The Swerve by Stephen Greenblatt

Source of book: I own this

Anyone who, like me, cares about Shakespeare, or classic literature in general, is likely to have run across the name Stephen Greenblatt more than once. He is generally considered to be the founder of “New Historicism” as an approach to literary theory. Although obviously beyond the scope of this blog post, the central idea, as I understand it, is that literature is a product of its time, rather than the result of Great Men (and occasionally women) of Genius™. In this sense, it parallels the shift from a “Great Man” theory of history to one of cultural movements and moments. As it applies to, say, Shakespeare, you would have Harold Bloom on the one hand, arguing that Shakespeare changed everything about how we think of humanity, and Greenblatt on the other, arguing that Shakespeare came about as a result of the cultural moment he was born into. (Note: both of these are huge oversimplifications of both positions.) One might call it the cultural/historical/artistic “nature versus nurture” argument. My own view, having read both Bloom and Greenblatt (and Ron Rosenbaum’s marvelous book on Shakespeare, The Shakespeare Wars, which addresses both sides) is that there is some truth to each. 

This is kind of an introduction to The Swerve, which actually isn’t about either Shakespeare or literary theory. It did, however, win the Pulitzer Prize for non-fiction, and is a thoroughly fascinating book. 

The Swerve is the story of the recovery of On The Nature of Things, a long poem by the Roman poet and philosopher Titus Lucretius Carus, known to us as Lucretius. While Lucretius was hugely influential in his lifetime - the late days of the Roman Republic - and afterward, his works largely disappeared during the Middle Ages. Most, sadly, have been lost forever. On The Nature of Things survived, however, and was rediscovered by Poggio Bracciolini in 1417. To Poggio, we owe the preservation of a long list of classical works, and his efforts were - as Greenblatt describes - crucial to the Renaissance, and indeed to modernity itself. 

In writing this book, Greenblatt decided to fill in quite a bit of background, from what is known of Lucretius, to the Epicureans who influenced him. Sadly, Epicurus’ writings have been mostly lost, and are known only through those who wrote about him later. That said, Lucretius was an Epicurean, and his poem does give us a lot of information about what they believed. The story starts, however, with the Renaissance. 

The Renaissance was always a troublesome topic for the Fundamentalist subculture I grew up in - particularly evident in the religious history curriculum. For ideological reasons, it was necessary to address the Middle Ages, and either defend it as a golden age when religion had vast secular political power (see: Doug Wilson), or explain it in a way that makes a distinction between Roman Catholic theocracy and Protestant Dominionism. Neither approach is particularly truthful about the Renaissance, of course, because honesty would require an admission that much of the history of organized Christianity is, well, embarrassing as hell. 

There is some truth to the idea that the Middle Ages got a bad rap, of course. And any argument that starts with glorifying the Roman Empire is bound to lead to problems of various kinds. (As Clive James put it, the pax romana and the pax sovietica have a lot in common, namely totalitarianism and violence.) But, on the other hand, some facts are pretty hard to dispute. When Christianity took over the failing near-corpse of the Empire, it took a catastrophic anti-intellectualist approach to knowledge, leading to the destruction of hundreds of years of writing on science, philosophy, medicine, politics, ethics, and much more. This base of knowledge was largely forgotten (in the West, at least) for a thousand years, and had to be “discovered” all over again. And when they did come to light through the efforts of Poggio and others, the Church repressed and persecuted and slaughtered to try to keep the truths known to the Greeks and Romans from coming to light. That’s the inconvenient truth. 

The rediscovery of ancient writing and art led to the Renaissance. Which led to the Protestant Reformation and the Enlightenment and modern democracy and the Scientific Revolution and a renewed belief in human rights. 

There is no doubt, in any case, that something huge happened in the Renaissance. 

Something happened in the Renaissance, something that surged up against the constraints that centuries had constructed around curiosity, desire, individuality, sustained attention to the natural world, the claims of the body. 

And this is, I think, still at the heart of the Culture Wars™ that continue to roil our own society. Fundamentalists and theocrats of all ages have always sought to place constraints on curiosity, on desire, on individuality, on science, and on embodiment. Greenblatt specifically notes the worship of pain and suffering as “spirituality”: the floggings, the sleep deprivation, and other “disciplines” in the service of spirituality. All these were threatened by the Renaissance. 

The first few chapters tell of the life of Poggio, who was quite the fascinating character. He was, for much of his life, an employee of the Church, including a job as the private secretary to the Pope. He was not clergy, however, but a layman, and thus could (and eventually did) marry. He was also, as his writings give ample evidence, snarky as hell. Here is a bit of his opinion of monks:

With his friends in the curia, Poggio shared jokes about the venality, stupidity, and sexual appetite of monks. And their claims to piety left him unimpressed: “I cannot find that they do anything but sing like grasshoppers, and I cannot help thinking they are too liberally paid for the mere exercise of their lungs. They extol their labor as a kind of Herculean task, because they rise in the night to chant the praises of God. This is no doubt an extraordinary proof of merit, that they sit up to exercise themselves in psalmody. What would they say if they rose to go to the plough, like farmers, exposed to the wind and rain, with bare feet, and with their bodies thinly clad?” 

