Luka is a boy who lives for two things: the lively tales of his imaginative, storytelling father, and video games. One day at a circus, he curses the tyrannical ringmaster to lose control of his animals, and to lose his tent in a fire. Nobody is more shocked than Luka to discover that both of these take place within the day. Two of the freed animals, a dog named Bear and a bear named Dog, become Luka's steadfast friends. But evil cannot safely be used for good; the ringmaster is entitled to a return curse, which he uses to claim the life of Luka's beloved father, Rashid Khalifa. The agent of this transaction is a being called Nobodaddy, who looks and acts almost exactly like Rashid, but who, Luka suspects, is a monster inside. Nobodaddy allows Luka the chance to save his father by transporting him to the World of Magic to steal the Fire of Life. For this task, Luka will need all of his wits, as well as friends he can only imagine, to overcome the immense obstacles in his way, and to learn just what Nobodaddy and the World of Magic really are.
In case the name Salman Rushdie rings a bell, you may have heard of him as the guy who angered the entire Muslim world with a controversial account of Mohammed in his 1988 book The Satanic Verses. The book was banned in twelve countries, and Ayatollah Khomeini, the leader of Iran, even issued a fatwā against him, or a mandate for his execution. So he hid out in the UK for a while. (Thanks, Wikipedia!)
If all this sounds intense, you may be surprised to learn that Luka and the Fire of Life is a children's book comprised of good, old-fashioned fantasy. Most of the characters in a negative position are purely of Rushdie's invention, although he makes Aphrodite and Ra the Supreme look a little silly, among others. I guess he hasn't shaken off the tendency to explore religion on his own terms. In a case like this, I can say he's engaging in healthy inquiry, though of course I haven't seen what he thinks of my own religion. His gods can be a little flat for an adult audience, even while the rest of the story thrives for all ages. In fact, I'm interested that he heaps so much mythology into the story when he's able to invent such rich characters of his own.
I heartily approve of the broad plot structure and the themes used to carry it. Rushdie paints solid themes in such a fresh, new way. One of these themes is childhood interest in video games, to which I'll accept objections. But for the rest he uses imagination, consequence of actions, vanity, time, religion, and friendship to great advantage. No matter how silly the characters, they have some way of linking the themes to values. Thus the memory birds, giant ducks with elephant heads, are Luka's conscience when it comes to his consequences on time and the past, and the Insultana of Ott keeps him humble.
The villains are wonderful as well. Aag is a great example of frothy wrath, the kind of person who can't see reason. The Aalim are characterized so well before we even meet them. Nobodaddy, the bogey behind the whole mess, is no Sauron, but not every villain has to be. I suppose that's my greatest praise for the book: it does what it can without bringing the same old story out of the essential themes. Life, after all, carries the same values no matter whose it is, and everyone's experience gives him a different way of discovering these universal adventures.
Friday, June 28, 2013
Thursday, June 20, 2013
Review: Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen (1813)
Elizabeth Bennet is one of five sisters presided over by their fussy mother and nonchalant father. The family has a problem: if Mr. Bennet dies before one of his daughters marries, the entire family will lose their estate to his nearest male heir. Although this conundrum sends Elizabeth careening between parties, balls, and rumors, she is determined not to accept the hand of any suitor that doesn't suit 'er (and I have a blog, too!). Among the throng of eligible men is Mr. Darcy: a rich stranger who tends to offend people by his aloof discomfort in social situations. Elizabeth disdains Darcy more than any of the other airheads who come knocking at her door, and is completely surprised when he proposes, too. Her reaction is to chew him out for all his offenses, to which he responds in kind. But their separation, and realization of his pride and her prejudice, are enough to bring this famous couple to improve themselves enough to be likable when they inevitably meet again.
Remember when I talked about the dangers of reviewing something everyone knows? Today I up the ante by reviewing something everyone loves. Among my friends and neighbors, Jane Austen is probably the single biggest reason by which ladies seem to be more literate than gentlemen. Statistically, that's incredible.
But get out your rotten tomatoes: Pride and Prejudice underwhelmed me entirely.
In order to be fair, I consulted a friend who is much more literate than I am, and who can't seem to keep herself away from this story. I must admit that the lessons she draws are both timeless and vital. The fundamental crux of the novel is the shift in character (sorry, Lawrence*) that love makes possible. It's easy, says my friend, to woo someone who loves you. It's worth it to change for someone who loves you. But Elizabeth and Darcy both had no reason to believe that after their initial altercation, either would see the other again. To improve who you are for someone who has essentially vanished from your life is virtue of the highest class. It's work without a paycheck. It's religion without reward.
In spite of all this, it's not Austen's direct commentary that bothered me. Sure, her characters are well-developed. Yeah, I guess she's witty enough for the 19th century. Mr. Bennet in particular is hilarious. You might say that what got under my skin was the exact society Austen portrays so well. It was like reading a script of the family parties at which you're forcibly reminded that there are relatives who love nothing better than offhandedly trying to evaluate your life. That doesn't bother me for five hours to make my parents happy, but it was rough to read three hundred pages of it on my own time. On the first hand, however, Elizabeth's conversation with Lady Catherine, being exactly how I would like to behave on some of these occasions, is an appropriate payoff. It just doesn't satisfy the trouble to get there.
This book may not hinge entirely on social obstacle courses, and that's probably the whole point. But if you dislike meddling relatives, gossiping neighbors, or really the thought of anyone who reads their own perspective onto your actions, then start running. In this sense, Pride and Prejudice acts like a fantasy novel in which the hero graphically slays his enemies while fighting for peace, or any romance literature that praises chastity in titillating terms. There's a way to raise up vices by condemning them, so don't be fooled by the moral of any story.
*Actually, I'm not sorry. D. H. Lawrence was a jerk.
Remember when I talked about the dangers of reviewing something everyone knows? Today I up the ante by reviewing something everyone loves. Among my friends and neighbors, Jane Austen is probably the single biggest reason by which ladies seem to be more literate than gentlemen. Statistically, that's incredible.
But get out your rotten tomatoes: Pride and Prejudice underwhelmed me entirely.
In order to be fair, I consulted a friend who is much more literate than I am, and who can't seem to keep herself away from this story. I must admit that the lessons she draws are both timeless and vital. The fundamental crux of the novel is the shift in character (sorry, Lawrence*) that love makes possible. It's easy, says my friend, to woo someone who loves you. It's worth it to change for someone who loves you. But Elizabeth and Darcy both had no reason to believe that after their initial altercation, either would see the other again. To improve who you are for someone who has essentially vanished from your life is virtue of the highest class. It's work without a paycheck. It's religion without reward.
