5,000 Words on Why I Should Stay the F*** Out of Mr. William Forrester's Apartment

Well, after much delay and nasty unreadable scribblings on my Moleskine, here's the essay I promised my students a few weeks ago. If you've never watched the film "Finding Forrester," here's a quick and definitive way of getting caught up. You can watch a short trailer (HERE) that includes the scene where William Forrester says those now famous words to Jamal. This essay is imaginary, and at times humorous. The novel plots included here (including the one for "Avalon Landing") are original and no fault should be directed at either fictional character in the film :-)

5,000 Words on Why I Should Stay the F*** Away from Mr. William Forrester's Apartment

by Jamal Wallace

While the purpose of this essay began as a humorous endeavor, the seriousness of its general application and meaning shouldn’t be ignored. When writing about one of the greatest challenges known to humans one must keep the proverbial “straight face.” Solitude, loneliness, abandonment (whether forced or self-imposed) are some of the most painful experiences a person can undergo. Any of these terms, by definition, are often accompanied by a wide variety of individual interpretations. Often time, the definition of experiences such as these takes place within a personal space; say, a prison cell, a workplace office, or even a place of residence. In the case of a self-imposed isolation that occurs in an apartment or home, the given solitude takes on a meaning all of its own. It is impossible for me to understand Mr. William Forrester’s solitude, his self-imposed isolation, and due to the fact that he is a fictional character, I can only approximate a general examination of his personal reasons. Nevertheless, it is the premise of his assignment that rings factual and concrete—a level of respect that should have been obviously present to me but which I found easy to ignore.
Solitude and isolation remain an abstract experience to me. I’ve lived with my mother and my brother all of my life. Mr. Forrester doesn’t share this experience with me. In fact, his experience is the complete opposite of mine. As a result, Mr. Forrester has had the life-long experience (should I say the opportunity) to live out the meaning of those aforementioned abstractions. Year after year, alone in his apartment, Mr. Forrester translates that painful isolation/loneliness into a glorious exhilaration in the silence he occupies. He invented a space where not only his body resides, but also his most menial thoughts; his most common ideas turn into a clamorous presence, all of them standing in line demanding his unequivocal attention. Out of this solitude, Mr. Forrester’s ideas materialize into writing. These he might consider his “visitors,” his accompanists to his personal and lonely song of grief.
Of course I would be the first to admit that I shouldn’t have violated this sacred place by breaking into his apartment. What I didn’t realize while I walked through his dark apartment that night was how wrong I acted, and how with every step I took I stepped into one of Mr. Forrester’s “visitors.” I seemed to have dirtied their pristine shapes, offended their virginal forms. Mr. Forrester’s anger directed at me was not simply justified because of my vulgar act; he has all the right to ask me to write this essay, to force me reflect on what solitude and loneliness and silence really mean.
William Forrester’s novel, Avalon Landing is the story of a man who returns from World War II and finds that the damage done to him makes him utterly incompatible with his former life. In the short months after his return his life spirals out of control—he loses his marriage; is not allowed to see his children; he is unable to hold a job of any kind. He insists in revisiting the places of his youth: his boyhood home, his high school and college, but to no avail. Four months after returning from the unbelievable violence of jungle fighting in the South Pacific, he finds himself living out of his car, the winter months upon him.
The bulk of the novel’s story is told by the protagonist himself in the first person. I am quite certain that Mr. Forrester wanted to achieve some sort of intimacy between the writer and the reader. After all, the story is being told while the protagonist rests on the backseat of his old Dodge, trying hard to keep warm. I can’t think of a better place to accent solitude, loneliness and isolation. The story is episodic in nature. The protagonist, telling his story retrospectively, goes back and forth in the timelines. While he keeps his story about what happened in the war relatively short (the book is only 52,523 words long), the narrator tells the reader about his platoon’s dreadful and tragic end. They had been sent by the high command to fulfill an impossible mission, some type of patrol that took them deep into Japanese occupied territory. At first, the narrator protested and did not want to take his platoon on this particular mission, calling it some “futile madness.” His superiors pressed on and he had no alternative but to lead his platoon right to its inevitable end. He knew that if they ran into trouble, there would be no backup or reinforcements—just him and the last of his men. As predicted, the platoon is slaughtered. Only two men survive. The narrator recalls how he and a Private First Class survived the ambush, tried to retrieve some of the bodies of their comrades, fail to do so and survived four days in the jungle evading Japanese patrols until by some miracle found themselves back to the American lines. The Private First Class’ name was Nicholas D. Avalon.
Because of its episodic structure, the narrator elaborates throughout the novel on different stages of his life in what appears a non-chronological line. I am not quite sure what Mr. Forrester intended by structuring his novel in this way; perhaps it was some effort at breaking the fictional standard expected of the post-War public. He speaks of his marriage before and after the war, the particularly distressing set of circumstances that drove him to call his automobile “home,” his college days before and after December 7th, the birth of his children. The reader might be disappointed in finding that after both the narrator and Nicholas D. Avalon arrive home from the war, they quickly lose contact with each other. As the narrative finds the present tense, the narrator becomes obsessed with finding the whereabouts of Nicholas D. Avalon. This jump to the present takes place between chapter eight and chapter nine, and in the course of this time, six years evolved with a quick pass of the page. After a few false leads, he does indeed find Nicholas D. Avalon very much alive. Nicholas had gone on to college on the G.I. Bill, found love with one of the homely co-eds on campus, became an English teacher in the local high school of the town where he now made his residence. Wife, children, job and fulfillment—Nicholas had it all. The conversation between the men might leave some readers yearning for more, reaching out and trying to listen in to what these men said to each other. But again, Mr. Forrester’s mastery of plot eliminates much of the conversation that serves as the catalyst for the narrator’s return to normalcy. Nicholas D. Avalon does indeed save the narrator’s life. Merely his example about how to live life after the disastrous experience of war is enough for the narrator to find a new path in his life. Despite the fact that the narrator doesn’t relate much about living in his car through the cold winter months, I became aware that a deep sense of solitude must have overwhelmed him into his elaborate narrative style. I am not here to debate the meaning of Mr. Forrester’s novel (God knows he hated that) but it is certainly safe to say that a deep yearning for solitude—the solitude a writer must work with—was at hand. While the meaning of Avalon Landing is not exactly a “soup question,” I have tried for eight years to make sense of William’s voice within the written page. That is not to say that I associate the author directly to the narrator simply because he was a personal friend of mine. I spent countless hours with him. Knowing an author personally can indeed tarnish the reader’s interpretation of the novel, but in the case of William, the only part of him that spoke with his voice was the narrator’s desire for the solitude of his car. The backseat of the narrator’s car became William’s own allegory of a safe place, the symbolic cocoon he struggled to keep for himself and that I violated when I broke into his apartment that night.

