I like reggae. I have a big collection of it in my Itunes library, and I might even be listening to some right now. This affinity means that I'm much more likely to read a book about reggae than I am to read a book about knitting, say, or goldfish.
By one line of thought, a (historical) nonfiction book is good to the extent that the reader is interested in the subject. The author's job is little more than getting out of the way of the story. By this metric, certainly, Vivien Goldman's Exodus: The Making & Meaning of Bob Marley & The Wailers' Album Of Century should be loved by any Bob Marley fan that picks it up. Goldman's time as a sort of beat reporter for the Wailers gives her plenty of inside perspective to share, and her interview subjects seem to trust and respect her. The book focuses on the time around the creation of the Wailers' album Exodus, starting a year or two ahead and winding down with the subsequent promotional tour (although the book does carry on through Marley's death from cancer in 1981).
The problem I have with this book is ultimately, I suspect, not with Vivien Goldman. Again, she's a fine enough writer, and she has plenty of great source material. The problem is that Bob Marley is too iconic a figure to have a decent book written about him. Without arguing the merits of the comparison, I think a biography of Jesus Christ (assuming, you know, that Jesus Christ were a contemporary figure and the lead singer of a internationally acclaimed band or something similar) would run into the same difficulties. People simply have too much invested in Marley, whichever side of the prophet vs. dreadlocked pot-head fence they come down on. Goldman, for what it's worth, is firmly on the prophet side.
It's not just that Goldman doesn't criticize Marley, it's that at times it feels as if she's doing everything short of anointing him with oil. I'm sure it's difficult to be neutral about something one believes strongly in, but I find it frustrating that the most cogent article I've seen on the Rasta faith is on Wikipedia.
I would recommend this book to anyone interested in Bob Marley, in spite of it's unconscious proselytizing. It's certainly not the most blatant bit of propaganda I've ever read.
(While I was reading Exodus, by the way, I found a ticket for Die Zauberflote - The Magic Flute - an opera I saw at the Met. In 2006. I'm not sure what this means, other that 1. Time flies and 2. I have wide-ranging interests.)
Showing posts with label Books. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Books. Show all posts
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Book Club: Franny & Zooey, by J.D. Salinger
Anyone who has survived a high school English class probably knows that J.D. Salinger doesn't think much of 'society.' His anger and alienation made the pages of Catcher in the Rye practically warm to the touch, and those same emotions that make the book so appealing to teenagers tend to distract readers who are more comfortable with their place in the world.
For most of its pages, Franny and Zooey strikes a similar chord. Franny Glass can't stand her Ivy League boyfriend, her mediocre classmates, or her pretentious professors. Her spiritual crisis mirrors Holden Caulfield's, but without the vitriol. Her struggle is of frustration and despair, rather than pure anger.
And if that was all there was to the book, it wouldn't be particularly interesting or worth reading. Although I suppose gender theorists could build careers on dissecting the differences between Holden and Franny. This time, though, we are saved from our crushing angst and alienation by the emergence of Franny's brother Zooey in the second chapter. (The book is divided into two eponymous chapters, each of which was originally published separately in The New Yorker.) Far too unreasonable to be called a voice of reason, Zooey rides an unique wave of knowledge and arrogance that changes the tenor of the book. He gradually leads Franny - and the reader along with her - to a satisfactory spiritual (as opposed to religious) answer to Franny's yearning, and in doing so fosters a sense of optimism I haven't previously seen in the reclusive Salinger.
For most of its pages, Franny and Zooey strikes a similar chord. Franny Glass can't stand her Ivy League boyfriend, her mediocre classmates, or her pretentious professors. Her spiritual crisis mirrors Holden Caulfield's, but without the vitriol. Her struggle is of frustration and despair, rather than pure anger.
And if that was all there was to the book, it wouldn't be particularly interesting or worth reading. Although I suppose gender theorists could build careers on dissecting the differences between Holden and Franny. This time, though, we are saved from our crushing angst and alienation by the emergence of Franny's brother Zooey in the second chapter. (The book is divided into two eponymous chapters, each of which was originally published separately in The New Yorker.) Far too unreasonable to be called a voice of reason, Zooey rides an unique wave of knowledge and arrogance that changes the tenor of the book. He gradually leads Franny - and the reader along with her - to a satisfactory spiritual (as opposed to religious) answer to Franny's yearning, and in doing so fosters a sense of optimism I haven't previously seen in the reclusive Salinger.
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Book Club: Gang Leader for a Day, by Sudhir Venkatesh
*Note: The author of this book, Sudhir Venkatesh, has a very long name. There are way too many letters in Venkatesh for me to type it over and over. In fact, my fingers are exhausted from the three times I've already typed it. Therefore, the author will be referred to as S.V. from here on out.*
One of the most popular chapters in Steven Levitt and Stephen Dubner's book Freakonomics centers on the economics of a Chicago street gang. So you can imagine people were excited when they got word of Gang Leader for a Day, written by the man responsible for the studies profiled in that chapter. The book is a chance for this self-styled 'rogue sociologist' to take us deeper into a world many know nothing about. (In fairness, the whole 'rogue sociologist' thing could be a marketing ploy - Freakonomics' subtitle refers to a 'rogue economist.' I, for one, am somewhat alarmed at the sudden rise in rogue -ists running around the streets of our nation. Someone should do something.)