In spite of all this, it's not Austen's direct commentary that bothered me. Sure, her characters are well-developed. Yeah, I guess she's witty enough for the 19th century. Mr. Bennet in particular is hilarious. You might say that what got under my skin was the exact society Austen portrays so well. It was like reading a script of the family parties at which you're forcibly reminded that there are relatives who love nothing better than offhandedly trying to evaluate your life. That doesn't bother me for five hours to make my parents happy, but it was rough to read three hundred pages of it on my own time. On the first hand, however, Elizabeth's conversation with Lady Catherine, being exactly how I would like to behave on some of these occasions, is an appropriate payoff. It just doesn't satisfy the trouble to get there.
This book may not hinge entirely on social obstacle courses, and that's probably the whole point. But if you dislike meddling relatives, gossiping neighbors, or really the thought of anyone who reads their own perspective onto your actions, then start running. In this sense, Pride and Prejudice acts like a fantasy novel in which the hero graphically slays his enemies while fighting for peace, or any romance literature that praises chastity in titillating terms. There's a way to raise up vices by condemning them, so don't be fooled by the moral of any story.
*Actually, I'm not sorry. D. H. Lawrence was a jerk.
Tuesday, June 18, 2013
Review: Firmin: Adventures of a Metropolitan Lowlife by Sam Savage (2006)
Firmin the rat, runt of the litter, is born in a bookstore and must munch on the inventory when his siblings hog all the other food. It turns out that a diet of paper more than makes up for its lack of nutrition: Firmin soon discovers that he can read, and becomes voracious for stories rather than their bindings. When his family moves out to join the next phase of their gutter-dwelling lives, Firmin embarks on his own quest to devour all the classics. But so many vicarious adventures leaves him unfulfilled, and he endeavors to make his way in the wide world with a heartbreakingly human understanding of himself as an outsider to people and rats alike.
I've never seen Ratatouille, but after reading Firmin, I can only hope that Remy the Rat (as I believe he's called) speaks exactly like Firmin. The book is great precisely because Savage knows just how to write like a rat with a tendency to romanticize. Firmin narrates in long, colloquial sentences and a double dose of self-deprecating sarcasm. He walks a tightrope of knowing he's romanticizing and doing it anyway, which style gives this character a level of depth beyond what you often see, even in the most celebrated novels. Firmin's contradiction is one between lowliness and great dreams, which is healthily modern without being modernistic. He's adorable precisely because he tries so hard to avoid self-pity.
The plot itself is modest, which is appropriate given that it's supposed to be the autobiography of a rat. There's a touch of the inverse-culture trope in which the rats find the humans disgusting, and Firmin is a freak for wanting to cuddle with human women rather than violently mate with his own siblings, but fortunately the theme there isn't overdone. Most of Firmin's time is spent speculating on the gutters through the lenses of the great authors, and later on through an author of Savage's invention, a broke old man named Jerry Magoon. Magoon is the spitting image of both Savage's picture on the dust jacket and of Vonnegut's Kilgore Trout, even down to the fact that he writes short, bizarre science fiction books that elaborate on the poverty of the human condition in a not-so-subtle way.
In spite what you might think from the summary, Firmin is definitely not a children's book. Even from a lowly perspective, it can make you want to laugh or cry. It's a picture of the individual with spirit: perhaps not someone who can shake the world, but who feels its weight nonetheless.
I've never seen Ratatouille, but after reading Firmin, I can only hope that Remy the Rat (as I believe he's called) speaks exactly like Firmin. The book is great precisely because Savage knows just how to write like a rat with a tendency to romanticize. Firmin narrates in long, colloquial sentences and a double dose of self-deprecating sarcasm. He walks a tightrope of knowing he's romanticizing and doing it anyway, which style gives this character a level of depth beyond what you often see, even in the most celebrated novels. Firmin's contradiction is one between lowliness and great dreams, which is healthily modern without being modernistic. He's adorable precisely because he tries so hard to avoid self-pity.
The plot itself is modest, which is appropriate given that it's supposed to be the autobiography of a rat. There's a touch of the inverse-culture trope in which the rats find the humans disgusting, and Firmin is a freak for wanting to cuddle with human women rather than violently mate with his own siblings, but fortunately the theme there isn't overdone. Most of Firmin's time is spent speculating on the gutters through the lenses of the great authors, and later on through an author of Savage's invention, a broke old man named Jerry Magoon. Magoon is the spitting image of both Savage's picture on the dust jacket and of Vonnegut's Kilgore Trout, even down to the fact that he writes short, bizarre science fiction books that elaborate on the poverty of the human condition in a not-so-subtle way.
In spite what you might think from the summary, Firmin is definitely not a children's book. Even from a lowly perspective, it can make you want to laugh or cry. It's a picture of the individual with spirit: perhaps not someone who can shake the world, but who feels its weight nonetheless.
Sunday, June 9, 2013
Review: A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens (1859)
When I first created this blog, I held a single idea that would make it readable. I would review every book I read, more or less without discrimination, and the reviews that mattered most would sort themselves to the top. Ideally, there would emerge, unintentionally, a handful of books nobody else has bothered to write much about, and I would help people by adding my fifty cents to the Google bin.
Of course there's a catch. In order for that to work out properly, I review everything I read, including work that already has its fair share of attention. So, forgive me if I occasionally don a literary hat a few sizes too large.
I present to you: A Tale of Two Cities.
It's the late eighteenth century, and Western Europe is cooking up a ruckus. The rich are swallowing up all they can and leaving everyone else with nothing, which results in a state of near-anarchy outside of mansions and manors. Men and women must distrust everyone they see on the street. Lucie Manette, a French teenager, journeys to the Defarge wine shop in order to recover her old father, a physician who, when under great stress, hallucinates that he is a shoemaker. Lucie brings her father safely to England, where her presence restores his mind and the two aid in the acquittal of Charles Darnay, a French nobleman who has sworn off his aristocracy and his allegiance to either country's elite. But unbeknownst to the Manettes and Darnay, Madame Defarge and her husband are stirring the oppressed French people into a national revolution gone wrong; when the power balance finally crumbles, nobody is safe from a new invention and embodiment of mob justice: the guillotine.
My surface impression of this book is that, more than anything I've ever read, it resembles a Disney film. We start with a simplistic, emotional landscape of historical romanticism, followed by the strong damsel with whom everybody is going to fall in love. There's a father figure, some crowd scenes that could make one or two lovely musical numbers, and an evil woman with a relatively ambiguous plan and some humorously animated, wicked facial expressions (Dickens repeatedly describes Madame Defarge's eyebrows). Two characters fall in love, while the villains storm the Bastille and do lots of violent things to nonspecific people. Then by some twist of fate, one of our protagonists winds up in the villain's clutches, and it's up to all of his spunky friends to save him at the last second.