READ THE REST OF THE ESSAY HERE

Nighthawks by Edward Hooper: Themes & Meaning

In the interest of rounding up the major themes of this blog I am risking being taken for a "blogser" (meaning: poser). The fact that I took two courses on visual art appreciation doesn't qualify me as an "connoisseur" of sorts. I still, however, remember a great deal of the material studied, and how the mechanics of lines and direction makes the viewer understand the painting better. I selected Edward Hooper because I am interested in his exposition of the themes of isolation, meaninglessness and even nihilism. I could be making more of it than it is, but I've seriously given it a great deal of thought these days (despite my lack of time), and I have been hoping for a long time to open up with Hooper for my visual arts postings. The iconic picture, of course, would be "Nighthawks." Hooper painted "Nighthawks" at a very crucial time in the United States. The actual paining was completed in 1942--the shock of the United States' entrance into World War II not yet fully digested, and the memories of the Great Depression not long forgotten. A great book regarding this amazing painting is Gordon Theisen's "Staying Up Much Too Late: Edward Hooper's Nighthawks and the Dark Side of the American Psyche." This is perhaps the best known of Hooper's canvases, and maybe the easiest to examine in terms of where "the eyes go" when one looks at it. And looking at it, it seems that the two main lines of the painting are probably the easiest part to identify. The facade of the building at an angle guides the eye--but where? Doesn't it seem strange that the fast moving lines come to a screeching halt at the edge of what appears to be a curved glass window? Where do these lines then go? It took me a while to see the resolution. Lines B and A shoot down the painting too fast for them to be the first thing a viewer observes; the eyes immediately fall on the couple and the waiter. But let's look at it again. The viewer has to absorb the rest of the painting as it moves from right to left (an often used Hooper technique). And again, the lines lead to a "dead-end." So where do we go from there? Back to the couple and the waiter, pausing to question who is the solitary figure? He is like a thorn, dead center on the canvas, yet not telling a story, not allowing us to see the meaning as a given. He is the factor of isolation, the most common theme on this series of paintings Hooper developed into his trademark. It is about the man, I believe. His lack of visible facial features speaks to the fact that he is the "everyday" man, he who despite working hard, faces the incredible hardships of loneliness. He is only allowed to contemplate--across the lunch counter--what he is missing, lacking, or not worthy of. That leads to a larger social definition. The three costumers appear at the same socio-economic level, perhaps a bit higher than the service job worker (wage slave). Therefore, structure (lines), philosophy of isolation as catalyst for meaning and a socio-economic interpretation are all possible here.