And, as an expansion on that same Freakonomics chapter, I suppose S.V.'s book is OK. There are many more pages to work with here, so we get more time, more characters, and more anecdotes. But I had several problems with the book that kept me from enjoying it as a much as I wanted to.
Power. No matter how embedded he was or felt, S.V. was not black. He was not poor. He neither lived in nor grew up in the projects. And, unlike the residents of Robert Taylor Homes, he could leave whenever he wanted. Even when he didn't want to leave, the gang members would often shield him from especially brutal or sensitive events. Is any of this particularly S.V.'s fault? No. We're all stuck with our own perspective. Forgive the moment of solipsism, but no one can ever truly transcend the blessing/curse of subjectivity. S.V., though, is so far out of his element that it feels like anthropomorphizing when he attempts to talk about people's motives. He dehumanizes in his very attempt to humanize.
Numbers. Maybe I'm a geek. Maybe I would have been better off reading his dissertation. But Gang Leader for a Day seemed surprisingly low on data. This is a book of stories, not information.
Motive. On multiple occasions, S.V. wonders why he is studying this community, and what he hopes to get out of his research. Even with these doubts, we see him crossing lines to get what he needs. He indulges residents' delusions of grandeur by allowing them to believe he's writing about them individually, rather than the community as a whole. He betrays people's confidence when he thinks it will help his research. Eventually, he justifies his actions by deciding that, like many of the buildings residents, he's a hustler. To make matters worse, that isn't even his own conclusion, but something told to him by one of the residents, and he clings to the idea like a life saver.
As I said earlier, I really wanted to like this book. Maybe I went in with unrealistic expectations, but I left feeling hollow and disappointed, like I had just eaten a candy bar when what I really wanted was something salty. Don't get me wrong - S.V. did something fascinating in exploring the lives of a hidden segment of society. But Gang Leader doesn't do it any justice.
Personally, I might have liked the book better if he had gotten his ass kicked at least once for his impudence, his naivete and his condescension, a la the late Dr. Hunter S. Thompson in Hell's Angels.
One of the most popular chapters in Steven Levitt and Stephen Dubner's book Freakonomics centers on the economics of a Chicago street gang. So you can imagine people were excited when they got word of Gang Leader for a Day, written by the man responsible for the studies profiled in that chapter. The book is a chance for this self-styled 'rogue sociologist' to take us deeper into a world many know nothing about. (In fairness, the whole 'rogue sociologist' thing could be a marketing ploy - Freakonomics' subtitle refers to a 'rogue economist.' I, for one, am somewhat alarmed at the sudden rise in rogue -ists running around the streets of our nation. Someone should do something.)
And, as an expansion on that same Freakonomics chapter, I suppose S.V.'s book is OK. There are many more pages to work with here, so we get more time, more characters, and more anecdotes. But I had several problems with the book that kept me from enjoying it as a much as I wanted to.
Power. No matter how embedded he was or felt, S.V. was not black. He was not poor. He neither lived in nor grew up in the projects. And, unlike the residents of Robert Taylor Homes, he could leave whenever he wanted. Even when he didn't want to leave, the gang members would often shield him from especially brutal or sensitive events. Is any of this particularly S.V.'s fault? No. We're all stuck with our own perspective. Forgive the moment of solipsism, but no one can ever truly transcend the blessing/curse of subjectivity. S.V., though, is so far out of his element that it feels like anthropomorphizing when he attempts to talk about people's motives. He dehumanizes in his very attempt to humanize.
Numbers. Maybe I'm a geek. Maybe I would have been better off reading his dissertation. But Gang Leader for a Day seemed surprisingly low on data. This is a book of stories, not information.
Motive. On multiple occasions, S.V. wonders why he is studying this community, and what he hopes to get out of his research. Even with these doubts, we see him crossing lines to get what he needs. He indulges residents' delusions of grandeur by allowing them to believe he's writing about them individually, rather than the community as a whole. He betrays people's confidence when he thinks it will help his research. Eventually, he justifies his actions by deciding that, like many of the buildings residents, he's a hustler. To make matters worse, that isn't even his own conclusion, but something told to him by one of the residents, and he clings to the idea like a life saver.
As I said earlier, I really wanted to like this book. Maybe I went in with unrealistic expectations, but I left feeling hollow and disappointed, like I had just eaten a candy bar when what I really wanted was something salty. Don't get me wrong - S.V. did something fascinating in exploring the lives of a hidden segment of society. But Gang Leader doesn't do it any justice.