Of course, Dickens came first, and this is no criticism. It's also important to read the book as a novel and not as a historical text. These characters never existed, but they make great analogies for problems that have survived the French Revolution. If I'm a sucker for any trope, it's for average characters who are caught between two dangerous ideologies. The notion of a wealthy elite that steps on everybody else is common, easy to understand, and probably won't ever go away. But its sinister counterpart, the people who can justify their sins and violence by the fact that they have been wronged, is more important to unravel because it applies to more of us. Sure, Charles Darnay is heroic by refusing to be Evrémonde, but see how few poor people resist sweeping France with violence. Dickens warns about possible side-effects of reaction, which at its heart can be little more than personal resentment.
I've met people who find Dickens' style to be boring or overwhelming. Neither was the case for me in this, my first Dickens book. Most of his prose is simply descriptive, but not boring, and he strays from it only for key points of heightened tension, or for sarcasm. It's droll British sarcasm, but this only makes it better.
I enjoyed this read quite a bit, beyond simply checking it off my list of books other people have read that I haven't. Its success as my first post-college classic proves to me that re-education is never a thing of the past.
Of course there's a catch. In order for that to work out properly, I review everything I read, including work that already has its fair share of attention. So, forgive me if I occasionally don a literary hat a few sizes too large.
I present to you: A Tale of Two Cities.
It's the late eighteenth century, and Western Europe is cooking up a ruckus. The rich are swallowing up all they can and leaving everyone else with nothing, which results in a state of near-anarchy outside of mansions and manors. Men and women must distrust everyone they see on the street. Lucie Manette, a French teenager, journeys to the Defarge wine shop in order to recover her old father, a physician who, when under great stress, hallucinates that he is a shoemaker. Lucie brings her father safely to England, where her presence restores his mind and the two aid in the acquittal of Charles Darnay, a French nobleman who has sworn off his aristocracy and his allegiance to either country's elite. But unbeknownst to the Manettes and Darnay, Madame Defarge and her husband are stirring the oppressed French people into a national revolution gone wrong; when the power balance finally crumbles, nobody is safe from a new invention and embodiment of mob justice: the guillotine.
My surface impression of this book is that, more than anything I've ever read, it resembles a Disney film. We start with a simplistic, emotional landscape of historical romanticism, followed by the strong damsel with whom everybody is going to fall in love. There's a father figure, some crowd scenes that could make one or two lovely musical numbers, and an evil woman with a relatively ambiguous plan and some humorously animated, wicked facial expressions (Dickens repeatedly describes Madame Defarge's eyebrows). Two characters fall in love, while the villains storm the Bastille and do lots of violent things to nonspecific people. Then by some twist of fate, one of our protagonists winds up in the villain's clutches, and it's up to all of his spunky friends to save him at the last second.
Of course, Dickens came first, and this is no criticism. It's also important to read the book as a novel and not as a historical text. These characters never existed, but they make great analogies for problems that have survived the French Revolution. If I'm a sucker for any trope, it's for average characters who are caught between two dangerous ideologies. The notion of a wealthy elite that steps on everybody else is common, easy to understand, and probably won't ever go away. But its sinister counterpart, the people who can justify their sins and violence by the fact that they have been wronged, is more important to unravel because it applies to more of us. Sure, Charles Darnay is heroic by refusing to be Evrémonde, but see how few poor people resist sweeping France with violence. Dickens warns about possible side-effects of reaction, which at its heart can be little more than personal resentment.
I've met people who find Dickens' style to be boring or overwhelming. Neither was the case for me in this, my first Dickens book. Most of his prose is simply descriptive, but not boring, and he strays from it only for key points of heightened tension, or for sarcasm. It's droll British sarcasm, but this only makes it better.
I enjoyed this read quite a bit, beyond simply checking it off my list of books other people have read that I haven't. Its success as my first post-college classic proves to me that re-education is never a thing of the past.
Thursday, June 6, 2013
Review: Against All Things Ending by Stephen R. Donaldson (2010)
I've already written a little bit about the Thomas Covenant series, of which this is number nine out of ten. Consider it bias, or don't, but just assume that this review will be somewhat more positive than the mark.
Against All Things Ending picks up where Fatal Revenant left off: Linden Avery has just linked the magic of three powerful artifacts to summon the soul of Thomas Covenant from the Arch of Time, back to a human body. But in reviving her lover and the Land's savior, Linden has activated two unforeseen consequences. First, in becoming incarnate once again, Covenant goes nearly mad shedding millennia of personality and experiences because they don't fit into a human mind; he's back to being a deranged leper. And the combination of wild magic and Law to reach past the boundaries of death and time has shifted the balance of the earth and awakened the Worm of the World's End, an unstoppable monster that will now consume the earth in only a few days. Even Covenant himself, were he in full possession of his mind and his complete power, could never out-muscle the Worm. Faced with apocalypse, Linden leads her companions in search of her possessed son, whose talent for inter-dimensional contraptions could be the only way to trap the Worm and save the world. But her trip, effected by costly bargains with many magical beings, brings her within reach of She Who Must Not Be Named, a slumbering titan as old as Lord Foul (the main antagonist) himself, who embodies all the fear, grief and rage of a world betrayed...
For those of you who even read that paragraph, you probably figured out to start with the first book. Hell, this is my favorite series, and I struggled to figure out what was going on.
But guess what: it was worth it.
No, this wasn't the best Thomas Covenant book for me. It has neither the cohesion of Lord Foul's Bane nor the climax of White Gold Wielder. And somehow it manages to be more melodramatic than either, without the payoff. Consider this: the book is about apocalypse, but it's not the last in the series. I'm not spoiling anything by telling you that the Land is still intact at the very end of the book.
This is more than can be said for most of the characters. Donaldson has never squeamish about killing his main cast (which he's done to Covenant twice now), but this book takes it a step higher. The real tension of the book, much greater than the threat of armageddon, is the fact that the book begins with a lineup of characters whose abilities and stories make each of them crucial to the defense of the Land... but one by one they die horribly. It's like a cosmic game of Jenga, which, now that I think of it, is a great way to describe Lord Foul's plans to someone unfamiliar with the series.