Just reading the bits about the popes of the time contained in this book is enough for one to seriously doubt Catholic dogma. And, in a way, to appreciate that modern popes are relatively well behaved. 

After giving the background on Poggio (which is a great story by itself), Greenblatt turns to the Epicureans, who are the most misunderstood of the Greek schools of philosophy. Epicurus himself was quite the ascetic in his personal life: he taught that the highest pleasure consisted in being a consistently good and moral person. 

Hey wait a minute…

Yes, the stereotype of Epicureans as libertines and gluttons and immoral greedy graspers is completely false. It was invented by early Christian philosophers who saw that Epicureans were a serious theological threat for other reasons, and decided to slander them so that the real issues would never be discovered. (And yes, there is solid proof of this in the surviving writings.) 

At the heart of the issue was the fact that Epicureans subscribed to a naturalistic view of reality. Following the view of Democritus, they believed that the natural world consisted of “atoms” - tiny indivisible particles which combined in an infinite variety according to the laws of nature and the accidents of chance, and formed everything. 

Hmm, that actually sounds...right? 

Following up on this, the Epicureans believed that while the gods may exist, they cannot possibly care about the mere natural world. Furthermore, they believed that the soul (if it even existed) died with the body, and that thus, there was no afterlife. And, because of this, there was no point in living in fear - like religion peddled - and that it was perfectly legitimate to seek to minimize pain and maximize pleasure. 

One might divide the beliefs up into the scientific (what is the nature of reality?) and philosophical (how shall we live?) Philosophy, of course, is a matter of belief and opinion. We have literally been talking about these ideas since the dawn of human history. 

But science? Well, it is astonishing how prescient Epicurus, Lucretius, and the Epicureans really were. These sound more like Modern Era beliefs, not ancient ones. Here is a partial list:

-          Everything is made of atoms

-          The elementary particles of matter are eternal

-          The elementary particles are vast in number, but limited in kind

-          All particles are in motion in an infinite void

-          Nature ceaselessly experiments, leading to variety arising from natural processes

-          The universe was not created solely for humans

-          Human society began, not in a golden age, but in a primitive battle for survival

-          Understanding the nature of things generates deep wonder

-          There is a hidden natural explanation for everything that alarms or eludes you

That does sound a bit modern, right? And rather like mainstream science too. Few even in the general culture would dispute the existence of atoms, and the rest of it, including the fact that there is a natural explanation for pretty much everything, even if we haven’t found it yet. (The greatest problem with the “God in the Gaps” argument is that it leads to an ever-shrinking god…) 

The Epicureans were indeed right about a whole lot, but they weren’t the only ones. It is quite astonishing to look back to ancient times and realize that the Greeks, the Romans, the Egyptians, the Persians, the Chinese, and other great civilizations of the distant past knew a lot of what we “discovered” in the last 600 years.

Case in point: 2200 years ago, Eratosthenes not only knew that the earth was round (which was known LONG before he came along), he calculated its actual circumference within 1% of its actual value. Which, considering the rather primitive measuring equipment he had, is amazing. 

Which means that Columbus, in addition to being a nasty, evil man, was also a freaking idiot. The idea that he and he alone believed in a round earth is silly on its face, but also: he should have known that he had travelled less than half the way around. (You can file this under “things history books gloss over because they make European ‘heroes’ look less heroic.”) 

In addition to this, the passage in the book on the Library of Alexandria, and its sad demise is worth reading. Particularly infuriating was the murder - lynching really - of Hypatia, one of the most badass women - a respected polymath and philosopher in her day. Her lynching had the effect (among others) of destroying any chance of peace between the forces of Christianity, and “pagan” philosophers. It remains a stain on the legacy of the Church and a tragedy which still reverberates in our own time, under the banner of “religion versus science.” 

Another related idea with the same general theme is the term “humanist.” In Poggio’s time, there were two movements within the Roman Catholic world. One was the Fundamentalism which led eventually to the Inquisition. The other went by the name of “humanism.” These days, we call it by the name “Christian Humanism” to distinguish it from a more secular version - and it had a tremendous impact on the future. We owe the whole idea of religious tolerance to the Humanist movement. And such things as modern science, freedom of speech, separation of church and state, and so on. In the Renaissance, the two big names were two of my own heroes: Thomas More, and Erasmus. Also considered to be Christian Humanists would be Soren Kirkegaard, G. K. Chesterton, C. S. Lewis, and T. S. Eliot. (Hey, some of my favorite writers!) If I were to describe my own belief system, I think that would be the most accurate way to describe it. I am a Christian Humanist, and have been as long as I can remember, even if I didn’t know the term. (That might be an interesting future post.) 

Poggio and his fellow “humanists” spent their spare time finding, reading, and copying ancient manuscripts. In doing so, they preserved much of what we know about Greek and Roman literature. But they also invented a new kind of handwriting. 

What Poggio accomplished, in collaboration with a few others, remains startling. They took Carolingian miniscule - a scribal innovation of the ninth-century court of Charlemagne - and transformed it into the script they used for copying manuscripts and writing letters. This script in turn served as the basis for the development both of italics and of the typeface we call “roman.” They were then in effect the inventors of the script we still think of as at once the clearest, the simplest, and the most elegant written representation of our words.