The Religion of the Samurai -- Zen & Reality: A Comparative Analysis

The book I am reading right now "Zen: The Religion of the Samurai" by Professor Kaiten Nukariya is a complex examination of Zen, its origins in China, its transport to Japan, and its impact on the Bushido philosophy. Nukariya explains early in the book about the two main schools of Zen that evolved from the core Buddhism as it originated in India and China. The Hinayana Tripitaka and the Mahayana Tripitaka evolve from the desires of monks to explain the mysteries of Buddhism into more practical methods. The origins of Buddhism in China are explained from a sketchy history, since many of the documents that held the facts of that history have been lost through the decay of history, and most of what survives from the origins come from a rich oral tradition. The title of the book is a bit misleading. The mention of the Samurai/Bushido mentality/philosophy is not mentioned until page 30 and that for a small paragraph. The book goes back to history of the religion in general, and then a brief comparison of Zen monks and Samurai warriors as being more similar than it originally appears. The Histories are, of course, interesting, and I have learned a great deal about Buddha in general, as I did when I read "An End to Suffering: The Buddha in the World" by Pankaj Mishra.

Professor Nukariya offers a definition of Enlightenment that is a bit confusing; it appears more a Zen koan than a real definition, since it is composed of a revolving/circular reasoning that leads to its own premise. His explanation is more an effort at discouraging a definition of Enlightenment in general. As Louis Armstrong said once when asked about the meaning of Jazz: "If you have to ask what it is, you'll never know."

The different levels of spiritual and objective reality are examined closely from the Zen perspective. The question of what constitutes spirit and how it connect all things appears in this book as over-simplistic, but someone who may not know about Zen can definitely appreciate such. All things, explains Nukariya, are alive and connected--even inanimate objects! He challenges the idea using the premises of sub-atomical structures that dictate that even inanimate objects are constantly on the move at that level, and that their moving is as chaotic as fate is to knowing animals (humans). Sub-atomic composition is, for Nukariya, a level of spirituality, a soul of sorts. I am afraid to ask one of our Physics Department professors for fear of being laughed at. They'd probably turn me away telling me not to ask questions that concern the soul. I can appreciate that.

All of this reminds me of my study of Kitaro Nishida's "An Inquiry into The Good" when I lived in Japan in 1994. The introduction, written by Yale Professor Masao Abe, explains how the question of whether or not there's "real" philosophy in Japan has been asked over and over again. His premise is that if you look for Western-based philosophy (objective/rational inquiries) in Japan, you'll only find Nishida as the originator of a philosophy based on Zen but aimed at explaining phenomena objectively. So, all in all, Nishida's book aims to incorporate both schools. He uses the principles of Hegel, James, Heidegger, etc., but gives it all a Zen twist. What I remember the most from this book is Nishida's introduction to the idea of "Pure Experience." As he explains it, "Pure Experience" takes place in the instant we see some object, but cannot know what it is for. For example, a person looks at a tool but doesn't know what the tool is for. Well, before he can tell what it is for, he or she can tell it is a tool, that it is grey in color with red handgrips, etc. That, in a sense, is post-judgment. But if we to "freeze-frame" the moment his or her eyes first encounter the instrument/tool, before any type of judgment is made about it... that, in a nutshell, is "Pure Experience." That, of course, is an over-simplistic example, but looking deeper into "Pure Experience" and applying it to different more serious situations, we find that "Pure Experience" is an area of inquiry worthy of study, as much as, perhaps, pragmatism, absolutism, etc. are. One other example of this might be the encounter (First Contact) that occurred recently between "modern" men in an airplane and a tribe of natives in the deep forest of the Amazon. Whatever it was that the tribe first saw, before they could even react to the plane as a threat and, as they truly did, started shooting arrows at it, it was "Pure Experience." Before it was a threat, before they ran for cover because they felt threatened, the tribe must have looked up in wonder at the thing flying above them. That is "Pure Experience."

The fact that the tribe connected the plane to a threat touches back to Nukariya in "The Religion of the Samurai." Humans need a complete detachment from phenomena to achieve "Pure Experience." Which develops into an even more interesting question or questions: What, besides First Contact, can bring about "Pure Experience?" How is the world of technology helping to expose us to "almost everything," making us unable to see "Pure Experience." Do we already see that technology as predictable? Has the Internet made our possible encounter with "Pure Experience" null?