Donaldson never drops a storyline without finishing it, and it's incredible to see the way he continues to weave the threads together, even while creating new ones. For certain, the real reason for all the deaths is probably to untangle the knot a little bit. He also picks up dozens of Chekhov's guns, including some he dropped a full eight books ago. If you give it the time and space in your brain, it's a dazzling act of juggling, but it gets confusing if you're distracted for even a page.
One feature that gave me mixed feelings is that by now everyone has superpowers. It was nice back in Lord Foul's Bane when everybody knew a little bit about Earthpower, and Covenant's wild magic was still locked away. Now, aside from Lord Foul, there are three villains (Joan, Kastenessen, She Who Must Not Be Named) trying to tear apart the world with their bare hands, even if you don't count the Worm, which seems to be succeeding. The Insequent are wizards who can teleport, travel through time, and defeat armies singlehandedly. Linden has even more firepower than these, and can heal any wound. Roger Covenant can shoot lava from his hand, and he seems to find armies to serve him the way you or I would order pizza. The Elohim all have powers like Watchmen's Dr. Manhattan, and Esmer has all their magic plus the ability to negate Thomas Covenant.
It becomes a little overwhelming.
This is why to me, the only two pervading important trends are Covenant's mental lapses and Linden's encounter with She Who Must Not Be Named. I think that's what Donaldson was going for with She Who Must Not Be Named: a character he could definitively say was top dog (except for Covenant, Lord Foul, the Worm, Horrim Carabal... never mind) in order to get our minds off of searching for a deus ex machina already hidden in everybody's Superman complexes. Sure, it's not quite as good as her fear of death in the Second Chronicles, but part two of anything is rarely as exciting. As for Covenant, anything but a relapse of leprosy would have thrown away his credibility as our grouchy protagonist.
This may be a wasted post, because those of you who read eight Covenant books were going to read the ninth, or you weren't. But this is a story which, I firmly believe, receives too little attention, so go ahead and introduce or re-introduce yourself to the darkest dream you'd ever give your life to save.
Against All Things Ending picks up where Fatal Revenant left off: Linden Avery has just linked the magic of three powerful artifacts to summon the soul of Thomas Covenant from the Arch of Time, back to a human body. But in reviving her lover and the Land's savior, Linden has activated two unforeseen consequences. First, in becoming incarnate once again, Covenant goes nearly mad shedding millennia of personality and experiences because they don't fit into a human mind; he's back to being a deranged leper. And the combination of wild magic and Law to reach past the boundaries of death and time has shifted the balance of the earth and awakened the Worm of the World's End, an unstoppable monster that will now consume the earth in only a few days. Even Covenant himself, were he in full possession of his mind and his complete power, could never out-muscle the Worm. Faced with apocalypse, Linden leads her companions in search of her possessed son, whose talent for inter-dimensional contraptions could be the only way to trap the Worm and save the world. But her trip, effected by costly bargains with many magical beings, brings her within reach of She Who Must Not Be Named, a slumbering titan as old as Lord Foul (the main antagonist) himself, who embodies all the fear, grief and rage of a world betrayed...
For those of you who even read that paragraph, you probably figured out to start with the first book. Hell, this is my favorite series, and I struggled to figure out what was going on.
But guess what: it was worth it.
No, this wasn't the best Thomas Covenant book for me. It has neither the cohesion of Lord Foul's Bane nor the climax of White Gold Wielder. And somehow it manages to be more melodramatic than either, without the payoff. Consider this: the book is about apocalypse, but it's not the last in the series. I'm not spoiling anything by telling you that the Land is still intact at the very end of the book.
This is more than can be said for most of the characters. Donaldson has never squeamish about killing his main cast (which he's done to Covenant twice now), but this book takes it a step higher. The real tension of the book, much greater than the threat of armageddon, is the fact that the book begins with a lineup of characters whose abilities and stories make each of them crucial to the defense of the Land... but one by one they die horribly. It's like a cosmic game of Jenga, which, now that I think of it, is a great way to describe Lord Foul's plans to someone unfamiliar with the series.
Donaldson never drops a storyline without finishing it, and it's incredible to see the way he continues to weave the threads together, even while creating new ones. For certain, the real reason for all the deaths is probably to untangle the knot a little bit. He also picks up dozens of Chekhov's guns, including some he dropped a full eight books ago. If you give it the time and space in your brain, it's a dazzling act of juggling, but it gets confusing if you're distracted for even a page.
One feature that gave me mixed feelings is that by now everyone has superpowers. It was nice back in Lord Foul's Bane when everybody knew a little bit about Earthpower, and Covenant's wild magic was still locked away. Now, aside from Lord Foul, there are three villains (Joan, Kastenessen, She Who Must Not Be Named) trying to tear apart the world with their bare hands, even if you don't count the Worm, which seems to be succeeding. The Insequent are wizards who can teleport, travel through time, and defeat armies singlehandedly. Linden has even more firepower than these, and can heal any wound. Roger Covenant can shoot lava from his hand, and he seems to find armies to serve him the way you or I would order pizza. The Elohim all have powers like Watchmen's Dr. Manhattan, and Esmer has all their magic plus the ability to negate Thomas Covenant.
It becomes a little overwhelming.
This is why to me, the only two pervading important trends are Covenant's mental lapses and Linden's encounter with She Who Must Not Be Named. I think that's what Donaldson was going for with She Who Must Not Be Named: a character he could definitively say was top dog (except for Covenant, Lord Foul, the Worm, Horrim Carabal... never mind) in order to get our minds off of searching for a deus ex machina already hidden in everybody's Superman complexes. Sure, it's not quite as good as her fear of death in the Second Chronicles, but part two of anything is rarely as exciting. As for Covenant, anything but a relapse of leprosy would have thrown away his credibility as our grouchy protagonist.
This may be a wasted post, because those of you who read eight Covenant books were going to read the ninth, or you weren't. But this is a story which, I firmly believe, receives too little attention, so go ahead and introduce or re-introduce yourself to the darkest dream you'd ever give your life to save.
Thursday, May 23, 2013
Book Review: Life of Pi by Yann Martel (2001); also, a quibble with Wikipedia
Piscine Molitor Patel, who calls himself Pi, is the son of an Indian zookeeper who decides to move his family and business to Canada. But a storm sinks their Japanese ship on the Pacific, and Pi finds himself in a lifeboat with only a hyena, a zebra, and an orangutan for company. But there is a stowaway he does not see at first: Richard Parker, a 450-pound Bengal tiger. The food chain runs itself through in miniature, and soon there are only Pi and Richard Parker left. Pi, who is so passionate about religion that he had become a Christian and a Muslim on top of his original Hinduism, is driven to a predatory standoff with this killer carnivore and an even bigger predator: the sea itself. From this focal point of human debasement, with no civilization surrounding himself, Pi must adapt his self-understanding and his vision of God in order to tame the tiger, the sea, and his inexorable hopelessness.