Personally, I might have liked the book better if he had gotten his ass kicked at least once for his impudence, his naivete and his condescension, a la the late Dr. Hunter S. Thompson in Hell's Angels.
Thursday, May 1, 2008
Book Club: Coach, by Michael Lewis
At 91 double-spaced pages, Michael Lewis’ Coach is not much longer than an issue of Sports Illustrated. This little book overflows such tiny confines, though, as Lewis carefully interweaves a paean to Billy Fitzgerald with larger musings about the lessons we all (should) learn on the road to adulthood.
At its most basic level, Coach is a well-constructed tribute to the man who taught Michael Lewis to be more than just a ball player. Coach Fitz's story is not a unique one, and for that matter neither is Lewis'. And while I wouldn't go so far as to call Coach a vanity project, I'm not entirely convinced it would have been published had Lewis not found mainstream success with the publication of Moneyball in 2003. Nonetheless, Coach is eminently readable, and worthwhile not just for Lewis' nostalgia, but also for his thoughts on the over-protected atmosphere today's kids often grow up in. What struck me, though, was not the minutiae of Lewis’ personal experience, or his sky-is-falling concerns regarding modern youth. Coach, for me, was an unexpected reminder of how I got to be the person I am today.
In my sports-filled life, I have had too many coaches to count. As the years have passed, I find that I can clearly remember very few of them. Time has reduced some to mere names, and others are left with only faces. Many have been completely erased from my synapses. None of them, though, no matter how misremembered, had anywhere near as much impact on who I was then or who I am now as my own father. From watching M.A.S.H. on his knee as a small boy to our ongoing discussions about what is and isn't "important" in life or sports or family or whatever, I don't think any one person can claim a bigger role in the shaping of my personality.
My dad was a carpenter when I first arrived in this world, but a serious knee injury eventually left him without a job or much of a future. Ours wasn't a house for complaining, though, so while my mom waited tables at night to make ends meet, my dad set about reinventing himself. Before my young mind really knew what was happening or what was at stake, the man who never finished college was taking courses and soon found a job as an estimator for a structural steel company. He cooked dinner for my brother and me every night. He commandeered our 8-bit Nintendo Entertainment System and beat the holy hell out of the original Legend of Zelda before I even conquered the first boss. His hard work saved our family so completely that I was an adult before it even occurred to me we might have been in jeopardy. To the eight-year-old me, a new house wasn’t anything special. A new routine, some new friends and, hey, my own room, great. But to my father, it must have been…redemption.
Growing up, I never suspected that my parents were anything out of the ordinary. Surely every father got up before dawn on Saturdays to drive his sons to hockey practice along the dark corridors of highway 101 while they slept in the back seat? And what dad didn’t patiently instill the belief that anything was possible, even a cross-country pilgrimage to Woodstock, so long as it was planned and worked for? And didn’t all the neighborhood kids learn about patience, hard work and dedication by reassembling an old truck piece by piece alongside their old man?
I’m a little bit older now, and whether you consider it wisdom or a Michael-Lewis-in-Coach-style cynicism, I’m finally starting to realize that not everyone grew up like I did. And the more I learn about my father’s life, both before and after me, the more about me I realize he deserves credit for. My convictions and my stubbornness. My belief that I can do anything I want, so long as I get around to deciding just what that is. My loyalty to the people most important to me. The rocks glass full of M&Ms next to me as I write this, an eerie parallel of the cup next to my father’s armchair.
So whenever my mother calls to vent about his latest project or tic or obsession, I laugh, I sympathize, and I comfort. And when she finally runs out of steam, she lets out an exasperated sigh and says, “That’s your father.”
And I smile, and I think the myself, “You’re dammed right.”
At its most basic level, Coach is a well-constructed tribute to the man who taught Michael Lewis to be more than just a ball player. Coach Fitz's story is not a unique one, and for that matter neither is Lewis'. And while I wouldn't go so far as to call Coach a vanity project, I'm not entirely convinced it would have been published had Lewis not found mainstream success with the publication of Moneyball in 2003. Nonetheless, Coach is eminently readable, and worthwhile not just for Lewis' nostalgia, but also for his thoughts on the over-protected atmosphere today's kids often grow up in. What struck me, though, was not the minutiae of Lewis’ personal experience, or his sky-is-falling concerns regarding modern youth. Coach, for me, was an unexpected reminder of how I got to be the person I am today.
In my sports-filled life, I have had too many coaches to count. As the years have passed, I find that I can clearly remember very few of them. Time has reduced some to mere names, and others are left with only faces. Many have been completely erased from my synapses. None of them, though, no matter how misremembered, had anywhere near as much impact on who I was then or who I am now as my own father. From watching M.A.S.H. on his knee as a small boy to our ongoing discussions about what is and isn't "important" in life or sports or family or whatever, I don't think any one person can claim a bigger role in the shaping of my personality.