Going back to Zen in general, a few things are worth mentioning further. The main differences between Hinayana and Mahayana is that they are considered polar opposites. That is to say, Hinayana is considered pessimistic in nature, while Mahayana is more associated with optimism and positive outcomes. It is because of this that some Zen sayings are considered (incorrectly) as nihilist. Further notes about Zen and spirit yields another conflict with Western ideas of the soul. Zen problematizes the fact that the Western "soul" continues to carry with it the personality, irks and quirks, peccadilloes, etc. of the individual who has just expired. Buddhism in general urges the opposite: detachment, separation, "egolessness," etc. Egotism, argues Nukariya, makes people selfish enough to consider they need to continue to exist in their souls, ad infinitum. This is the cornerstone of egotism as it is known in the West.... what is considered the ultimate betrayal to the Truth in Buddhism.

"The Religion of the Samurai" in general has a lack of connection to how Zen applies to the Samurai and how Zen ended up being part and parcel of the warrior spiritual life. It's already page 90 out of 127 and the link to Bushido has not been clearly established. Perhaps Nukariya has saved the best for last. Next on my reading list: a re-read of Umberto Eco's "Foucault's Pendulum."

Books, Tastes, and Economic Realities...

I can't hide the fact that I am a "list" person. What I mean by that is the fact that I depend on lists to organize my life in more ways than one. Having said that, I suppose that I am not all that completely nuts about categorized literature lists in general, only those that help to educate and edificate. Perhaps technology has made us dependent on lists rather than liberate us from them. My reading lists are based on what I want to read, not what I need to read or what I consider "good." In that sense, it is important to have a clear idea of what these so-called "reading lists" or "bestsellers" really advocate.

Yesterday, I described my great distaste of B.K. Myers' "A Reader's Manifesto," and today I must point out another one of the many debates going on (albeit somewhat silently) on the topic of literature nowadays. On May 23rd, "The New York Times" ran a review by one William Grimes entitled "Volumes to Go Before You Die." The column was an open critique of Prof. Peter Boxall's effort to put together the list of 1,001 books to read before you die. Grimes' problem with the 1,001 book list is the fact that 1) it is a British effort, 2) that the British love lists and the fights they provoke, and 3) that most of the academic sources which supported the inclusion of some of the books were "mostly obscure." Going by what I wrote yesterday, I must continue to ask--and ask earnestly--what is going on with literature nowadays?

This past winter I was part of a committee of academics that was to decide upon the selections our students were to read in the coming summer. I quit the committee after the first day. The sessions were mostly bickering about the merits of this author and the lacking of an other. In a room full of seemingly intelligent people, dialogue was put to rest and what ensued was a gripe session, a verbal war that surrendered to nothing and yielded far less. I had decided to join the committee with the interest of playing a "role" of sorts. I wanted to be the one (I assumed correctly beforehand that I would be the only one) advocating the inclusion of the "Great Books" in the list for summer reading. This fact I made clear on the first day, when, in the only sign of politeness, we introduced ourselves and gave the reason as to why we wanted to be part of the committee. I said openly that I was there to advocate the "Classics," books despite the fact that the liberal-oriented/politically-correct interpretation might consider them racist, colonialist, imperialist, anti-semetic, sexist, oppressive, etc. There's merit to these books, I continued, because they fulfilled a part of society and stood the test of time. We all could recognize that and read them for what they mean today--not as support for unpopular policies, politics, philosophies and/or beliefs. The argument didn't go far. This is the reason why even the American political process has become a hard to endure joke: we are offending each other to absolute silence in the name of "political-correctness."

At any rate, Grimes main argument (much like my own in the committee) is that why the list included so many books from recent and contemporary writers but failed to include writers from what he calls "the age of Balzac, Dickens, Dostoyevsky and Tolstoy." I agree with him (to a certain extent), but I have to recognize that ALL literature, regardless of what its aim is, should be included in the list. Therefore, we wouldn't have a list of 1,001, but rather a numberless list from which to read the rest of our lives. Wouldn't that be a better option? Wouldn't that be a better learning experience, not limited by choices or narrow paths? Isn't the effort to read in order to experience things that are beyond our own lives enough? Wouldn't it be better not to categorize books in lists of "best to read," "must reads," etc.? Grimes makes (in my biased personal opinion) a fatal mistake. He states: "Something is wrong here. Paul Auster gets six novels. Don DeLillo [gets] seven. Thackeray gets one: 'Vanity Fair.'" Of course, my guard went up. In two days I have read two unreasonable critiques of Paul Auster, my favorite writer. Of course I am going to go on the defensive. But what I don't have to do is defend Auster. His works speak for themselves, and if you know Paul Auster's work, you would know what I am talking about. He is not, like Shakespeare, beyond criticism, but the fact that he draws so much unfair and unwarranted critiques perhaps means that he is so good those who cannot compete then criticize. Then the old adage must be revised: "Criticism is the most sincere form of flattery." I am advocating both Thackeray and Auster, Garcia Marquez and Hesse.... I am advocating both Shelley and Rushdie, Wharton and Murakami. Grimes goes on to state that if you "[d]rop a couple of Austers, and there would have been room" for titles like Dreiser's "An American Tragedy." The question then becomes: Should we do away with these blasted lists? What about the so-called "bestsellers' lists?" Are they really bestsellers, or is this type of list another capitalist/corporate effort to promote one book over another? As I pointed out earlier, why take the opinion of a talk show hostess over that of professor emeritus Harold Bloom? I suppose he would know more about what "good" literature is, wouldn't he? A further complication can be seen when one examines (closely) the list of bestseller in the U.S. throughout the years. It can be considered a deterioration of "taste," or intellectualism, etc. It can be correlated to the rise of television, etc. It could be read from different angles and make it justify about any argument put forth. What are these lists for? Really?

