“Memories, like an old cassette, get hazier with every play.” That’s a line of mine, one I hadn’t thought about for some time when this poignant passage on memory from Cormac McCarthy’s “The Road” dragged it to the forefront:
“Memory of her crossing the lawn toward the house in the early morning in a thin rose gown that clung to her breasts. He thought each memory recalled must do some violence to its origins. As in a party game. Say the word and pass it on. So be sparing. What you alter in the remembering has yet a reality, known or not.”
My words are pulled from a song, literally a piece of a record, captured on magnetic tape and then vinyl, with the intent of posterity. I wanted to name the record “Ancient History,” but we called it “Historical Fiction” instead; in the end it was the more fitting title. The record sounds strange to me now, almost unfamiliar, a moment in time encoded in sounds and words.
Memory and text are concurrent themes in “The Road,” a reflection of their relationship in life. One can’t really exam to process of reading and writing, the roles of symbolism and significance in the written word, without considering the part they play in attempting to preserve recollections. Nor can one really set out to discuss the act of remembering without considering the ways we use words to construct fixed forms out of moments in time. Of the many passages in “The Road” which carefully weave these two themes together, two in particular stand out for me, both from the last few pages of the novel.
“He wanted to be able to see. Look around you, he said. There is no prophet in the earth’s long chronicle who’s not honored here today. Whatever form you spoke of you were right.”
“She said that the breath of God was his breath yet though it pass from man to man through all of time.”
Both passages allude in some way to our collective literary traditions, but the first stands out in form as well as content. Not only does it include a dialog tag, all but unseen in the rest of the text, but also an abundance of apostrophes and my beloved commas, whose absence I found almost torturous my first time through the book. McCarthy’s brief incorporation of these conventions, absent or elusive throughout the rest of the novel, call to mind the role formal structure can play in shaping ideas into text, but also the malleability of language. Juxtaposed against the style of the rest of the novel, this passage highlights the ways in which the text succeeds despite the absence of those conventions, bringing into focus the notion that it is not the method but the purpose which defines a text.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Monday, March 2, 2009
Extra Medium 3/1/09
After a long run of rants and raves about the declining state of both Marvel and DC comics, I decided to go back and write about the kind of superhero comics that define my standards for the genre, namely the work of Mark Waid.
http://www.mycentraljersey.com/article/20090301/ENTERTAINMENT08/902270329/1091/ENTERTAINMENT09
http://www.mycentraljersey.com/article/20090301/ENTERTAINMENT08/902270329/1091/ENTERTAINMENT09
Monday, February 23, 2009
Extra Medium
I've decided I'm also going to start posting direct links to my columns.
This weeks column is a review of Brian Wood's "Local," which was easily one of the best comics I've read in years: http://www.mycentraljersey.com/article/20090223/ENTERTAINMENT08/902200327/1091/ENTERTAINMENT09
As a general rule, my columns can be found at:
http://www.mycentraljersey.com/entertainmentcolumns
way down toward the bottom of the page.
This weeks column is a review of Brian Wood's "Local," which was easily one of the best comics I've read in years: http://www.mycentraljersey.com/article/20090223/ENTERTAINMENT08/902200327/1091/ENTERTAINMENT09
As a general rule, my columns can be found at:
http://www.mycentraljersey.com/entertainmentcolumns
way down toward the bottom of the page.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Quidditch, and Our Need for Brutality
After looking back over my last entry, I’ve come to the conclusion that I not only enjoy examining the broader implications of a small detail in a text (particularly a fantasy text), but also that such an approach might be a good foundation for this ongoing assignment. In the case of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone, the element I’d like to look at is the sport of Quidditch.
Despite the fantastic nature of the sport itself, the role Quidditch plays in the novel’s world is undoubtedly familiar. The wizarding world’s zeal for the sport, both as players and spectators, is a clear extension for our own passion for sports, a passion which we can trace back to the very dawn of civilization. One might argue that over the course of human progress our sports have become more refined and more civilized, but certain elements of brutality and aggression have undoubtedly remained a part of those activities.