The Swerve also spends a good bit of time looking at a crucial dispute between the humanists (and the Epicureans) and the Roman Church: the use of fear for profit. Reformer and martyr Jan Hus gets a few pages, in particular his denouncement of the sale of “indulgences” as a shameless attempt to profit from the fears of the faithful. Fears the Church instilled in the first place. One thing this book does well is tie together the objection of Epicureans/humanists/reformers of all eras to the Fundamentalist project, which is to exert control by use of fear. 

One fascinating episode in the book occured in the aftermath of the execution of Jerome of Prague for heresy (Poggio was particularly horrified that he was arrested and killed after being promised safe conduct.) Still reeling, and unsure of his own position, Poggio visited the legendary baths and hot springs at Baden. There, he observed a rather different cultural environment, with naked bathing and, well, Epicurean living in action. He noted the usual drinking and singing, but also noted that there was no quarreling - everything was in fun. In pleasure. He had this to say about it:

We are terrified of future catastrophes and are thrown into a continuous state of misery and anxiety, and for fear of becoming miserable, we never cease to be so, always panting for riches and never giving our souls or our bodies a moment’s peace. But those who are content with little live day by day and treat any day like a feast day. 

I do not think it is an accident that our own day’s Fundamentalism is inextricably wedded to consumerism and the panicked pursuit of wealth. It is a never-ending rat race, both materially and spiritually - and is actually the polar opposite to true Epicureanism. 

In contrast to the use of fear to control, and the rat race of futile attempts to obtain spirituality, Lucretius suggests a different approach. He wasn’t an atheist - more of a deist, like our founding fathers. He saw no problem in visiting religious shrines, provided you contemplate things “in peace and tranquility.” But the idea that religious observance can either anger or propitiate the gods seemed ludicrous to him. (And, come to think of it, Christ and the prophets seemed rather skeptical of religious observance as well…) The endless obsession of most religion with a god who is in turn obsessed with rewarding and punishing human beings rang hollow to Lucretius. 

Lucretius insisted that such hopes and anxieties are precisely a toxic form of superstition, combining in equal measure absurd arrogance and absurd fear. 

Amen!

The serious issue is that false beliefs and observances inevitably lead to human mischief.

AMEN!

That got good really fast. This is, in my experience, one hundred percent true. My former faith tradition (white Evangelicalism) is obsessed with their hopes and fears about getting things exactly right so God doesn’t fry them for eternity. It’s Salvation by Faith...in the Rules™. And it does indeed exhibit both absurd arrogance (tell me about it...this is like my life experience with Fundies) and absurd fear of getting things wrong, and worse, being too damn accepting and kind to those outside the increasingly narrow tribe. This is the mischief that results. Fear and arrogance combine to produce hate and a pathological lack of empathy for those who look or believe differently. 

Lucretius had an explanation for this too - and Greenblatt lays it out eloquently. 

The arts of civilization - not given to man by some divine lawmaker but painstakingly fashioned by the shared talents and mental power of the species - are accomplishments worth celebrating, but they are not unmixed blessings. They arose in tandem with the fear of the gods, the desire for wealth, the pursuit of fame and power. All of these originated in a craving for security, a craving that reaches back to the earliest experiences of the human species struggling to master its natural enemies. That violent struggle - against the wild beasts that threatened human survival - was largely successful, but the anxious, acquisitive, aggressive impulses have metastasized. In consequence, human beings characteristically develop weapons that turn against themselves.

This has been my argument with Fundamentalists over the very nature of the Bible, and the connected questions of morality and ethics. We really cannot separate any historical system of ethics from history and culture - or our lizard brains. Which is why a rule and fear based approach to the Bible and to religion itself leads, not to some return to a golden utopian age, but to the mere re-creation of the injustices and evils of the past. Inevitably, this also leads to jihad against people who are different. 

Whether or not Greenblatt proves his case about just how much Lucretius and The Nature of Things was responsible for the modern era and modern thought is debatable. But there is no doubt that the discovery of the literature of the past opened new vistas of thought and eventually shattered the fear and authoritarian power of toxic religion, and made the Enlightenment and our modern era possible. Steven Pinker has made a solid case that these inherently modern ideas: separation of church and state, the golden rule as the basis for all morality, equality and human rights, and the realization that “shit happens” - have greatly reduced violence. We can certainly recognize the influence of Lucretius and the Epicureans in this change, from the Enlightenment to the Utilitarians.

This book is a fascinating bit of history, regardless of your personal philosophical leanings. I myself, as a Christian Humanist, would love to read Lucretius now, which means Greenblatt succeeded. The book itself is well written - not dry at all, despite significant intellectual and historical content.  

***

If you are interested in reading something shorter, but definitely fascinating, by Greenblatt, his article in The New Yorker on St. Augustine and sex is excellent.

It is a bit disturbing to realize just how much of Western Christianity's toxic relationship with sex comes from a guy whose formative years were shaped by his parents' bad marriage and his mother's unhealthy, quasi-sexual relationship with him.