I make no sense, really, and I'll be the first to state it. There's, however, a great discrepancy between the bestselling volumes of today, and the same category for, say, the year of Our Lord 1946. It is clearly a shift in economics, taste, education and lifestyles... and Grimes should take that into account, as should the rest of us...

Claire Messud's "The Emperor's Children," and the Question of Literary Fiction

"The Emperor's Children" is indeed a fine novel. I read a review online yesterday that accused Messud of over-writing, long-windedness and a pretentious style. I believe I had the same impression when I first read "The Last Life." I remember thinking that I could have written the book (how pretentious of me) in less than 250 pages and still say the same thing. But what was at fault with that assessment was the fact that it was my first Claire Messud novel, and I didn't really know her and her style and her wonderful and beautiful art. "The Emperor's Children" cleared up the issue quite satisfactorily for me. Messud is probably one of the finest writers alive today and, like Paul Auster, she "plays second fiddle" to people like Picoult, Rice, King, Grisham and others who fall under the blessing of a certain talk show hostess. It's a shame, really, but it seems that there's nothing to do when it comes to literary fiction (read the over-simplified definition from wikipedia HERE).


The novel rounds up very well, as the complications between characters become more and more dense. Of course the break-up between Julius and Cohen (the gay couple) is foreshadowed enough for the reader to see it coming. Now, the complications between Danielle and Murray was artfully written, full of tension and an awesome depiction of the human folly. Murray lies to his wife and says he will be in Chicago for the weekend in order to spend the weekend at Danielle's apartment. Of course, he is staying not too far away from his own home. But the problem really comes when a couple of planes hit the Twin Towers and create havoc beyond all ideologies, countries and civilizations. Murray has to come up with a plan to go back to his wife that very day. How to make her think he was able to come back to New York when all the airports were closed? Really, the book becomes an excellent picture of the confusion and human condition of that day. Bootie, Murray's nephew, writes an article criticizing his uncle and it sets off another avalanche of fireworks... characters were so "fleshed-out" and their trials so alive... Messud is really a great writer.


I didn't mean that the authors I mentioned in the paragraph above go without merit. I think that there's enough readership to go around. My concern is with that "vague" genre called literary fiction. How is this defined? Who makes the decision to label it such? More importantly, why is it such a turn off for people who might read a "beach book" voraciously but shun literary fiction after the first few pages? Literary fiction might deal with the so-called human folly, with the full condition of humanity, emotional turmoils, etc. I can certainly understand people have different taste, but to lump literary fiction as "pretentious" is simply a hasty generalization and slippery-slopish. B.R. Myers claims just that in "A Reader's Manifesto: An Attack on the Growing Pretentiousness in American Literature." The problem with his argument is not that it isn't true--some level of what he claims as pretentiousness must be taking place in academia and writing programs (although a writers' styles do not constitute pretentiousness. Perhaps overwriting, but not pretentiousness). He sweeps and over-encompasses contemporary American authors lumping them together, portraying them as intellectual clowns and posers and insists that the state of literary fiction is (with reference to Messud's title) a case of the emperor having no clothes. An entire chapter is dedicated to Paul Auster. Of course, my bias is immediate and collective: I love Paul Auster's work. I love it because it is deep, meaningful, insightful... in a word: perfect. Getting that out of the way is a good way to "problematize" Myers' argument further. Why is it that enlarging the message of a particular plot, story, or character to uncover what is "underneath" the words becomes pretentiousness? I am not quite sure about Myers' process of categorizing literary fiction, especially American literature, but one could say the same thing about all the literary fiction coming out of Europe and Asia. Certainly, they have the other types: chick lit, techno and legal thrillers, etc. Moreover, literary fiction also comes from thousands of places, written in other languages other than English... should we categorize all of that pretentious as well? One could say the same about the work of Haruki Murakami, or V.S. Naipaul, or Salman Rushdie. Perhaps Myers already has a second book in the works regarding false European erudition... oh God, did I really say that?