The nature of the wizarding world in this novel seems to hint at the idea of degrees of civilization and progress, and the importance of knowledge in defining civilization. Witches and wizards know vastly more about the true nature of the world than their muggle counterparts; they are a culture which places extreme importance on the value of academic pursuits and the acquisition of knowledge. Consequently, it seems logical to presume that wizard culture represents a more sophisticated and developed civilization than that of the muggle world, and yet Quidditch is as brutal a sport as any muggle equivalent, and I’d argue that it is more wholly celebrated in their culture than any single sport is in our own.
Likewise, in my own world there is essentially only one sport, Hockey. Since I was really too young to remember, my father has been taking me to Madison Square Garden to sit up in the blue seats, where we scream, holler, and curse (the last of which I learned to do in that very building). Watching and playing Hockey has been an essential part of my world for most of my life, and I’m not ashamed to admit that the violence of the sport is every bit as important to me as the elements of skill and strategy. It is an indulgence into a kind of more primitive mindset which has become, frankly, a necessity in my life.
I suppose Quidditch is a somewhat less violent sport than Hockey (most sports are). There is no denying, however, the essential role violence plays in the sport; Wood’s explanation of the game for Harry’s benefit makes that fact abundantly clear.
“Have the Bludgers ever killed anyone?” Harry asks, to which Wood replies, “never at Hogwarts,” adding, “We’ve had a couple of broken jaws but nothing worse than that,” before going on in an unworried way with his lesson (Rowling, 169). Harry’s fears, however, are not wholly quieted by Wood’s lack of concern, and he presses the point causing Wood to offer further assurances. “Don’t worry, the Weasleys are more than a match for the bludgers,” says Wood, “I mean, they’re like a pair of human Bludgers themselves” (Rowling, 169).
In this short passage, not only does Wood exhibit a lack of concern over the violent aspects and physical risks of Quidditch, he celebrates the Weasley twins’ proficiency for violence as a defining quality of their characters. The importance of Quidditch in the wizarding world, violent aspects and all, is a reflection of human cultures need to have a controlled and consensual connection to our own violent and brutal past. That Rowling chose to include to sport so preeminently in the construction of her artificial world, when the major events of the text itself would likely have satisfied reader’s need for action, speaks of just how pervasive the relationship between culture and sport really is.
Rowling, J.K. Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone. New York, NY: Scholastic, Inc., 1998.
Despite the fantastic nature of the sport itself, the role Quidditch plays in the novel’s world is undoubtedly familiar. The wizarding world’s zeal for the sport, both as players and spectators, is a clear extension for our own passion for sports, a passion which we can trace back to the very dawn of civilization. One might argue that over the course of human progress our sports have become more refined and more civilized, but certain elements of brutality and aggression have undoubtedly remained a part of those activities.
The nature of the wizarding world in this novel seems to hint at the idea of degrees of civilization and progress, and the importance of knowledge in defining civilization. Witches and wizards know vastly more about the true nature of the world than their muggle counterparts; they are a culture which places extreme importance on the value of academic pursuits and the acquisition of knowledge. Consequently, it seems logical to presume that wizard culture represents a more sophisticated and developed civilization than that of the muggle world, and yet Quidditch is as brutal a sport as any muggle equivalent, and I’d argue that it is more wholly celebrated in their culture than any single sport is in our own.
Likewise, in my own world there is essentially only one sport, Hockey. Since I was really too young to remember, my father has been taking me to Madison Square Garden to sit up in the blue seats, where we scream, holler, and curse (the last of which I learned to do in that very building). Watching and playing Hockey has been an essential part of my world for most of my life, and I’m not ashamed to admit that the violence of the sport is every bit as important to me as the elements of skill and strategy. It is an indulgence into a kind of more primitive mindset which has become, frankly, a necessity in my life.
I suppose Quidditch is a somewhat less violent sport than Hockey (most sports are). There is no denying, however, the essential role violence plays in the sport; Wood’s explanation of the game for Harry’s benefit makes that fact abundantly clear.
“Have the Bludgers ever killed anyone?” Harry asks, to which Wood replies, “never at Hogwarts,” adding, “We’ve had a couple of broken jaws but nothing worse than that,” before going on in an unworried way with his lesson (Rowling, 169). Harry’s fears, however, are not wholly quieted by Wood’s lack of concern, and he presses the point causing Wood to offer further assurances. “Don’t worry, the Weasleys are more than a match for the bludgers,” says Wood, “I mean, they’re like a pair of human Bludgers themselves” (Rowling, 169).