I have a weakness for viewing with skepticism books I am told I will enjoy. First there was the Academy for the film adaptation, and then there was my mother, who told me that it would change my life. Suppressing my instinct to run from relevancy, I gave it a chance instead. I guess I'm growing up.
My first problem was with Martel's style. A recent semester full of German modernists and feminist critics left me with a bristling offense at flashy metaphors and improbable outcomes. And although the book has helped speed my recovery from those, the grouchiest writers in town, I still hold to my belief that Martel is a little too scintillating for his own good. This is more of a problem early in the story, mostly in descriptions of the zoo itself. And it certainly doesn't kill the book for me; I understand that Martel was struggling as a writer before this, and wanted to grab his audience in the way we all must try to do. I also understand that a lackluster description of zoo animals and competing religions would be quite a failure. All this is to say kindly that the book does not take on its substance until the lifeboat, at which point it comes alive.
At that point, Martel strikes a balance with the narrative flow, the story, and the deeper subjects that I would be glad to carry for a page; he carries it along for more than a hundred pages. As I pointed out of Peter Beagle, a story often does better with a few themes and little action rather than cramming as much as it can into every page. Pi's thoughts of God, of hope, and of keeping himself and Richard Parker alive are exactly enough to float the story along without sinking it. And Martel does all this without intruding with his own voice, and without losing Pi's perspective as a sixteen year-old.
Now I come to a problem not with the book, but with a less-refined unit of culture: the book's Wikipedia article. More specifically, it's the first sentence that has me rankled, and that points to something more significant than this corner of the internet. Our qualified editors list Life of Pi, in the first sentence most moviegoers will read instead of the book's reviews, as a fantasy adventure novel. To this I adamantly object. I'm always ranting about the degradation of fantasy, but this is an entirely different tiger. This is the same kind of arrogant disregard that shelves rock band Jukebox the Ghost's first two albums as "oddball science fiction."
What causes people to reshape fantasy in illogical ways? This is not a rhetorical question. Nor is it insignificant, even for people with no interest in fantasy. It seems to be a feature of my generation and those slightly older, perhaps by as much as two decades. The real problem, I suspect, goes very far back. Three forces that were once inseparable now stand at opposite corners of the room, waging war of attrition on each other. This triumvirate is science, politics, and religion. Each of these is flattening, which is why they have separated; science no longer means method, as it once did, a process for discovering the truth, which is never completed. Now it's used as a substitute for "truth," to which politics and religion now aspire, too. But tell a stranger that truth has nothing to do with method, or with government, or with faith, and maybe they'll write you off as a religious zealot, or a communist atheist, or a Tea Party member, or whatever already falls into their framework of the enemy, who disagrees with their Truth.
Into this cold war steps fantasy, because these quibbles aren't enough to make the stable minority stop reading Tolkien. Fantasy is not Truth, but it's harmless enough, because we already have enough superheroes and wizards to make room for one more at a time. That's what I think fantasy is for the unwitting: a harmless, entertaining adversary. By dispensing with scientific explanation, it presents no danger of discovering a new scientific law that dispenses with the old (even though this is the original purpose of science). Its kings resemble medieval monarchies, and its gods are insignificant. Its only use is a vehicle for sex and violence, and we are only decadent Romans.
The problem for the layman is that metaphor itself is hauled to the trash with fantasy. Jukebox the Ghost should take "oddball" as a compliment, although I don't think it was meant that way. But the band's only scraps of science fiction are mentions of the apocalypse, of God, and one lyric that says "strange fish I've never seen," referring to an inter-dimensional storm. To a culture so hampered by such revolutionary lyrics as "whoa, sometimes I get a feeling," maybe Jukebox is too much of a shock to the system.
Or it could be an excess of individualism. If it can't happen within the scope of my life's experience, can it happen at all?
My approach is neither revolutionary nor sufficiently reactionary, but I think it needs to begin. After all, Life of Pi concludes with a scene which I will not spoil here, but which calls into question the ethics and logic of rational belief. It's Martel's best point: we should accept that most of life lies beyond the scope of our individual perception. It's okay to doubt. More audacious would be to declare irrevocably that a thing does not exist, or worse, that this means we should take no notice of it. To do so would be to ignore the Bengal in the lifeboat.
I have a weakness for viewing with skepticism books I am told I will enjoy. First there was the Academy for the film adaptation, and then there was my mother, who told me that it would change my life. Suppressing my instinct to run from relevancy, I gave it a chance instead. I guess I'm growing up.
My first problem was with Martel's style. A recent semester full of German modernists and feminist critics left me with a bristling offense at flashy metaphors and improbable outcomes. And although the book has helped speed my recovery from those, the grouchiest writers in town, I still hold to my belief that Martel is a little too scintillating for his own good. This is more of a problem early in the story, mostly in descriptions of the zoo itself. And it certainly doesn't kill the book for me; I understand that Martel was struggling as a writer before this, and wanted to grab his audience in the way we all must try to do. I also understand that a lackluster description of zoo animals and competing religions would be quite a failure. All this is to say kindly that the book does not take on its substance until the lifeboat, at which point it comes alive.
At that point, Martel strikes a balance with the narrative flow, the story, and the deeper subjects that I would be glad to carry for a page; he carries it along for more than a hundred pages. As I pointed out of Peter Beagle, a story often does better with a few themes and little action rather than cramming as much as it can into every page. Pi's thoughts of God, of hope, and of keeping himself and Richard Parker alive are exactly enough to float the story along without sinking it. And Martel does all this without intruding with his own voice, and without losing Pi's perspective as a sixteen year-old.
Now I come to a problem not with the book, but with a less-refined unit of culture: the book's Wikipedia article. More specifically, it's the first sentence that has me rankled, and that points to something more significant than this corner of the internet. Our qualified editors list Life of Pi, in the first sentence most moviegoers will read instead of the book's reviews, as a fantasy adventure novel. To this I adamantly object. I'm always ranting about the degradation of fantasy, but this is an entirely different tiger. This is the same kind of arrogant disregard that shelves rock band Jukebox the Ghost's first two albums as "oddball science fiction."
