast,
like soldiers appearing out of the ground,
pennants flying above them.

A table descends to your tents, Jesus’ table.
Expect to see it, when you fast,
this tablespread with other food,
better than the broth of cabbages.

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Spain No Longer a Soccer Colossus


Vincenzo Camuccini, “Death of Caesar”

Sports Saturday 

The World Cup almost always offers us dramatic story lines–Costa Rica’s amazing success, France’s resurgence–but perhaps none is bigger than Spain’s spectacular flameout. The team that has dominated world soccer for years, winning the last World Cup and the last two European championships, received a revenge thumping from the Dutch and then was ignominiously ousted from the tournament by the Chileans.

When I think of Spain, a passage from Julius Caesar comes to mind: they did “bestride the narrow world like a Colossus.” For a while, all other teams did walk under their huge legs (and fancy footwork) and “peep about” to find themselves “dishonorable graves.” Teams were so intimidated by Spain’s free flowing tiki-taka style that they would resort to desperate measures, including a Holland player delivering a karate kick to the sternum of fullback Xabi Alonso.

Perhaps envy and resentment fed on them as it feeds on Cassius. Here’s his reaction to the cheers Caesar is getting from the crowds:

Brutus: Another general shout!
I do believe that these applauses are
For some new honors that are heap’d on Caesar.
Cassius: Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow world
Like a Colossus, and we petty men
Walk under his huge legs and peep about
To find ourselves dishonorable graves.
Men at some time are masters of their fates:
The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars,
But in ourselves that we are underlings.
Brutus and Caesar: what should be in that “Caesar”?
Why should that name be sounded more than yours?
Write them together, yours is as fair a name;
Sound them, it doth become the mouth as well;
Weigh them, it is as heavy; conjure with ‘em,
“Brutus” will start a spirit as soon as “Caesar.”

Let’s say that “lean and hungry” Cassius is the spirit of those ambitious teams seeking to take Spain’s place. As Caesar rightly notes (he’s speaking of Cassius),

 Such men as he be never at heart’s ease
Whiles they behold a greater than themselves,
And therefore are they very dangerous.

Well, the world’s teams have had the knives out for “La Roja” for some time and it is perhaps fitting that Spain’s last World Cup victim–the Dutch–administered the unkindest cut of all. The tournament is now wide open for a new Caesar to be crowned.

Posted in Shakespeare (William) | Tagged , , , , , | 4 Comments


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