My dad was a carpenter when I first arrived in this world, but a serious knee injury eventually left him without a job or much of a future. Ours wasn't a house for complaining, though, so while my mom waited tables at night to make ends meet, my dad set about reinventing himself. Before my young mind really knew what was happening or what was at stake, the man who never finished college was taking courses and soon found a job as an estimator for a structural steel company. He cooked dinner for my brother and me every night. He commandeered our 8-bit Nintendo Entertainment System and beat the holy hell out of the original Legend of Zelda before I even conquered the first boss. His hard work saved our family so completely that I was an adult before it even occurred to me we might have been in jeopardy. To the eight-year-old me, a new house wasn’t anything special. A new routine, some new friends and, hey, my own room, great. But to my father, it must have been…redemption.
Growing up, I never suspected that my parents were anything out of the ordinary. Surely every father got up before dawn on Saturdays to drive his sons to hockey practice along the dark corridors of highway 101 while they slept in the back seat? And what dad didn’t patiently instill the belief that anything was possible, even a cross-country pilgrimage to Woodstock, so long as it was planned and worked for? And didn’t all the neighborhood kids learn about patience, hard work and dedication by reassembling an old truck piece by piece alongside their old man?
I’m a little bit older now, and whether you consider it wisdom or a Michael-Lewis-in-Coach-style cynicism, I’m finally starting to realize that not everyone grew up like I did. And the more I learn about my father’s life, both before and after me, the more about me I realize he deserves credit for. My convictions and my stubbornness. My belief that I can do anything I want, so long as I get around to deciding just what that is. My loyalty to the people most important to me. The rocks glass full of M&Ms next to me as I write this, an eerie parallel of the cup next to my father’s armchair.
So whenever my mother calls to vent about his latest project or tic or obsession, I laugh, I sympathize, and I comfort. And when she finally runs out of steam, she lets out an exasperated sigh and says, “That’s your father.”
And I smile, and I think the myself, “You’re dammed right.”
Monday, April 21, 2008
Book Club: Young Avengers: Sidekicks
I wasn't into comic books as a kid. I had nothing against them - I read a substantial portion of the death of Superman storyline, among other things - but they were never really my "thing". As a result, my subsequent forays into the world of graphic novels have always been pleasant, surprising, and short-lived.
It was with delight, then, that I borrowed a copy of Allan Heinberg & Jim Cheung's first installment of the Young Avengers series, Sidekicks. From my admittedly non-expert perspective, the artwork was great, the design tight, and the characters interesting. And, most importantly, I was left wanting to read more. Even though, just like one of the characters said, I hate time travel things. And this incarnation of the Young Avengers is, indeed, a time travel thing.
Reading the book got me wondering about graphic novel's low spot on the literary totem pole. It's an incredibly rich medium with a lot to offer that can't be readily accomplished in books or films, but society tends to view graphic novels with something between disdain and disinterest.
I, for one, don't really like reading graphic novels on subways, where I do a lot of my reading. It's not an issue of embarrassment, though: graphic novels just feel like two-handed affairs to me. I have difficulty slowing down to focus on each page when reading them on subways, the jostling of the people and the train shatter any hope I have of focusing on the details.
I often find myself at a loss when looking for a new graphic novel to read. Whatever system I use to find new books doesn't seem to work in this context. A lack of exposure and opportunity, I guess. The information must be out there, right? There are probably graphic novel (or at least literary) blogs existing side-by-side with the sports, news and politics sites I visit every day.
The general disregard of graphic novels seems to be slowly changing, though, from my still admittedly non-expert opinion. I see more of them in book stores, more being turned into mediocre Hollywood movies. So perhaps the day is not far away when we will suffer from too many graphic novels, where an illustrated equivalent of James Patterson or Nora Roberts will churn out what seems like a new book every week, to be purchased on the cheap at your local Wal-Mart.
God, what a nightmare.
Thanks to this fine gentleman for loaning me the book. Promise I'll give it back soon.
It was with delight, then, that I borrowed a copy of Allan Heinberg & Jim Cheung's first installment of the Young Avengers series, Sidekicks. From my admittedly non-expert perspective, the artwork was great, the design tight, and the characters interesting. And, most importantly, I was left wanting to read more. Even though, just like one of the characters said, I hate time travel things. And this incarnation of the Young Avengers is, indeed, a time travel thing.
Reading the book got me wondering about graphic novel's low spot on the literary totem pole. It's an incredibly rich medium with a lot to offer that can't be readily accomplished in books or films, but society tends to view graphic novels with something between disdain and disinterest.
I, for one, don't really like reading graphic novels on subways, where I do a lot of my reading. It's not an issue of embarrassment, though: graphic novels just feel like two-handed affairs to me. I have difficulty slowing down to focus on each page when reading them on subways, the jostling of the people and the train shatter any hope I have of focusing on the details.
I often find myself at a loss when looking for a new graphic novel to read. Whatever system I use to find new books doesn't seem to work in this context. A lack of exposure and opportunity, I guess. The information must be out there, right? There are probably graphic novel (or at least literary) blogs existing side-by-side with the sports, news and politics sites I visit every day.