What causes people to reshape fantasy in illogical ways? This is not a rhetorical question. Nor is it insignificant, even for people with no interest in fantasy. It seems to be a feature of my generation and those slightly older, perhaps by as much as two decades. The real problem, I suspect, goes very far back. Three forces that were once inseparable now stand at opposite corners of the room, waging war of attrition on each other. This triumvirate is science, politics, and religion. Each of these is flattening, which is why they have separated; science no longer means method, as it once did, a process for discovering the truth, which is never completed. Now it's used as a substitute for "truth," to which politics and religion now aspire, too. But tell a stranger that truth has nothing to do with method, or with government, or with faith, and maybe they'll write you off as a religious zealot, or a communist atheist, or a Tea Party member, or whatever already falls into their framework of the enemy, who disagrees with their Truth.
Into this cold war steps fantasy, because these quibbles aren't enough to make the stable minority stop reading Tolkien. Fantasy is not Truth, but it's harmless enough, because we already have enough superheroes and wizards to make room for one more at a time. That's what I think fantasy is for the unwitting: a harmless, entertaining adversary. By dispensing with scientific explanation, it presents no danger of discovering a new scientific law that dispenses with the old (even though this is the original purpose of science). Its kings resemble medieval monarchies, and its gods are insignificant. Its only use is a vehicle for sex and violence, and we are only decadent Romans.
The problem for the layman is that metaphor itself is hauled to the trash with fantasy. Jukebox the Ghost should take "oddball" as a compliment, although I don't think it was meant that way. But the band's only scraps of science fiction are mentions of the apocalypse, of God, and one lyric that says "strange fish I've never seen," referring to an inter-dimensional storm. To a culture so hampered by such revolutionary lyrics as "whoa, sometimes I get a feeling," maybe Jukebox is too much of a shock to the system.
Or it could be an excess of individualism. If it can't happen within the scope of my life's experience, can it happen at all?
My approach is neither revolutionary nor sufficiently reactionary, but I think it needs to begin. After all, Life of Pi concludes with a scene which I will not spoil here, but which calls into question the ethics and logic of rational belief. It's Martel's best point: we should accept that most of life lies beyond the scope of our individual perception. It's okay to doubt. More audacious would be to declare irrevocably that a thing does not exist, or worse, that this means we should take no notice of it. To do so would be to ignore the Bengal in the lifeboat.
Wednesday, May 22, 2013
Review: A Fine and Private Place by Peter S. Beagle (1960)
Compared with the Resurrection of Christ, Tolkien's Return of the King, or Grover Cleveland's second election, my return to internet regularity is duly humbled. Nevertheless, I'm back! If you look, you'll notice there's something different about me: I now have a bachelor's in English literature. Thus I come triumphantly down the mountain to do the only thing for which this degree qualifies me: writing this blog.
Into the fray comes Peter S. Beagle, author of The Last Unicorn, one of the cornerstones of my pantheon of fantasy books. I present A Fine and Private Place.
Michael Morgan is a newlydead who wakes up in his grave to discover that Hades is not a netherworld of fire and physical torture, but the next stage of being in which the consciousness gradually forgets all vestiges of its past life. A stubborn narcissist at heart, he struggles with all his will to remain as human as he can, although only a few people can see or hear him. These include a sarcastic raven, a tragic young ghost named Laura, and Mr. Rebeck, a wispy little man who hasn't left the Bronx cemetery for nineteen years. Eternity is put to the test when Mr. Rebeck begins to flirt with Mrs. Klapper, a feisty woman visiting her husband's morgue. Michael and Laura work and talk to discover whether even death can span the abyss that separates people's true experiences from each other's.
The main thing that attracts me to Beagle's books is his ability to stand somewhere very humble and do great things. Not every book has to be Narnia or try to contain the entire scope of human morality within a single adventure. In plain words, the book's three themes as I see them--death, love, and human decency--look like impossibly high mountains of rich thought. But so many fantasy books try to leap such heights, and so many, that there's room only for a single one-liner for each. Not so with Beagle. The narrative perspective leaves the cemetery only a handful of times, and so little happens in the plot, that there's plenty of room for wisdom. But don't let the slow speed of the action fool you. The ongoing dialogue, especially its hopes and doubts, is better than a sword fight. To me, that's an art to which any writer should aspire.
Beagle also scores points in my book with the freshness of his writing. Each of the characters has a voice, and the voices dance with each other in a way that illuminates real conversation rather than setting it up as something quippy, narcissistic, and unrealistic, as modern movie audiences seem to want. Beyond that, his description is simple but catching. It makes you want to slow down and appreciate it.
Unless you're looking for wild adventure, read this book. It has neither real thrills nor spills, but it's as thought-provoking as they come and easy to follow.
Into the fray comes Peter S. Beagle, author of The Last Unicorn, one of the cornerstones of my pantheon of fantasy books. I present A Fine and Private Place.
Michael Morgan is a newlydead who wakes up in his grave to discover that Hades is not a netherworld of fire and physical torture, but the next stage of being in which the consciousness gradually forgets all vestiges of its past life. A stubborn narcissist at heart, he struggles with all his will to remain as human as he can, although only a few people can see or hear him. These include a sarcastic raven, a tragic young ghost named Laura, and Mr. Rebeck, a wispy little man who hasn't left the Bronx cemetery for nineteen years. Eternity is put to the test when Mr. Rebeck begins to flirt with Mrs. Klapper, a feisty woman visiting her husband's morgue. Michael and Laura work and talk to discover whether even death can span the abyss that separates people's true experiences from each other's.
The main thing that attracts me to Beagle's books is his ability to stand somewhere very humble and do great things. Not every book has to be Narnia or try to contain the entire scope of human morality within a single adventure. In plain words, the book's three themes as I see them--death, love, and human decency--look like impossibly high mountains of rich thought. But so many fantasy books try to leap such heights, and so many, that there's room only for a single one-liner for each. Not so with Beagle. The narrative perspective leaves the cemetery only a handful of times, and so little happens in the plot, that there's plenty of room for wisdom. But don't let the slow speed of the action fool you. The ongoing dialogue, especially its hopes and doubts, is better than a sword fight. To me, that's an art to which any writer should aspire.
Beagle also scores points in my book with the freshness of his writing. Each of the characters has a voice, and the voices dance with each other in a way that illuminates real conversation rather than setting it up as something quippy, narcissistic, and unrealistic, as modern movie audiences seem to want. Beyond that, his description is simple but catching. It makes you want to slow down and appreciate it.
Unless you're looking for wild adventure, read this book. It has neither real thrills nor spills, but it's as thought-provoking as they come and easy to follow.
Sunday, April 28, 2013
Relevance, Part 2: Ted Talks
It seems that in spite of myself, I can't stop hopping on the hippest controversies in town. That's consistent, because today's theme is the result of ideology that messes with its own ends.