Christmas Books and Music 2019

For seven of the eight years since I started this blog, I have made a short post about the books (and sometimes music) I received as gifts for Christmas. (And in this case, also the used books I found in my post-Christmas shopping.) In addition to being fun, it also serves as a teaser for the reviews to be written in the upcoming year. As usual, I try to link the reviews to these posts as I write them.

Here are the past editions:

2011

2013

2014

2015

2016

2017

2018

***

Here are the books from this year: 

1. A Rare Benedictine by Ellis Peters

My brother (who has excellent literary taste despite liking Dirk Pitt), got me this one in a nice used hardback edition. A number of years back, I read and enjoyed the first book in the Cadfael Chronicles, A Morbid Taste for Bones. This book is number 16 in the series by date of publication, but isn’t considered part of the 20 in the official series. The reason for this is apparently that it is set fully 17 years before the first book, and is thus a kind of prequel to the main series. I assume it therefore tells of the early days of Brother Cadfael. “Ellis Peters” is one of the noms de plume of Edith Parteger, who wrote in a variety of genres, in addition to translating works from Czech. I have to confess that my brother also gave me a hardback edition of The Heaven Tree Trilogy, a set of novels she wrote under her own name - and I have not yet read any of it yet. I need to change that. 

2. Cathedral of the Sea by Ildefonso Falcones

Another one from my brother. This one was recommended to him by an acquaintance with Spanish roots, and is apparently much better known there than here in the United States. Falcones is a lawyer who happens to have written a bestseller. This one is set in the 14th Century, and is, if the cover is to be believed, “A historical thriller.” Sounds promising enough. In general, I have liked books written by lawyers, from Sir Walter Scott to C. J. Sansom, so that’s a point in this book’s favor.

3. The Patch by John McPhee

My wife’s sister’s husband got this for me. This is an unknown book and author for me, although it seems probable that I have read one or more of his essays in The New Yorker over the years without paying particular attention to the byline. McPhee is considered one of the pioneers of “creative nonfiction,” writing that is factually accurate but utilizes literary writing techniques to create compelling narratives. In other words, the kind of nonfiction writing we take for granted now. This book is his seventh collection of essays, published just last year. (Also, bonus points because it was purchased at Warwick’s in La Jolla.) McPhee’s style seems at a glance to be very much the sort of writing I enjoy, so I may well end up reading more of his books.

4. How To Be An Antiracist by Ibram X. Kendi

 

This was a gift from my wife, and is one I have wanted to read since it came out. If the Trump Era has taught me anything, it is that there is a need for decent people to be actively antiracist, not merely “I’m not racist” collaborators with white supremacy. Kendi’s short articles really resonated with me, particularly his division of people into active racists (like, say, Trump and Stephen Miller), those who consider themselves “neutral” or “colorblind” - the “white moderates” MLK castigated, and true antiracists: actively pushing back against racism. 

5. How to Invent Everything by Ryan North

  

This one sounds like a lot of fun. “A Survival Guide for the Stranded Time Traveler.” North is also known for the Dinosaur comic, and his Choose Your Own Adventure remixes of Shakespeare’s plays. So, well, a weird variety of things. And definitely the sort of book I would read. 

6. Music

As usual, an eclectic mix. My wife got me The Goat Rodeo Sessions, an epic collaboration between Yo-Yo Ma, Stuart Duncan, Chris Thile, and Edgar Meyer. I’ve listened to it on streaming, and it is nice to have a CD copy. 

My wife’s brother has introduced me to a number of delightful and non-mainstream artists over the years. This year, he got me no fewer than four albums. First up was two albums by Tennis, namely Yours Conditionally, and Young & Old. I’ll admit I hadn’t heard of the group, but my 16 year old had. Maybe I’m old? Next was Bon Iver’s latest, i, i. Finally, he found a promo copy of Future Me Hates Me by New Zealand band, The Beths. I got a chance to listen to this one on our vacation, and I am definitely digging it. 

I’ll add a final one in, which wasn’t technically a gift - except from myself. One of our local bands, the Jay Smith Group, released a couple of albums this year, and I really love their collaboration with Marlon Mackey (who sadly moved across the country so I don’t get to hear him in person now.) Just Stop is well worth the purchase. 

The Possessed by Elif Batuman

Source of book: I own this.

The Possessed should not be confused with Dostoevsky's book of the same name. Okay, the “Book Formerly Known As The Possessed” by Fyodor Dostoevsky. The title is usually translated Demons these days, or The Devils. It also should not be confused with the movies of that title in 1977, 2009, and 2018. This book is a memoir written by Elif Batuman, and is named in reference to the novel, which does make an extended appearance in the book.

My wife bought this book a number of years ago - probably close to when it came out, although I don’t remember exactly how she discovered it. She read it, and found it interesting, so I put it on my list of books to eventually read. It seemed to fit in between other books this year. (I try to avoid reading books on the same topic consecutively. I prefer to have a balanced diet. And, to be sure, this book was like nothing I have read this year.)

Batuman is the child of Turkish immigrants, graduated from Harvard and Stanford with an eventual doctorate in comparative literature, and wrote extensively for the New Yorker and Harper’s Magazine. This year, she released a novel (which is kind of ironic, considering her musings on novel writing in the memoir.) 