The general disregard of graphic novels seems to be slowly changing, though, from my still admittedly non-expert opinion. I see more of them in book stores, more being turned into mediocre Hollywood movies. So perhaps the day is not far away when we will suffer from too many graphic novels, where an illustrated equivalent of James Patterson or Nora Roberts will churn out what seems like a new book every week, to be purchased on the cheap at your local Wal-Mart.
God, what a nightmare.
Thanks to this fine gentleman for loaning me the book. Promise I'll give it back soon.
Saturday, April 5, 2008
Pig Hunting Corn Haters
After about six months of off and on reading, I finally finished The Omnivore's Dilemma. In it, UC Berkeley professor Michael Pollan traces the origins and processes behind several different food chains: industrial, industrial/big organic, local, and self-obtained. It becomes obvious pretty early on that he has serious reservations about the ludicrous ways American industrial agriculture sets about dealing with the annual surplus of corn, but how practical is it really to expect us all to hunt pigs in the Northern California foothills or gather our own mushrooms in the streets of Berkeley?
Pollan raises more questions than he answers in this peek behind the curtain and, unintentionally or otherwise, it starts to feel like a ploy to get us to buy his latest book, an unofficial sequel titled In Defense of Food. I haven't gotten around to reading this one yet, at least in part because I think its tag line sums up his answer pretty well: Eat food. Not too much. Mostly plants.
Are pesticides bad for you? Of course. Is fast food healthy? Certainly not in the quantities a lot of people eat it. A lot of it just comes down to common sense, though. If you eat a lot of fatty, processed foods, you're not going to be healthy. If all you eat is spinach, you're not going to be healthy. Moderation and logic will take you a long way...
So, did The Omnivore's Dilemma change my life? I suppose. I'm more cognizant of what goes into some of the processed foods I love (although it's nothing I didn't already know from reading Fast Food Nation or watching Super Size Me). I value local food more than I did before (although like the New Yorker article I linked to a while ago, if the local food isn't season it's probably just as bad if not worse than food that's been trucked across the country).
Oh, and apparently since I live east of Columbus, I'm environmentally better off drinking wine from France than from the Northern California vineyards I grew up near. So there you have it.
Pollan raises more questions than he answers in this peek behind the curtain and, unintentionally or otherwise, it starts to feel like a ploy to get us to buy his latest book, an unofficial sequel titled In Defense of Food. I haven't gotten around to reading this one yet, at least in part because I think its tag line sums up his answer pretty well: Eat food. Not too much. Mostly plants.
Are pesticides bad for you? Of course. Is fast food healthy? Certainly not in the quantities a lot of people eat it. A lot of it just comes down to common sense, though. If you eat a lot of fatty, processed foods, you're not going to be healthy. If all you eat is spinach, you're not going to be healthy. Moderation and logic will take you a long way...
So, did The Omnivore's Dilemma change my life? I suppose. I'm more cognizant of what goes into some of the processed foods I love (although it's nothing I didn't already know from reading Fast Food Nation or watching Super Size Me). I value local food more than I did before (although like the New Yorker article I linked to a while ago, if the local food isn't season it's probably just as bad if not worse than food that's been trucked across the country).
Oh, and apparently since I live east of Columbus, I'm environmentally better off drinking wine from France than from the Northern California vineyards I grew up near. So there you have it.
Thursday, April 3, 2008
Just a Little Off the Top 04/03/2008
Don't have much to say today, so a few links for your entertainment:
The inimitable Big Daddy Drew made me laugh today, with his metaphorical take on Davidson's recent March Madness adventures.
Slate has an entertaining story about the all-consuming nature of fantasy baseball. I still haven't told the girlfriend I'm actually in two leagues this year instead of one. Shh!
Speaking of, Sam Walker's Fantasyland is a fun fantasy baseball read (talk about phrases you never thought you'd hear). I mean, it's no Moneyball, but Amazon is selling the hardcover for seven bucks for some reason, so you can't go wrong.
I think that just about catches us up. I'm trying to arrange another guest post, and might have lined up a full time contributor to the site, so there's a pretty decent chance y'all will get a break from my frequent complaining about the Giants misadventures in the N.L. West.
Until I have something interesting to say...
The inimitable Big Daddy Drew made me laugh today, with his metaphorical take on Davidson's recent March Madness adventures.
Slate has an entertaining story about the all-consuming nature of fantasy baseball. I still haven't told the girlfriend I'm actually in two leagues this year instead of one. Shh!
Speaking of, Sam Walker's Fantasyland is a fun fantasy baseball read (talk about phrases you never thought you'd hear). I mean, it's no Moneyball, but Amazon is selling the hardcover for seven bucks for some reason, so you can't go wrong.
I think that just about catches us up. I'm trying to arrange another guest post, and might have lined up a full time contributor to the site, so there's a pretty decent chance y'all will get a break from my frequent complaining about the Giants misadventures in the N.L. West.
Until I have something interesting to say...