In this short passage, not only does Wood exhibit a lack of concern over the violent aspects and physical risks of Quidditch, he celebrates the Weasley twins’ proficiency for violence as a defining quality of their characters. The importance of Quidditch in the wizarding world, violent aspects and all, is a reflection of human cultures need to have a controlled and consensual connection to our own violent and brutal past. That Rowling chose to include to sport so preeminently in the construction of her artificial world, when the major events of the text itself would likely have satisfied reader’s need for action, speaks of just how pervasive the relationship between culture and sport really is.
Rowling, J.K. Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone. New York, NY: Scholastic, Inc., 1998.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Dogs and Daemons in "The Golden Compass"
Since I’m not really doing anything else with this blog, I’m going to be using it for some class-work over the next few weeks, starting with this entry discussing Philip Pullman’s The Golden Compass:
“As Lyra held her breath, she saw the servant’s daemon (a dog, like all servants’ daemons) trot in and sit quietly at his feet.” (Pullman, 5)
When I encountered this passage early on in the novel, before I had really even developed an idea of what daemons were and what they represented, I marked it as something for consideration later on. The notion of all servants’ daemons taking the shape of dogs was not discussed much throughout the novel, beyond this initial mention, but the notion remained one I wanted to pause and give some consideration to.
I’ve had dogs for the vast majority of my life, and the years when I was living in apartments and rented houses which didn’t allow them, I always felt something was missing. In recent years, I’ve become increasingly interested in the nature of the human-canine relationship. I find it fascinating that some of the earliest animals (if not the very first) humans endeavored to domesticate were lethal and territorial predators; and I find it even more fascinating that the effort was so profound a success, establishing a interspecies relationship which has lasted almost 20,000 years. In my day to day observations, I’m continually intrigued by the way my dogs communicate with one another, with my family, and with the other animals in our household. To put it succinctly, I’m convinced that investigation into the nature of our relationship with dogs is capable of providing a vast wealth of insight into humanity and human nature; which brings me around, after a bit of a tangent, to the quotation from The Golden Compass, and it’s potential implications.
Much is made of the daemons throughout the novel, and yet at the novel’s conclusion their exact nature remains something of a mystery. The idea is strongly alluded to, that daemons represent in some outward way an elusive but intrinsic element of their human counterparts (call it spirit or soul, or some other similar concept). If this is the case, what does it tell us if all members of a certain class/profession adopt the same outward manifestation? I’m speculating here, of course, but I believe if one were to conduct a sort of survey of what idea the image of a dog might represent (and I don’t think I need to make the case for the importance of representative imagery in the text), that the overwhelming consensus would be, “loyalty.” Loyalty would certainly be a desirable and valued quality for servants in the novel, but is it intrinsic? Are the servants in Pullman’s text presumed to be universally loyal? This seems unlikely, and presents to me something of a dilemma in regards to what the dog daemons actually represent.
One answer to that dilemma, of course, is the multiple levels of representation suggested by Lyra’s interpretations of the alethiometer. I’m hesitant, however, to dismiss the significance of the universal nature of servants’ daemons, and the potential questions that condition fosters, based solely on the ambiguity of symbolism in the text. I believe that Pullman’s use of dogs is a subtle clue to a profoundly troubling aspect of the novel and the notion of daemons.
It seems reasonable to say, particularly within the rigid class structures of the novel, that loyalty is not a quality which is simply desired and valued in servants, it is one which is expected. The fact that the servants universally wind up with daemon’s representative of that idea (whether that representation be dubious or genuine) indicates to me that the daemon is not entirely an outward manifestation of some ethereal internal quality; that to a certain degree their shape is defined by external expectations.
The notion that who someone truly is can be so profoundly affected by who they are expected to be has significant implications on the broader themes of the novel, particularly as we consider the fatalistic nature of Lyra’s journey and the way its course has been shaped by the expectations of her parents and foster figures. As a consequence of considering this seemingly incidental line, the relationship between identity and expectation has arisen to become an extremely significant theme in my reading of the text, and I look forward to seeing how it is explored in the latter texts of the series.