The book is about her time as post-grad student studying Russian literature. It is a rewrite of several essays in magazines, along with some new material.

In what is a pretty ironic twist, Batuman failed in her primary goal, which was to get paid to study Russian literature in Russia. Instead, she ended up settling for studying Uzbek literature in Samarkand. In some ways, this made sense. Batuman is fluent in Turkish (although perhaps in Russian too now), and Uzbek is essentially a Soviet amalgam of Turkish dialects from the area.

What follows in this book is her story of her adventures and misadventures on this trip. From her host, who pretty systematically cheated her out of any amenity including working plumbing, to her visits to sites connected with the great Russian novelists, to the eccentric and interesting people her area of study brought into her life, the book is filled with engrossing incidents. There are also sections where she discusses different Russian classics (including the title work) and how they fit with both her experiences and her evolving view of life, literature, and writing.

I’m not even going to try to summarize it beyond that. It is a fairly rambling, episodic memoir - which is kind of how life is anyway. I would say it helps to be familiar with the major Russian writers: Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, Pushkin, Gogol, and their major works. It also doesn’t hurt to have some knowledge of literary theory, as well as history.  I am by no means an expert (and have yet to read some of the books mentioned), but I have spent some time with many of the books. I would say that this book has been some incentive to make sure I put some Russian authors on my list every year.

One thing that I learned from this book was that Turkish and Russian are related - I am not a language scholar, so this connection wasn’t something that I was aware of. Apparently, the Soviets (the Russian ones, naturally), weren’t eager to acknowledge this fact, and tried to cover it up.

Also fascinating in this connection was the origins of the various countries which seemingly magically appeared after the fall of the USSR. (I remember sitting with my brother, going through our very first version of Microsoft Encarta and reading about all these “stans” which constituted south-central Asia. Kyrgyzstan had both the best paucity of vowels and the most interesting tune for its national anthem.) These never really showed up on a map before the rise of the USSR. So where did they come from?

Batuman explains at the time that England was colonizing India, Tsarist Russia decided it needed to make a countermove. It took over the fringes of the Ottoman Empire - a region of tribal groups speaking various Turkish dialects known to outsiders as “Turkestan,” and classified the residents according to a fairly fictional and arbitrary set of groups. The “Uzbek, Tajik, Turkmen, Kazakh, and Kyrgyz” didn’t really exist in any recognizable way, but the Russians nonetheless pounded these round pegs into square holes, and annexed the whole thing. These groupings became geographical SSRs, and when the Soviet Union disintegrated, these newish nations emerged as the closest thing to modern nations these regions had known. As part of this, the Uzbek language (and others, I believe) were essentially created from an awkward mashup of dialects, and forced on the people. Not that this is much different from the way national boundaries in the Middle East were drawn by the Allies after the world wars.

I’ll mention a few passages that I particularly found amusing, although these are by no means all of them.

One concerns Isaac Babel, who I wasn’t familiar with - probably because he was exterminated in Stalin’s Great Purge, despite being part of the Communist revolution, and his name and works removed from Soviet records. (This came to light in the 1990s. Also, he ran afoul of the regime primarily because he had an affair with the wife of an NKVD boss. Not his most intelligent move.) Anyway, Babel’s works are mentioned throughout the book. One really stuck with me. Batuman was reading Red Cavalry while baking a Black Forest cake. Apparently, the cake was a disaster.

As Babel immortalized for posterity the military embarrassment of the botched 1920 Russo-Polish campaign, so he immortalized for me the culinary embarrassment of this cake, which came out of the oven looking like an old hat and which, after I had optimistically treated it with half a two-dollar bottle of Kirschwasser, produced the final pansensory impression of an old hat soaked in cough syrup.

Leaving aside the great word picture, I noticed it because my wife makes a fantastic Black Forest cake, complete with a more moderate amount of Kirschwasser, which is pretty much everything this cake was not.

There are a number of quotes from Uzbek (for lack of a better word) poets in this book. After all, Batuman was ostensibly in Samarkand to research Uzbek literature. As noted above, this was a total misnomer, and she had to settle for the writers native to what would eventually become Uzbekistan. One of these is the poet Navoi. I am not sure exactly how these poems sounded in the original language, of course, but there is a certain unintentional comedy factor as Batuman renders them. And I am someone who has a love for poetry. Here is an example that made me smile.

Was it my heart - a bird - that was caught in your locks that unfortunate night,

Or was it bats of some kind?

Remember, the sultan dooms to death even his closest friend

If he learns the latter has secreted away money from the treasury.

Speak, Navoi, if love has not yet crippled your soul -

Why do you spew blood whenever you sob?

There are a few more quotes throughout the book, and they are a bit unusual to say the least, to someone who is more familiar with the English poetic tradition.

I’m still not quite sure what to make of this book. It was interesting, amusing, and kept my interest. But it is also not for everyone. There are certainly moments where I think she might have been a bit more concise. And also moments when I think she wallows in her personal feelings and romantic drama. But it is a memoir, so you expect that along with the fun stories.

***

For what it’s worth, I read a bunch of Tolstoy short stories in my teens - mostly the parable or religious ones. Since then, I have continued to read from my collection. You can read my impression of his stories about the Crimean War here. A couple years ago, I finally got to War and Peace. I hope to read Anna Karenina one of these days.