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
What is, what was, what might be
I recently found out that Jesse Ball won the 2008 Plimpton Prize for Fiction (Thanks, Firefly!), which seemed like as good excuse as any to reread Ball's novel Samedi the Deafness. Ball's novel is virtually impossible to categorize. A philistine might call it a mystery, someone with more pretension than me could venture the phrase 'prose-poem' that I hear way too much of lately.
What the book is, in my opinion, is a beautifully written exploration of Truth, and of how we know things that we think we Know. The reader and the protagonist, James Sim, are both kept on extremely shaky ground from the moment Sim encounters a wounded man in a public park. Things get progressively weirder throughout the book, until it is impossible to know who and what to believe.
The ending is a bit ambiguous, I suppose, but all stories have to end somewhere. And I'm pretty certain I know what was going to happen next, so my only disappointment was that I had to put the book down and move on to something else.
C-ro, my friend and erstwhile programming adviser, compared the underlying plot of Samedi to the classic graphic novel The Watchmen. So now I want to reread that and also The Things They Carried, another exploration of the nature of truth by Tim O'Brien. So add those to rereads to all the new books I'm working on
I'm still getting the hang of reviewing books without spoiling them. Feel free to let me have it in the comments.
What the book is, in my opinion, is a beautifully written exploration of Truth, and of how we know things that we think we Know. The reader and the protagonist, James Sim, are both kept on extremely shaky ground from the moment Sim encounters a wounded man in a public park. Things get progressively weirder throughout the book, until it is impossible to know who and what to believe.
The ending is a bit ambiguous, I suppose, but all stories have to end somewhere. And I'm pretty certain I know what was going to happen next, so my only disappointment was that I had to put the book down and move on to something else.
C-ro, my friend and erstwhile programming adviser, compared the underlying plot of Samedi to the classic graphic novel The Watchmen. So now I want to reread that and also The Things They Carried, another exploration of the nature of truth by Tim O'Brien. So add those to rereads to all the new books I'm working on
I'm still getting the hang of reviewing books without spoiling them. Feel free to let me have it in the comments.
Monday, March 10, 2008
Sacksophilia
I finally finished Oliver Sacks' Musicophilia, and *yawn*, thank god for that. It's not a bad book, don't get me wrong, but there is no steak to go with the four hundred pages of sizzle. Sacks has a lot of great anecdotes, and a Bostoner (Bostonite?) would probably say he was 'wicked awesome' to talk to at a party:
(My video embedding skill are failing me again.)
Still, I can't honestly say I'm a better or even more informed person for having read this book. You could easily skip around from chapter to chapter as stories grab your interest. And I'm sure plenty of people will enjoy it. I was hoping for more content, though.
For another take on the book, check this previous post.
(My video embedding skill are failing me again.)
Still, I can't honestly say I'm a better or even more informed person for having read this book. You could easily skip around from chapter to chapter as stories grab your interest. And I'm sure plenty of people will enjoy it. I was hoping for more content, though.
For another take on the book, check this previous post.
Monday, February 25, 2008
Counting the Colors till Friday
I've been reading Oliver Sacks' Musicophilia lately and, while I still intend to write about it when I finally finish it, his chapter on synesthesia stopped me in my tracks.
To a composer named Michael Torke, each musical key has it's own discrete, unique color. D Major is blue. G Minor is ochre or gamboge, whatever that means. (Apparently it's yellow.) D Minor is flint or graphite. F Minor is an earthy, ashy color.
Another unnamed musician actually experiences tastes corresponding to musical intervals.
Now, I've thought that we can never really know what is going on inside another person's head at least since I was sitting in John Searle's Philosophy of Mind lectures back at Berkeley. And the reason I say I can't know what's in anyone else's head is the simple fact that I have no direct access to their brain states. You can tell me what you are thinking/feeling, and I can compare that to my own experiences, but that's it. It's understanding through analogy.
Without direct access, though, I can never know for certain that another mind actually exists. This is where we get to the wonderful idea of a philosophical zombie. (That's right. You probably thought we philosophers just sat around, staring at our hands and trying to define happiness. Nope. We have zombies.) Rather than eating brains and walking funny, though, a p-zombie acts exactly like a normal person, except there is no corresponding brain state behind their actions. Hit your p-zombie boyfriend with your car and he will say 'ouch.' Show a p-zombie the new study proving Derek Jeter is a terrible shortstop, and he'll seem outraged. (Our p-zombie is a Yankee fan. Let's call him Vinnie.) But there is no consciousness underlying either reaction. And, as an outside observer, I would be unable to tell the difference between Vinnie the p-zombie and a normal human being (although the Yankees thing might give it away).