Pullman, Philip. The Golden Compass. New York, NY: Del Ray Books/Ballantine, 1997.
“As Lyra held her breath, she saw the servant’s daemon (a dog, like all servants’ daemons) trot in and sit quietly at his feet.” (Pullman, 5)
When I encountered this passage early on in the novel, before I had really even developed an idea of what daemons were and what they represented, I marked it as something for consideration later on. The notion of all servants’ daemons taking the shape of dogs was not discussed much throughout the novel, beyond this initial mention, but the notion remained one I wanted to pause and give some consideration to.
I’ve had dogs for the vast majority of my life, and the years when I was living in apartments and rented houses which didn’t allow them, I always felt something was missing. In recent years, I’ve become increasingly interested in the nature of the human-canine relationship. I find it fascinating that some of the earliest animals (if not the very first) humans endeavored to domesticate were lethal and territorial predators; and I find it even more fascinating that the effort was so profound a success, establishing a interspecies relationship which has lasted almost 20,000 years. In my day to day observations, I’m continually intrigued by the way my dogs communicate with one another, with my family, and with the other animals in our household. To put it succinctly, I’m convinced that investigation into the nature of our relationship with dogs is capable of providing a vast wealth of insight into humanity and human nature; which brings me around, after a bit of a tangent, to the quotation from The Golden Compass, and it’s potential implications.
Much is made of the daemons throughout the novel, and yet at the novel’s conclusion their exact nature remains something of a mystery. The idea is strongly alluded to, that daemons represent in some outward way an elusive but intrinsic element of their human counterparts (call it spirit or soul, or some other similar concept). If this is the case, what does it tell us if all members of a certain class/profession adopt the same outward manifestation? I’m speculating here, of course, but I believe if one were to conduct a sort of survey of what idea the image of a dog might represent (and I don’t think I need to make the case for the importance of representative imagery in the text), that the overwhelming consensus would be, “loyalty.” Loyalty would certainly be a desirable and valued quality for servants in the novel, but is it intrinsic? Are the servants in Pullman’s text presumed to be universally loyal? This seems unlikely, and presents to me something of a dilemma in regards to what the dog daemons actually represent.
One answer to that dilemma, of course, is the multiple levels of representation suggested by Lyra’s interpretations of the alethiometer. I’m hesitant, however, to dismiss the significance of the universal nature of servants’ daemons, and the potential questions that condition fosters, based solely on the ambiguity of symbolism in the text. I believe that Pullman’s use of dogs is a subtle clue to a profoundly troubling aspect of the novel and the notion of daemons.
It seems reasonable to say, particularly within the rigid class structures of the novel, that loyalty is not a quality which is simply desired and valued in servants, it is one which is expected. The fact that the servants universally wind up with daemon’s representative of that idea (whether that representation be dubious or genuine) indicates to me that the daemon is not entirely an outward manifestation of some ethereal internal quality; that to a certain degree their shape is defined by external expectations.
The notion that who someone truly is can be so profoundly affected by who they are expected to be has significant implications on the broader themes of the novel, particularly as we consider the fatalistic nature of Lyra’s journey and the way its course has been shaped by the expectations of her parents and foster figures. As a consequence of considering this seemingly incidental line, the relationship between identity and expectation has arisen to become an extremely significant theme in my reading of the text, and I look forward to seeing how it is explored in the latter texts of the series.
Pullman, Philip. The Golden Compass. New York, NY: Del Ray Books/Ballantine, 1997.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
The Boss Endorses Obama
If I hadn't already come to a decision, this would be the endorsement which mattered most for me.
http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/n/a/2008/04/16/politics/p070912D49.DTL&tsp=1
Also, New Brunswick is on fire.
http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/n/a/2008/04/16/politics/p070912D49.DTL&tsp=1
Also, New Brunswick is on fire.