But, the strongest impression was when I read his three best known novellas. The Death of Ivan Ilych was good, but it was Family Happiness and The Kreutzer Sonata which marked me deeply, upending a lot of what I had thought about sex and marriage. It was really my first introduction to a viciously anti-sex and anti-woman philosophy - except that after I read it, I couldn’t help noticing how much negative influence Tolstoy (and St. Augustine) had on Evangelical teachings on sex and sexuality. These books also rather confirmed my suspicions that marriage wasn’t just a matter of following the right formula or gritting one’s teeth and being loving. Compatibility - sexual and otherwise - was crucial. It is no accident that I intentionally talked about the philosophy of sex before I ever asked my wife out. Fortunately, she is both a good sport and a fellow lover of books, literature, and deep discussions. We are, shall we say, a match.

My brother and I both read The Brothers Karamazov in our late teens, and both enjoyed and found ourselves a bit bewildered by it. I listed the chapter “The Grand Inquisitor” as an honorable mention in my list of most influential books. I have returned to that chapter multiple times, and think that it is still the best thing ever written on toxic religion. I have also read Crime and Punishment and Notes From Underground, both of which were fascinating.

I still have yet to read Gogol and Pushkin. They are on my list.

Whatever my deficits in Russian Literature, I have played a fairly good number of the great Russian classical works, both 19th Century and Soviet era. Comparing the literature to the music is a fun exercise.

Probably the oddest Russian book I have read, though, is The Master and Margarita.

The Library by Stuart Kells

Source of book: Borrowed from the library

Plenty of the books I have read over the years have been impulse reads. The library (sinister institution that it is) has a new books display as you walk in, and books (sirens that they are) call to me. I pick them up, and I end up reading stuff that was not on my list. Oh well. Such is the life of a bibliophile.

This book was one step removed from that. My eldest daughter saw it on the new books shelf, checked it out, and read it. And told me I should read it. And seriously, who can say no to that?

The Library isn’t a history of libraries, exactly. It is more like a series of interesting stories about Western libraries since the great library of Alexandria. It is a book about book collectors. It tells of how famous libraries came to be, from Roman times, to our own times. It has its tragedies: books destroyed by fire, flood, mold, insects, and war. It has humor and skullduggery. It has book thieves along with collectors (often the same person.) It has copyists, artists, printers, and more. It has mentions of Terry Pratchett and Umberto Eco. And Doctor Who.

Stuart Kells is apparently an authority on rare books. His official professions are “author” (of course) and “book-trade historian,” which is as specialized as it sounds. And he loves books. Dearly. His passion and affection shine through on every page. I can certainly sympathize. I have a decent library of my own. (Yes, we have a whole room dedicated to it. My wife found our current house, and when we walked through it intending to make an offer, we both thought “library” when we entered the room, which was - at that time - desecrated with a giant television.) Not that our books actually fit in the library. We have bookshelves elsewhere too. And our kids have books. I haven’t counted or catalogued them, but between all of us, we are certainly north of 2500 volumes - and possibly over 4000. (See below.) This would make ours a rather large library by medieval standards, if fairly small by 19th or 20th Century measures. Like the older tradition, though, ours are mostly used books. We have painstakingly collected them at thrift stores, at library sales, at used book stores, and off Ebay. These days, we mostly limit ourselves to hardbacks, due to limited space. But our library is a lovely thing, and our happy place.

Trying to summarize this book is impossible, so let me just hit a few fun highlights.

Our word “library” comes from the Latin “librarii,” the scroll copyists who worked off of the author’s manuscript. So, a collection of scribes gave the name to the place where books were kept. But libraries weren’t just for reading or copying. Originally, they were where books were translated. The Alexandria library made the attempt of translating works from around the known world. One of the major works that resulted was the Septuagint - the Greek translation of the Hebrew scriptures, which is the bible that Christ would have known.

Since the dawn of the modern era - which brought both the printing press and (eventually) widespread literacy - libraries have grown exponentially. Leibniz (co-inventor of calculus) worried as early as the late 1600s that at the rate books were being written, whole cities would be filled with books. A generation earlier, Thomas Coryat said “methinks we want rather readers for bookes than bookes for readers.” If only he had known. It is kind of ironic that today we do the same thing, whining that nobody reads anymore, which isn’t true. (Especially ironic coming from Baby Boomers, who read less than their children and grandchildren.) Worldwide literacy is at an all-time high. While discernment about sources continues to be an issue, we are in the golden age of books. At least until the next one.

Speaking of interesting quotes, there is a conversation between Henry James and Edith Wharton that is fantastic. There is a chapter devoted to naughtiness of various sorts, particularly erotica, which has existed since humans learned to draw. So has censorship, and keeping the sexy stuff out of the reach of plebeians has long been a priority. Wharton mentioned the kind of novel “that used euphemistically to be called ‘unpleasant.’”

“You know,” Wharton told James, “I was rather disappointed; that book wasn’t nearly as bad as I expected.” James replied with a twinkle, “Ah, my dear, the abysses are all so shallow.”

This is why I love Henry James.