I spent a lot of time in college defending this position. It's tough to convince people you're having a conversation with that you are under no obligation to concede the ontological status of their very consciousness. I admit it's philosophically ugly, and that it seems like the sort of thing you'd only come up with after a few too many bong loads. But now you're going to tell me that E Flat has a color? That a tritone tastes like disgust? (How great is it that something can taste like disgust? I say very.) With such phenomenal differences in our perception of the supposedly material world (I think we can all agree that this is great. Rawr.), how can I possibly pretend to know what any one else is thinking? For that matter, how can I know that anyone else actually is thinking?
I'm not saying other minds don't exist. (Although some people do.) In fact, I'd prefer it if the people around me are not p-zombies or figments of my imagination. I think it's an ultimately unanswerable question, though, whether or not there are other minds out there. I'll never have direct access to another person's consciousness, so I'll never be able to say for sure that such a consciousness exists. But I suppose I should act as if it does, just in case.
BRRRAAAAAAIIIINNNSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!!!!
To a composer named Michael Torke, each musical key has it's own discrete, unique color. D Major is blue. G Minor is ochre or gamboge, whatever that means. (Apparently it's yellow.) D Minor is flint or graphite. F Minor is an earthy, ashy color.
Another unnamed musician actually experiences tastes corresponding to musical intervals.
- Minor second = sour
- Major second = bitter
- Minor third = salty
- Major third = sweet
- Fourth = mown grass
- Tritone = disgust
- Fifth = pure water
- Minor sixth = cream
- Major sixth = low-fat cream
- Minor seventh = bitter
- Major seventh = sour
- Octave = no taste
Now, I've thought that we can never really know what is going on inside another person's head at least since I was sitting in John Searle's Philosophy of Mind lectures back at Berkeley. And the reason I say I can't know what's in anyone else's head is the simple fact that I have no direct access to their brain states. You can tell me what you are thinking/feeling, and I can compare that to my own experiences, but that's it. It's understanding through analogy.
Without direct access, though, I can never know for certain that another mind actually exists. This is where we get to the wonderful idea of a philosophical zombie. (That's right. You probably thought we philosophers just sat around, staring at our hands and trying to define happiness. Nope. We have zombies.) Rather than eating brains and walking funny, though, a p-zombie acts exactly like a normal person, except there is no corresponding brain state behind their actions. Hit your p-zombie boyfriend with your car and he will say 'ouch.' Show a p-zombie the new study proving Derek Jeter is a terrible shortstop, and he'll seem outraged. (Our p-zombie is a Yankee fan. Let's call him Vinnie.) But there is no consciousness underlying either reaction. And, as an outside observer, I would be unable to tell the difference between Vinnie the p-zombie and a normal human being (although the Yankees thing might give it away).
I spent a lot of time in college defending this position. It's tough to convince people you're having a conversation with that you are under no obligation to concede the ontological status of their very consciousness. I admit it's philosophically ugly, and that it seems like the sort of thing you'd only come up with after a few too many bong loads. But now you're going to tell me that E Flat has a color? That a tritone tastes like disgust? (How great is it that something can taste like disgust? I say very.) With such phenomenal differences in our perception of the supposedly material world (I think we can all agree that this is great. Rawr.), how can I possibly pretend to know what any one else is thinking? For that matter, how can I know that anyone else actually is thinking?
I'm not saying other minds don't exist. (Although some people do.) In fact, I'd prefer it if the people around me are not p-zombies or figments of my imagination. I think it's an ultimately unanswerable question, though, whether or not there are other minds out there. I'll never have direct access to another person's consciousness, so I'll never be able to say for sure that such a consciousness exists. But I suppose I should act as if it does, just in case.
BRRRAAAAAAIIIINNNSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!!!!
Monday, February 11, 2008
Cormac McCarthy: Mash Up Artist
Fair warning: There are some spoilers here, but all the books have been out for a while, so deal.
One night, Cormac McCarthy was sitting in his dorm room at the University of Great American Novelists, working his way through a bottle of whisky. He stared at the computer screen, swore at the endlessly blinking cursor. Smoke from a mostly forgotten cigarette curled up past his face, and he waved it idly away.
This is ridiculous, he thought. Or maybe he muttered it. The pressure was definitely starting to get to him.
I wrote All the Pretty Horses. No Country for Old Men. I won the National Book Award! But he couldn't get any words on to the page, and hadn't in weeks. The whisky was beginning to take hold.
What I should do, he muttered or thought, is redo On the Road as if it were written by Ernest Hemingway. A new perspective. Toughen that beatnik drivel up. People will appreciate how originally I've combined two previously existing, seemingly unrelated things.
The pages flew by as McCarthy's whisky-wobbled fingers struck at the keys with a newfound sense of purpose. Carefree cross country jaunts in search of kicks in post war America became a perilous journey in a post Apocalyptic future to horrible to even contemplate, let alone survive.
The characters were easy to transition. Sal Paradise, Kerouac's stand-in/narrator, knows the only people he's interested in are The mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a common place thing, but burn burn burn, like fabulous yellow Roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars. The only person who matters for this new, unnamed narrator is his son, God's own firedrake, tending to the fire whose sparks rushed upward and died in the starless dark. Not all dying words are true and this blessing is no less real for being shorn of its ground. And we have no time for Roman candles, no sir. No time for metaphor, either.