I am off to read "The Religion of the Samurai" next. I am excited to be finishing up the semester with so much ease, as I think the work from last semester is paying off now. Presently, the students graduating in June are taking their final exams... it seems like yesterday we started the year. Cheers!

The Death of a Reading List...

It isn't time to give up yet. That's not what I am referring to at all. But the truth is that I must resign to the fact that I have only read 10 books this year, as opposed to previous years when I averaged 30 by mid-May. "The Emperor's Children," a book I took to China with me thinking I was going to be finished with it by the time I got there after the 18 hour flight, is still very much in my hand, perhaps for the rest of the month. Because of the lack of time I continue to only take "baby steps" from chapter to chapter of Messud's divine masterpiece. My goal this year was to read classics, and while I am still sticking to some of the titles, I am revising the list some time this coming weekend to represent titles I intend to substitute. I can't count the number of people who have told me--at one time or another--that reading is not about lists or the number of books you can read in one year, but I beg to differ. If you look at my past years' reading lists (HERE), you'll be able to tell how far behind I am this year. Regardless, I am still reading some "chunklers," such as "The Pickwick Papers," and "Foucault's Pendulum."

"The Emperor's Children" has been a marvel to read. Finally, in the middle chapters, the tension between Murray Thwaite and Danielle reaches the climax Messud intended all along. While it is difficult to imagine the elder "intellectual" Thwaite in bed with Danielle, Messud uses a mixture of descriptive and metaphorical language that makes it passable. Danielle is indeed one of those young women highly impressed with any signs of a "big brain" or intellectual capacity. I knew some women like that in college (none of whom dated me, of course)--they enjoyed conversation more than looks and as a result gravitated towards the intellectual types. Murray's daughter (Marina) doesn't realize what's going on, and despite being Danielle's best friend, she cannot decipher the bed of lies her friend and her father occupy. Marina, of course, has taken a turn for the best, finally finishing her long over-due book, and starting a "romance" that seemingly will culminate in marriage to an Australian named Ludovic Seeley. The complications extend to the other characters, Julius (the token gay friend) and "Bootie" Tubb, Marina's cousin who has moved to New York to "make" it as a writer. More to follow.

Today in class we screened the film "Finding Forrester." I plan on showing this film in class prior to any big writing assignment (but only once a semester). My students were happy for the break, knowing little that a great writing lesson was upon them. If you listen closely, I pointed out to them, you'll take away a great deal of excellent writing advice. That is the rationale behind showing the film. At any rate, there's a scene where Sean Connery tells the protagonist, Jamal Wallace (played by Rob Brown): "Write a 5,000 word essay on why you should stay the f*** out of my place!" My students immediately pointed out that it is impossible to do so overnight. To which, of course, I offered to do... so now I have a 5,000 word assignment on why I should stay the f*** out of Mr. William Forrester's (fictional seclusive writer) place of residence. I may post it here so you can laugh at the amazing non-sequitorial nonsense I write.

Claire Messud's "The Emperor's Children"

Now that I am back from China, and despite the fact that I have tons of papers to grade, I am indeed very much into Claire Messud's "The Emperor's Children." I read "The Last Life" several years ago (an autograph first edition I found at Cornell University Bookstore), and while I enjoyed the descriptions and the amazing, elaborate way she made the setting of the story so real, I also felt at the end that the story was over-written/over-done. Now I can say that I made that determination based on ignorance--it was the first work by Messud that I had ever read. Messud is certainly a master, a talent of such invigorating capacity that the plot energy carries from page to page--her voice clear and distinct. I can see how this book got the positive reviews it did, and its nomination to one of the best books of 2007 is not without its warrants.

The story revolves around a group of friends/family members in New York City. The group is a grabasstic crew of thirty-somethings trying to make it, having made it and being washed out, or simply surviving. Marina Thwaite, the daughter of Murray Thwaite (an intellectual of some caliber) is washed out just starting her 30s. Her friend Danielle happens to be a borderline success, and a pretty good tension (sexual and platonic) takes place between her and Murray Thwaite. Then there's their gay friend, Jules. All kinds of social and private situations arise that keep the reader interested and turning pages. I am only on Chapter 24 and so far I've had a pretty good blast with some really deep characters and an intense plot line. Like I said, I really think it is Messud's fabulous use of language that keeps the reader glued... I didn't think writing like this was possible (and that's not hyperbole).

I am so behind on my reading list for this year. The summer is starting to look rather packed and stressful, so thinking of catching up with my reading then is pretty much out of the question. I have to other books, "The Religion of the Samurai," and "Bushido: The Soul of Japan" that I am adding to my list, or replacing some of the other titles with. The trip to China really did me in when it comes to my reading list. Four more weeks before we go out on summer break.... writing and reading will be the course of day then.