We now return to: Dr. Ted Everett's paper "Against 'Sexual' 'Assault' 'Awareness'": now with a link to the full presentation! http://www.geneseo.edu/philosophy/ted_everett
For those who haven't heard: last week my college went into an uproar anticipating this paper as the focus of a small Philosophy Department colloquium. Students protested and petitioned, the event was moved to the gymnasium to accommodate angry supporters of women's rights, and everybody got bad press. To be equally fair, I'll rag on both Dr. Everett and his antagonists, since everybody has been tripping up. And don't worry: more book reviews are coming soon.
We'll start with the man himself. My biggest complaint, probably as a slave to infotainment, is that this paper was not worth the hullabaloo it got. None of his points is particularly striking, and together they add up to a rather inconsistent whole. After all, as stated in its preface, the thing is a philosophy paper, not a lambent speech. The content itself reveals problems with both sides. While he's quite right in saying that the goal is to prevent sexual assault rather than correctly determine whose fault it is, nothing should obscure the secondary goal of letting people know what's crossing the line and what isn't. And while that analogy about a kiss from grandma is worth a giggle (if you've already had a beer every time he's said "roaring drunk"), it's a key misleading point. Where I come from, your grandma is probably not going to the same parties that have SAA worried. And even if you're just going to kiss somebody, absolutely make sure it will be wanted. We don't live in Pirates of the Caribbean (if you do, let me know). Whether or not you define an unwelcome result as sexual assault, it's still the wrong thing to do for emotional reasons, if not those of sanitation, personal space, etc.
Then come the enlightened students. What has me most frustrated is the fact that I'm not allowed to talk to my friends about it unless I say certain exact things. In some circles, I must chant, "They don't know what he said!" In others, it's "It doesn't matter what he said; sexual assault is still wrong." Whether I agree, or whether I see both of these as changing the subject, I tend to miss my cue. This makes every detail I offer an object of suspicion, forcing me to return to my position before the event: if we can't talk about sexual assault, how aware are we? I'd certainly flunk that test, having skipped the colloquium entirely to avoid hearing possible shouting matches. All I ask is to do what will be written on my diploma, and analyze the pieces of what I can read of Everett's paper and of my friends' opinions, as fairly as I can. Unless I can do this, I might as well not listen to anyone.
Here's all you can do. Learn from it if it works for you. You can refuse to cross any interpersonal boundaries, sexual or otherwise, unless you have reason to believe you may. You can keep in mind the common sense to make this distinction. It comes from listening, the aural version of awareness, which is what everybody thinks they want nowadays, but which is still frightfully scarce. Awareness is a result of thinking for yourself. In combination with respect, there's nothing it can't do.
We now return to: Dr. Ted Everett's paper "Against 'Sexual' 'Assault' 'Awareness'": now with a link to the full presentation! http://www.geneseo.edu/philosophy/ted_everett
For those who haven't heard: last week my college went into an uproar anticipating this paper as the focus of a small Philosophy Department colloquium. Students protested and petitioned, the event was moved to the gymnasium to accommodate angry supporters of women's rights, and everybody got bad press. To be equally fair, I'll rag on both Dr. Everett and his antagonists, since everybody has been tripping up. And don't worry: more book reviews are coming soon.
We'll start with the man himself. My biggest complaint, probably as a slave to infotainment, is that this paper was not worth the hullabaloo it got. None of his points is particularly striking, and together they add up to a rather inconsistent whole. After all, as stated in its preface, the thing is a philosophy paper, not a lambent speech. The content itself reveals problems with both sides. While he's quite right in saying that the goal is to prevent sexual assault rather than correctly determine whose fault it is, nothing should obscure the secondary goal of letting people know what's crossing the line and what isn't. And while that analogy about a kiss from grandma is worth a giggle (if you've already had a beer every time he's said "roaring drunk"), it's a key misleading point. Where I come from, your grandma is probably not going to the same parties that have SAA worried. And even if you're just going to kiss somebody, absolutely make sure it will be wanted. We don't live in Pirates of the Caribbean (if you do, let me know). Whether or not you define an unwelcome result as sexual assault, it's still the wrong thing to do for emotional reasons, if not those of sanitation, personal space, etc.
Then come the enlightened students. What has me most frustrated is the fact that I'm not allowed to talk to my friends about it unless I say certain exact things. In some circles, I must chant, "They don't know what he said!" In others, it's "It doesn't matter what he said; sexual assault is still wrong." Whether I agree, or whether I see both of these as changing the subject, I tend to miss my cue. This makes every detail I offer an object of suspicion, forcing me to return to my position before the event: if we can't talk about sexual assault, how aware are we? I'd certainly flunk that test, having skipped the colloquium entirely to avoid hearing possible shouting matches. All I ask is to do what will be written on my diploma, and analyze the pieces of what I can read of Everett's paper and of my friends' opinions, as fairly as I can. Unless I can do this, I might as well not listen to anyone.
Here's all you can do. Learn from it if it works for you. You can refuse to cross any interpersonal boundaries, sexual or otherwise, unless you have reason to believe you may. You can keep in mind the common sense to make this distinction. It comes from listening, the aural version of awareness, which is what everybody thinks they want nowadays, but which is still frightfully scarce. Awareness is a result of thinking for yourself. In combination with respect, there's nothing it can't do.
Tuesday, April 23, 2013
Intrigue! Controversy! Relevance!
It's the return of that guy who used to write about the books he reads! Don't worry, that will restart soon enough. But first, I've decided to hop on the bandwagon of getting myself more attention, "likes," and Google hits by talking about the same thing as everyone else for a change.
Happy Earth Week/Sexual Assault Awareness Week/Earth Year*/Cheeseburger Awareness Week!
While these are all made up, some are more exciting to discuss than others. For example, there's a finite number of things to say about a cheeseburger before hunger and dietary restrictions have to duke it out mano a mano, sin palabras. But it would seem that there's no end of things to say about a lecture that hasn't been given yet, especially if you already know your opinion about it.
With that I present Geneseo's earth-shaking, fist-shaking scandal-to-be: a presentation entitled "Sexual" "Assault" "Awareness." http://www.geneseo.edu/news_events/update-philosophy-department-colloquium
This one needs a whole family of disclaimers. Firstly, I haven't spoken at length with Professor Everett, the presenter, since I took his introductory class in 2009. And I must admit I liked him. He contrasted well with my English professor at the time, who was a professed Marxist whose angsty male ex-Catholic devotees are exceeded only by the amount of times per class he looks for laughs at his insulting affectations. The point of Everett's class, which was lost on the overwhelming majority of us as an "honors" audience, was to use the history of philosophy as a framework for thinking for ourselves. That's no fun, I say. I want a flag under which to rally! Actually, I was serious at the time, unaware of the paradox of devoting myself to an author who could tell me my "individualism" was okay. It's a good thing I didn't find one. The theme of preconceived notions was a good prelude to my college experience, as well as to the thunderstorm approaching three and a half years later.