Rather than discussing the limits of human potential and the wonders of existence on a mad-dash car ride along the eastern seaboard, repeatedly curse the futility and wretchedness of a world where the sky is full of ash and civilization has disintegrated. Think of the hopeless, stoic perseverance of The Old Man and the Sea, only if the ocean were poison and all the fish were dead.
And in the end, instead of having the protagonists simply drift apart and outgrow one another with the passage of time, let's kill off the narrator and leave the child to fend for himself amongst a band of unknown survivors who may or may not be carrying the fire themselves (Damnit, one metaphor slipped through. But that's the only one.). Robert Jordan (For Whom the Bell Tolls) would be proud.
And you know what, Cormac? So would the kids on collegehumor.com. Congratulations - you've successfully juxtaposed two completely different things, like this Bear Grylls mash-up, Man vs. Girls Gone Wild. (Note: You probably shouldn't watch this at work. Or if you have an IQ over 80.) I can't wait to see Veggietales characters dialouge spliced into the No Country trailer.
*****************
In all seriousness, The Road is a great book, and just incredibly written. McCarthy paints an intimate portrait of a father-son relationship, and describes about as beautiful an ash-strewn apocalyptic wasteland as could ever exist.
I preferred No Country for Old Men, mainly because I was more able to relate to the characters in it. I may still be stuck in the concrete jungle Bob Marley sings about, but the thing hasn't burnt down yet. I'm not contending with deranged, cannibalistic mobs (although some days on the subway it can feel like it). So there you go.
I'd recommend either book, though, and you can't go wrong either way. And if I ever find my way back to the library, I might just start in on the Border Trilogy as well...Not that I don't have enough to read already.
Enjoy.
One night, Cormac McCarthy was sitting in his dorm room at the University of Great American Novelists, working his way through a bottle of whisky. He stared at the computer screen, swore at the endlessly blinking cursor. Smoke from a mostly forgotten cigarette curled up past his face, and he waved it idly away.
This is ridiculous, he thought. Or maybe he muttered it. The pressure was definitely starting to get to him.
I wrote All the Pretty Horses. No Country for Old Men. I won the National Book Award! But he couldn't get any words on to the page, and hadn't in weeks. The whisky was beginning to take hold.
What I should do, he muttered or thought, is redo On the Road as if it were written by Ernest Hemingway. A new perspective. Toughen that beatnik drivel up. People will appreciate how originally I've combined two previously existing, seemingly unrelated things.
The pages flew by as McCarthy's whisky-wobbled fingers struck at the keys with a newfound sense of purpose. Carefree cross country jaunts in search of kicks in post war America became a perilous journey in a post Apocalyptic future to horrible to even contemplate, let alone survive.
The characters were easy to transition. Sal Paradise, Kerouac's stand-in/narrator, knows the only people he's interested in are The mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a common place thing, but burn burn burn, like fabulous yellow Roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars. The only person who matters for this new, unnamed narrator is his son, God's own firedrake, tending to the fire whose sparks rushed upward and died in the starless dark. Not all dying words are true and this blessing is no less real for being shorn of its ground. And we have no time for Roman candles, no sir. No time for metaphor, either.
Rather than discussing the limits of human potential and the wonders of existence on a mad-dash car ride along the eastern seaboard, repeatedly curse the futility and wretchedness of a world where the sky is full of ash and civilization has disintegrated. Think of the hopeless, stoic perseverance of The Old Man and the Sea, only if the ocean were poison and all the fish were dead.
And in the end, instead of having the protagonists simply drift apart and outgrow one another with the passage of time, let's kill off the narrator and leave the child to fend for himself amongst a band of unknown survivors who may or may not be carrying the fire themselves (Damnit, one metaphor slipped through. But that's the only one.). Robert Jordan (For Whom the Bell Tolls) would be proud.
And you know what, Cormac? So would the kids on collegehumor.com. Congratulations - you've successfully juxtaposed two completely different things, like this Bear Grylls mash-up, Man vs. Girls Gone Wild. (Note: You probably shouldn't watch this at work. Or if you have an IQ over 80.) I can't wait to see Veggietales characters dialouge spliced into the No Country trailer.
*****************
In all seriousness, The Road is a great book, and just incredibly written. McCarthy paints an intimate portrait of a father-son relationship, and describes about as beautiful an ash-strewn apocalyptic wasteland as could ever exist.
I preferred No Country for Old Men, mainly because I was more able to relate to the characters in it. I may still be stuck in the concrete jungle Bob Marley sings about, but the thing hasn't burnt down yet. I'm not contending with deranged, cannibalistic mobs (although some days on the subway it can feel like it). So there you go.
I'd recommend either book, though, and you can't go wrong either way. And if I ever find my way back to the library, I might just start in on the Border Trilogy as well...Not that I don't have enough to read already.
Enjoy.
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