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao
Well, fuck. I've read a lot this year. At least 12 books in as many weeks, plus drivel packed texts and bullshit journal articles; all that, and a bullshit output of my own peaking at something like 20 pages a week. I'm not bragging, I'm establishing how addled my mind is, how blurry the rush of words past my senses has become. Even the books I wanted to read, even the one's I lead coups to have returned to syllabi they'd been removed from, they failed to generate the emotional impact they might have, had I been reading them at a marginally more leisurely and exploratory pace. The almost exception being Dalton Trumbo's Johnny Got His Gun, which I took care with knowing it was one of my best friends favorite books, and which insures an emotional response by beating the reader over the head with unbridled and justified rage for most of it's pages. Still, in the blur, it could only serve to remind me of why I appreciated novels, why I valued them, but not why I loved them.
I held great hopes for The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao before I'd even lain my hands on the book, having heard the author Junot Diaz on the radio sometime shortly after its publication, talking passionate and coarse about literature, comics, and nerdery. From the onset, an epigraph care of Galactus - Devourer of Worlds, I knew my hopes we're not ill founded. The follow up epigraph from Derek Walcott didn't exactly hurt either, but lets stick with my older and deeper rooted nerderies for a moment.
Diaz uses such nerdery to color the narrative, in much the same way that Nick Hornby used pop-music for High Fidelity, framing characters with references the way we (nerds, I mean, but maybe everybody) frame ourselves. But a simple parade of references to J.R.R. Tolkien, Alan Moore, and Dungeons & Dragons isn't enough to make me fall in love with a book (though it is a good start for a budding romance). The pyrotechnic quality this book had for me runs deeper, deeper than Hornby ever got with high fidelity, and far beyond the fact that familiar cultural references lend the story a familiar voice, as though a drunk buddy were laying it all out on a porch somewhere as the sun came up.
Diaz weaves together a story very much about life, about the sum value of one's life, about how context defines one, about atrocities against life, and about the role the written word plays in our lives. The reference points of comic books and escapism become the binds which hold the myriad threads of the story together, as well as familiar and friendly landmarks for those who've walked similar roads. The more I talk on the details, the more I lose sight of the whole. The whole is that Oscar Wao, in the end (an end which rests much of it's coda upon a single panel from Watchmen), has reminded me, profoundly, of what it is I love about novels.
What that is, exactly, I can't say... if I ever figure it out for sure, I'll let you know, but don't hold your breadth. For the time being, I'm content enough to sit for a moment or two, toasty warm, in the knowledge that my coals are glowing again. Soon enough I'll start asking questions, spinning in the blur, going nowhere, but not today.
I held great hopes for The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao before I'd even lain my hands on the book, having heard the author Junot Diaz on the radio sometime shortly after its publication, talking passionate and coarse about literature, comics, and nerdery. From the onset, an epigraph care of Galactus - Devourer of Worlds, I knew my hopes we're not ill founded. The follow up epigraph from Derek Walcott didn't exactly hurt either, but lets stick with my older and deeper rooted nerderies for a moment.
Diaz uses such nerdery to color the narrative, in much the same way that Nick Hornby used pop-music for High Fidelity, framing characters with references the way we (nerds, I mean, but maybe everybody) frame ourselves. But a simple parade of references to J.R.R. Tolkien, Alan Moore, and Dungeons & Dragons isn't enough to make me fall in love with a book (though it is a good start for a budding romance). The pyrotechnic quality this book had for me runs deeper, deeper than Hornby ever got with high fidelity, and far beyond the fact that familiar cultural references lend the story a familiar voice, as though a drunk buddy were laying it all out on a porch somewhere as the sun came up.
Diaz weaves together a story very much about life, about the sum value of one's life, about how context defines one, about atrocities against life, and about the role the written word plays in our lives. The reference points of comic books and escapism become the binds which hold the myriad threads of the story together, as well as familiar and friendly landmarks for those who've walked similar roads. The more I talk on the details, the more I lose sight of the whole. The whole is that Oscar Wao, in the end (an end which rests much of it's coda upon a single panel from Watchmen), has reminded me, profoundly, of what it is I love about novels.
What that is, exactly, I can't say... if I ever figure it out for sure, I'll let you know, but don't hold your breadth. For the time being, I'm content enough to sit for a moment or two, toasty warm, in the knowledge that my coals are glowing again. Soon enough I'll start asking questions, spinning in the blur, going nowhere, but not today.
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