To China...

Ready or not, here I go... Here's a list of books I am taking:

1-"Play it As It Lays" -- Joan Didion
2-"On Duty" -- Cicero
3-"The Emperor's Children" -- Claire Messud
4-"Great Expectations"--Charles Dickens
5-"An Assortment of Moleskine Cahiers"

I will be back on the 27th with new stories to tell and a (hopefully) ton of pictures to share.

"Oracle Night" and Socrate's Dialogue with Ion....

Now, don't mind me for being such a geek--if I am indeed willing to admit to such a title. And if it seems I am making some wild connections here between classical and contemporary literature, I confess I am not doing with ill intentions. Now, a word about Paul Auster: He is indeed my favorite contemporary author, along with Haruki Murakami. I don't think Auster can write a bad sentence even if he tried (although while re-reading "Oracle Night" I found some things that sounded awkward indeed--more on this later). What I suppose has happened since October 2001 (when I discovered Auster--a recommendation from Takami Nieda) is that in reading him I have found a certain rhythm, pace and literaria that I can't find anywhere else. While I don't consider myself an Auster scholar, I have introduced many people to this "seemingly" unknown author. I speak of his work as if I were speaking of Biblical apocryphas, and in a way I have become an interpreter of Auster's work to the "outside" world. And this is why I made the connection to Socrate's dialogue with Ion.


I was in a mad rush the other day to photocopy as much material as possible to prepare my absence from the classroom during my trip to China. Rather than wait for the copy machine to do its work and daydream while inhaling the delicious fumes of toner, I always bring a book to read--something random, not what I am reading at the time. So, the day in question (Wednesday), I picked the W.H.D. Rouse translation of "The Great Dialogues of Plato." I began with the dialogue with Ion because it is the first entry after the introduction. The jest of the dialogue is that Ion believes himself the acme and epitome of all the Homer interpreters. He claims himself to be the best performer of epic poetry and says he can "read" more into Homer than anyone else alive, dead or yet to be born. You can follow how Ion's humility shines through, eh? At any rate, here are some back and forth things that made me think of myself as an interpreter of Auster's work:


"Socrates: I have often envied you reciters that art of yours, Ion. You have always to wear fine clothes, and to look as beautiful as you can is a part of your art. Then, again, you are obliged to be continually in the company of many good poets; and especially of Homer, who is the best and most divine of them; and to understand him, and not merely learn his words by rote, is a thing greatly to be envied. And no man can be a reciter who does not understand the meaning of the poet. For the reciter ought to interpret the mind of the poet to his hearers, but how can he interpret him well unless he knows what he means? All this is greatly to be envied.

Ion: Very true, Socrates; interpretation has certainly been the most laborious part of my art; and I believe myself able to speak about Homer better than any man; and that neither Metrodorus of Lampsacus, nor Stesimbrotus of Thasos, nor Glaucon, nor any one else who ever was, had as good ideas about Homer as I have, or as many."

Ion explains that this is because Homer speaks to him better than any other poet. Which brings me around to claim the same for Paul Auster. It was "The Invention of Solitude" that first broke through to me--my father was in the throngs of death at the time and my friend Takami Nieda recommended the essay "Invisible Man" by Auster. So many of the passages I read were so universally perfect--a prose like none I had ever read from any contemporary. Thus began my relentless marathon to read EVERYTHING by Paul Auster.

I suppose that from time to time we vary what we read. There was a time when reading Hemingway spoke to me, as well as reading Fitzgerald's work. I am certain that when it is time to go back to them, I will and they will appear to me as fresh as if it was the first time. It's part of being human. There are genres I am not quite sure I feel deeply about--mystery genre or sci fi. There are people who swear by these--they've found life's great significance in genres that are mainly associated with mere entertainment. Of course, that's a bad characterization. But I have tried to get into those books and I haven't been able to. I started my education quite late, and at times I still feel I have to catch up in some of my classics; hence no time for Harry Potter, among others. But it is what speaks to us--the author's particular voice as opposed to the topic they write about. Socrates oversimplifies this point:

"Socrates: Then, my dear friend, can I be mistaken in saying that Ion is equally skilled in Homer and in other poets, since he himself acknowledges that the same person will be a good judge of all those who speak of the same things; and that almost all poets do speak of the same things?


"Ion: Why then, Socrates, do I lose attention and go to sleep and have absolutely no ideas of the least value, when any one speaks of any other poet; but when Homer is mentioned, I wake up at once and am all attention and have plenty to say?