The second disclaimer follows logically: I don't know how many other people have spoken with Dr. Everett about this lecture. The natural tendency is to talk at someone, and look for self-affirmations in or against his response. My friend helped me realize the most dangerous part about this lecture: because it's so controversial, and is appearing everywhere from traditional news media to blogs more successful than mine, the title alone will reinforce the beliefs of anyone who spots it. The cleverest feminists and those who have put down that flag in favor of loving thy neighbor, won't be able to ignore the fact that many people aren't even close to a standard of treating women well. And the clueless feminists, at whom this lecture is targeted and who aren't aware of sexual assault in any personal way, will take it as a crack in the brittle foundation of a purely conceptual ideology. They're interested in rights rather than what's right, and will fight to micromanage and flatten out morality until it's all written in law, when everything will be beautiful and nothing will hurt.
But don't forget the people of which the clever feminists, the clueless feminists, and the rest of us random schmucks have always been worried: those who will take this lecture title, three words, as a sign that it's okay, that we're all safe now, and that awareness can go home without a problem.
You've been good, so here's a third disclaimer: I don't know of anybody who has experienced sexual assault. Readers, do yourselves a favor and do the main thing I learned from Dr. Everett: don't take me seriously. I'm not here to dictate my opinion, but to stir yours around a little and make sure it hasn't sunk to the bottom of your brains.
On the other hand, it would be slippery of me to write all this without any stated opinions, so here are some for the road. Rape is on par with murder. Don't forget it. On the other hand, if trying to get coffee with a girl who is repelled by your hygiene is sexual assault, then I'm in deep trouble. There must be a line somewhere. The same friend I mentioned somewhere in that muddle farther up the page told me that everybody, even those who commit it, know sexual assault is bad. My contribution to her thought is that the entire fight is over what constitutes this sin, this crime.
But since that's still a rather abstract opinion, and hence has nothing to do with me, I might as well announce why I'm not going to Dr. Everett's lecture, and why I'm fed up with Womyn's Action Coalition and a large percent of the people who will be there to oppose him. I don't think anybody will listen to each other. Negative energy only begets more negative energy, as anyone with the sense to interpret any given week of history will tell you. It's got nothing to do with gender, nor with the supposed spectrum from liberal to conservative. And while I appreciate those who want to end sexual assault, in this case they're swatting a fly on the expensive china.
*Why is there only one Earth Week?
Happy Earth Week/Sexual Assault Awareness Week/Earth Year*/Cheeseburger Awareness Week!
While these are all made up, some are more exciting to discuss than others. For example, there's a finite number of things to say about a cheeseburger before hunger and dietary restrictions have to duke it out mano a mano, sin palabras. But it would seem that there's no end of things to say about a lecture that hasn't been given yet, especially if you already know your opinion about it.
With that I present Geneseo's earth-shaking, fist-shaking scandal-to-be: a presentation entitled "Sexual" "Assault" "Awareness." http://www.geneseo.edu/news_events/update-philosophy-department-colloquium
This one needs a whole family of disclaimers. Firstly, I haven't spoken at length with Professor Everett, the presenter, since I took his introductory class in 2009. And I must admit I liked him. He contrasted well with my English professor at the time, who was a professed Marxist whose angsty male ex-Catholic devotees are exceeded only by the amount of times per class he looks for laughs at his insulting affectations. The point of Everett's class, which was lost on the overwhelming majority of us as an "honors" audience, was to use the history of philosophy as a framework for thinking for ourselves. That's no fun, I say. I want a flag under which to rally! Actually, I was serious at the time, unaware of the paradox of devoting myself to an author who could tell me my "individualism" was okay. It's a good thing I didn't find one. The theme of preconceived notions was a good prelude to my college experience, as well as to the thunderstorm approaching three and a half years later.
The second disclaimer follows logically: I don't know how many other people have spoken with Dr. Everett about this lecture. The natural tendency is to talk at someone, and look for self-affirmations in or against his response. My friend helped me realize the most dangerous part about this lecture: because it's so controversial, and is appearing everywhere from traditional news media to blogs more successful than mine, the title alone will reinforce the beliefs of anyone who spots it. The cleverest feminists and those who have put down that flag in favor of loving thy neighbor, won't be able to ignore the fact that many people aren't even close to a standard of treating women well. And the clueless feminists, at whom this lecture is targeted and who aren't aware of sexual assault in any personal way, will take it as a crack in the brittle foundation of a purely conceptual ideology. They're interested in rights rather than what's right, and will fight to micromanage and flatten out morality until it's all written in law, when everything will be beautiful and nothing will hurt.
But don't forget the people of which the clever feminists, the clueless feminists, and the rest of us random schmucks have always been worried: those who will take this lecture title, three words, as a sign that it's okay, that we're all safe now, and that awareness can go home without a problem.
You've been good, so here's a third disclaimer: I don't know of anybody who has experienced sexual assault. Readers, do yourselves a favor and do the main thing I learned from Dr. Everett: don't take me seriously. I'm not here to dictate my opinion, but to stir yours around a little and make sure it hasn't sunk to the bottom of your brains.
On the other hand, it would be slippery of me to write all this without any stated opinions, so here are some for the road. Rape is on par with murder. Don't forget it. On the other hand, if trying to get coffee with a girl who is repelled by your hygiene is sexual assault, then I'm in deep trouble. There must be a line somewhere. The same friend I mentioned somewhere in that muddle farther up the page told me that everybody, even those who commit it, know sexual assault is bad. My contribution to her thought is that the entire fight is over what constitutes this sin, this crime.
But since that's still a rather abstract opinion, and hence has nothing to do with me, I might as well announce why I'm not going to Dr. Everett's lecture, and why I'm fed up with Womyn's Action Coalition and a large percent of the people who will be there to oppose him. I don't think anybody will listen to each other. Negative energy only begets more negative energy, as anyone with the sense to interpret any given week of history will tell you. It's got nothing to do with gender, nor with the supposed spectrum from liberal to conservative. And while I appreciate those who want to end sexual assault, in this case they're swatting a fly on the expensive china.
*Why is there only one Earth Week?
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