Speaking of naughty stuff and censors, there is a mention of a book from the Puritan era which is housed in the Folger Shakespeare Library. I mention it solely because of its marvelous and descriptive name:

A Just and Seasonable Reprehension of Naked Breasts and Shoulders, Written by a Grave and Learned Papist by Jacques Boileau.

You can read it in translation here, if you wish. Clearly Modesty Culture™ is nothing new, and has generally be driven by dirty old men.

Irony abounds in the history of book collecting. In describing the Pierpont Morgan library (which is, to say the least, ostentatious), the author points out that in a prominent place over the fireplace hangs Pieter Coecke van Aelst’s tapestry, The Triumph of Avarice.

The final chapter of the book concerns the future of libraries. The idea of the public library isn’t new. Ancient Rome was full of them, and emperors from Trajan to Augustus supported them. (Even if the books contributed were generally plundered from conquered nations…) The Middle Ages were “dark,” in part because literacy declined precipitously, and libraries were placed under lock and key. The Renaissance revived the idea of the public library, open to those who could read and wished to. During the Victorian Era, Anthony Panizzi, librarian of the British Museum, expressed the goal of public libraries eloquently:

I want a poor student to have the same means of indulging his learned curiosity, of following his rational pursuits, of consulting the same authorities, of fathoming the most intricate inquiry, as the richest man in the Kingdom, as far as books go, and I contend that Government is bound to give him the most liberal and unlimited assistance in this respect.

Sadly, this goal has become unpopular in our day. Libraries, after all, cost money, and don’t yield obvious economic rewards. Government services in general are under attack by a Right Wing increasingly opposed to the very concept of the Common Good.

Here in Kern County, we have had ongoing attempts over the last few years to privatize the library system. (Fortunately, a neighboring system to the south already tried it, and just went back to a public system. This failure has helped us turn the tide.) The nadir of this discussion was when our former District Attorney actually said that she thought that every library in the County should be closed before her office lost one cent of budget. This despite the fact that our spending on libraries is far below other California Counties - and we haven’t opened a new library in decades despite doubling in population. (We depend on oil and agriculture for our tax base - when gas is cheap, our budgets suffer…) This shortsighted viewpoint is what those of us who love our libraries are up against. Rather than being seen as a vital public service - the sign of a healthy society - libraries are viewed as an expendable drain on the budget. It isn’t just here in the United States either. As the author points out about his native Great Britain:

Today Britain’s public libraries are caught in a downward spiral of reduced funding and the de-professionalization of library services.

This is the heart of the privatization debate. For-profit companies promise to lower costs. How does one do that? Buildings and utilities cost the same for everyone. So, buy fewer books? Reduce hours and close branches? Or, what is usually the plan: fire the professional librarians and hire glorified store clerks to do the work. That’s what de-professionalization means in practice. The library ceases to become a learned place, and becomes a glorified WalMart. Fortunately, our community has fought back, and our libraries remain public.

This is a fascinating book for those who love books. And if you don’t love books, then, you probably aren’t reading a book anyway…

***

How many books DO we have? I did a rough estimate by measuring “shelf-feet,” then multiplying by the average number of books per shelf-foot. By the way, when I say “shelf-feet,” I do not mean that we have that much in shelving. We don’t. We have stuff double rowed on shelves, stuff in boxes, and stuff waiting to be read on tables and nightstands.

By my count, we have roughly 360 shelf feet of books. I counted a few shelves containing different sizes of books, and think that 12 books per foot is a reasonable average. That would give us around 4300 books. If we go with larger average size - 10 to a foot - you end up with 3600. Which is still a lot. Hi, my name is Tim, and I’m a bookaholic…

 This is about 72 shelf feet of books - my prettiest ones. I built the shelves, and 99% of the books are used book finds.

Christmas Books 2017

For five of the six years since I started this blog, I have made a short post about the books I received as gifts for Christmas. In addition to being fun, it also serves as a teaser for the reviews to be written in the upcoming year. As usual, I try to link the reviews to these posts as I write them.

Here are the past editions:

2011

2013

2014

2015

2016

Here are the books from this year:

1. The Book Thieves: The Nazi Looting of Europe's Libraries and the Race to Return a Literary Inheritance by Anders Rydell and Henning Koch

This book was a gift from my in-laws, who often come up with interesting books. The Nazis were well known for burning books. But they also stole, as they did with art. In many cases, books were confiscated from political dissidents - Jews, liberals, LGBTQ people, Catholics, communists - and were used for research and warfare against inconvenient truths. This book is about that, and also the quest to return these books to their rightful owners. Should be fun.

2. This Thing We Call Literature by Arthur Krystal

This book was a gift from my brother-in-law, who likewise has great taste in books I might not otherwise have read. Most recently, I reviewed The Voice Is All, a biography of Kerouac. I must admit I am not that familiar with Krystal, but after a quick search, he seems like he might turn out to be a kindred spirit, someone with a love of classics but without the idolism of the past or knee-jerk reactionism. I got the Kindle edition of this essay collection, so I will be spending some of my time waiting in court on this one. It looks like an interesting read.  