"Socrates: The reason, my friend, is obvious. No one can fail to see that you speak of Homer without any art or knowledge. If you were able to speak of him by rules of art, you would have been able to speak of all other poets; for poetry is a whole."

I think I love Auster for its amazing ability to explore the randomness of fate and destiny. True, many other authors have written about those, but there's something to that unique voice of Auster that hypnotizes me. And just like Ion, I do lose interest if the author doesn't reach out and drag me into the plot, or if he is lacking in philosophy (not so much technique). Someday I hope Paul Auster wins the Nobel Prize for Literature (although chances are he never will, since the prize is now a geo-political farce). It would validate much of what I am unable to explain here.

So, Wednesday, the 16th I depart for China. I'll be gone for ten days and there will not be another entry until then. I might even post some pictures when I get back.

Closing on "The Aeneid" & Taking a Little Literary Detour...

Aeneas fights the Harpies. Thinking about it makes me squirm, reasoning as well that I hadn't ever heard of the Harpies until I read the poem "Old Ironsides," by Oliver Wendell Holmes. At any rate, Aeneas and his crew are cursed by the Harpies and their journey continues to more exciting and pressing adventures: let's link "The Odyssey" to this maelstrom of stories. I suppose Virgil does a great job with this, but it leaves one a little confused at the end of Book III.

Dido falls for Aeneas, or did she? Many people overlook the fact that Dido's affection also has a connection that by uniting with Aeneas, Carthage will become more powerful. I think this is so because Dido is portrayed as the victim of a bad love when Aeneas plans his escape in secret and abandons her in despair. To complicate matters even more, both Dido and Aeneas have "councils" to decide their own separate futures. The storm, the cave, the insinuation that Dido and Aeneas have given themselves over to lust sounds like a common television soap opera. It isn't until Mercury--acting as council--reminds Aeneas of his rightful destiny to found and people Rome that Dido and Aeneas' passion goes sour. Her attempted suicide aside, I don't think it would have been a good match to begin with. Imagine, you and your love interest trying to forge a future for yourselves and a massive amount of gods overlooking and deciding in turn what eventually is "best" for you both. I know I am taking a modern view of the plot, but it's so complicated one spends half of the time trying to see which path the protagonists are to follow.

The Christian overtones of the voyage to the "underworld" renders this text a "masterpiece" in the Europe of the 1400s and 1500s, but it does nothing to entertain. Later, Dante will draw much of his vision of the "Inferno" from Book VI of "The Aeneid." Virgil's persistence to show the underworld as a challenge the protagonist needs (or is forced) to overcome is what seals the deal with later classic theology about the soul having to overcome sin in order to avoid the underworld. It's amazing to think how much of this is precursor to Christian belief, but how much of it remains the seminal foundation for what we believe today.

Turnus and Aeneas "duking it out" serves as the closing of the story. Again, the gods play "chess" with the characters. The battle is not described in as much detail as the sacking of Troy was at the very beginning, but Virgil does provide the reader with the one-on-one, blow-by-blow final meeting between Turnus and Aeneas. Aeneas is saved by Venus' balm when he is wounded on his leg by an arrow that cannot be dislodged. Once the balm does its thing, Aeneas returns to beat Turnus. In a moment of twisting hesitation, Aeneas pities the defeated foe whom he had decided to allow to escape with his life. But, as a master stroke, Virgil makes Aeneas realize what Turnus wears Pallas' belt around his shoulder... violence and death are the real legacies of Aeneas. He kills Turnus.

I took a little literary detour this week when I surrendered to re-reading "Oracle Night," by Paul Auster. I am reading differently now, however, seeing technique and way of introducing things into a story--not giving it all away at the beginning; how to make a character real; developing sub-plots, etc. Auster is the master of the "alternative driven" fiction. That is to say, characters are forced to make decisions that impact their entire lives and the plot of the story really is fueled by these decisions. First person narratives are the best for doing this. Friday alone I read over 200 pages in little under 3 hours. I simply adore Auster's prose, and I am learning a great deal in terms of what to do in my own writing.

The China trip is still on the works despite the little spurs of dissent about the Olympics and the violence in Tibet. I am to leave here on Wednesday, April 16th (I leave at 3 PM, have a lay over of 10 hours in Chicago, fly 13 hours to Korea spending 4 hours there, and finally arrive in Beijing at 10 AM of the following day). I suppose I could show some excitement for going, but after traveling most of Southeast Asia (while avoiding the communist countries), China sounds like a "burden" rather than an "exciting or exotic" trip. I am not quite sure where it is that I am teaching, other than the school at Changchun that is. I'll be counting the 10 days to return... and reading my way across most of the countryside (I have a six hour train ride from Changchun to Shanghai). I'll be taking more books than actual luggage with me.