3. In Search of Ancient Roots by Kenneth J.Stewart

My law school classmate Darren and I have enjoyed discussing a whole variety of things from Dorothy Sayers to Mozart to theology. So it was a pleasant surprise when he sent me this book. According to the cover, it is a bit of a response to those who claim Catholicism or Eastern Orthodoxy are more “back to the roots of Christianity” than all things Protestant. Darren knows his church history - better than I do, and I am not ignorant - so this should be a fascinating book. It probably comes at a good time as I have broken with the modern American Evangelical movement, as it has become more of a political club than a true expression of devotion to the teachings and life of Christ.

4. The Slaves’ War by Andrew Ward

My wife has a real knack for finding interesting books, many of them for next to nothing at library sales. This book tells the story of the Civil War from the perspective of those who were the subject of that war: the slaves. Despite the ongoing attempts to revise history, the Confederates were clear about why they started the war in the first place. It was to preserve - and expand - slavery without restriction. The stories we tell of the Civil War are all too often those of white people, either on the North or the South. But it is those whose very right to full humanity was at stake whose voices we need to hear the most. Ward constructs his narrative from writings and interviews of the enslaved. I am really looking forward to this one.

5. Wolf Hall by Hilary Mantel

Another book from my wife. Apparently, we discussed this book over a year ago in connection with a young friend of my daughters who needed to select a contemporary book to read. This was one that looked interesting, as it is a historical novel about Henry VIII and his break with the Catholic Church so he could divorce his first wife.

6. Caesar’s Last Breath by Sam Kean

Because I love all of Kean’s books. (See my reviews of The Disappearing Spoon, The Violinist’s Thumb, and The Tale of the Dueling Neurosurgeons.) My wife knew I wanted this book, which just came out recently, so she got it for me. The theme of this one is the atmosphere. If it is like his other books, it will be full of interesting stories that illuminate the science. These aren’t textbooks, but fun pop-science that sucks you in and stays with you afterward.

7. The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran

Gibran was a Lebanese writer and artist who lived in the late Victorian and Edwardian eras. His name is linked to that of Mary Haskell, who probably should be credited as a co-author of this particular book. The two were briefly engaged, but he broke it off, probably because of her family’s objections. This book is a series of fables in “prose poetry.” It is Gibran’s best known work. This particular boxed edition is in mint condition - one of my wife’s brilliant used finds.

8. Poems, Prose, and Letters by Elizabeth Bishop

This book, also from my wife, is in the Library of America hardback edition - I have a number of these, and really love the format. I also love Elizabeth Bishop. (Read my review of North and South here…) So, a win all around.

9. The Hermitage Cats

This was a gift from my friends Peter and Patty, who share my love of P. G. Wodehouse (among other authors - they are serious readers). The book isn’t so much a book to read, as one to look at. It is a collection of the pictures with cats in them from the State Hermitage Museum of St. Petersburg. There is a bit of a story behind this. I have been a cat person since I was a child, and we have only been catless for very brief periods. (We were, so to speak, “between cats.”) Peter and Patty, in contrast, haven’t really had cats - just dogs. (Their “terrible terriers” have been regular companions on many hikes together.) This spring, my youngest daughter got a kitten at the same time Peter and Patty did. And Fiona has won their hearts to the Cat Side. I am gratified, naturally, as I have been singing the praises of feline companionship for years. So anyway, this book is a physical representation of our cat bond, and it does look interesting.

***

Just for fun, some music too:

Alison Krauss is, in my opinion, one of the finest artists out there these days. I have been a fan since she was a teenage fiddle champion, and have followed her career through the present. Over a decade ago, she and Union Station came to Bakersfield, and I got to hear them live. It remains perhaps the best live (non-classical) concert I have ever attended. A few months ago, she came to Los Angeles, without the full band (but with Ron Block and Barry Bales from Union Station, as well as a number of other session musicians), and my eldest daughter (who is a HUGE fan) and younger son went to hear her with some friends. Again, a delightful concert, well worth the price. She is just that good.

My in-laws got me her latest album, Windy City. She played a few of the cuts at the concert, so I was somewhat familiar with it. This is a solo album - the first since Forget About It, which came out nearly two decades ago (damn, I’m old!!), and is a selection of old country and bluegrass standards. My favorite cuts (at least so far) are “River In The Rain,” a Roger Miller tune, and “I Never Cared For You,” which was a Willie Nelson hit. Enjoy.

***

A couple of classical albums also deserve mention.

My wife found “used” - but very, very gently if at all - a rather obscure recording of music by Shostakovich for some Soviet-era movies: Hamlet, King Lear, and Five Days and Five Nights. I had no idea these pieces existed, but I do love early 20th Century Soviet music - it was a true and subtle form of protest against totalitarianism, and brilliant to boot. I look forward to listening to these in more detail.

The second is an album of choral music by Ola Gjeilo, a modern (and living!) Scandinavian composer. At the end of this month, I will be performing his Sunrise Mass with a number of my musical colleagues. It is a transcendent work, and one that I am so thrilled to be able to play. If you are in the Bakersfield area the last week of January, send me an e-mail for details. Here is the second movement, entitled “Sunrise.” The Latin text is that of the Gloria. I get shivers throughout the movement, but particularly during the Laudamus Te section, starting at 3:30. Such a great melody, and delightful to play.