She Loves Me (Empty Space 2018)

My wife has literally wanted to see this musical for decades. She owned the soundtrack, so I heard it first when we were dating. The kids probably can quote the lyrics by this point. However, for whatever reason, it is rarely performed.

This is kind of puzzling. After all, the lyrics and music are by Sheldon Harnick and Jerry Bock, who are best known for the smash Fiddler On The Roof. The book was written by Joe Masteroff, who also wrote Cabaret. The story should also be familiar. It was adapted from Parfumerie, by Hungarian playwright Miklos Laszlo - the source material for the Jimmy Stewart film, Shop Around the Corner, and later, You’ve Got Mail. Whatever the case, this particular version seems unjustly neglected.

The plot is classic: guy and gal are co-workers, and don’t realize that they are also corresponding through “lonely hearts.” At work, they bicker and hate each other, but are madly in love with their correspondents. In this case, the place of employment is Maraczek’s perfume shop, the guy is Georg the persecuted assistant manager, and the gal is Amalia, a newly hired clerk with a knack for sales. Mr. Maraczek is grouchy because he is sure is wife is having an affair with Georg. This isn’t true, as it turns out - the suave rake Kodaly is actually responsible. Meanwhile, Kodaly is also bedding the worldly yet ditzy Ilona, another clerk. She is sure that Amalia is setting herself up for disappointment, but has to admit that she has gotten nothing but disappointment from her own in-person romance. Rounding out the main characters are Mr. Sipos, a middle aged man with a family; and Arpad, the delivery boy. There are a number of mostly anonymous supporting characters, which in this version were covered by the versatile company members.

Obviously, this is a setup for misunderstandings, comedy, and songs. My favorites are “Perspective,” sung by Mr. Sipos about how he stays calm during Maraczek’s tantrums; and “Twelve Days To Christmas,” which has brilliant lines like, “These are the people who plan their days wisely and well / These are the people who shop in time, and they can go to hell!”

Staging a musical with song and dance and a complicated set is a challenge in a small theater like The Empty Space - if nothing else, dance numbers around hundreds of glass perfume bottles takes some...care. As usual, TES did a fantastic job - kudos to set designer Becky Ingle for making the shop a true “pop up,” unfolding out of a small space in a flash. 

 Picture shamelessly stolen from Becky Ingle

The cast featured some of the usual suspects, along with a few I hadn’t seen in major roles before. Nick Ono, as Georg, is familiar of course. In addition to his many roles, he usually choreographs the dance numbers. He also has a fine singing voice to go with his knack for playing insecurity well.

Opposite him was Alyssa Bonnano, who I don’t think I have seen in a major part. Another great voice, and fit the part well. She was feisty and vulnerable by turns, and the romance was believable as a result. 

 Georg (Nick Ono) and Amalia (Alyssa Bonnano)

Tessa Ogles has been in a bunch of plays in the last few years - most recently she played Eliza Doolittle in My Fair Lady. As the worldly yet unlucky Ilona, she was excellent. Watching her facial expressions during the duet with Amalia where they talk of their love lives was fascinating.

You can always tell the rake by the pencil mustache. (Okay, unless you are watching The 39 Steps…) I’m pretty sure Markelle Taylor has been in the ensemble in past productions, but it was great to see him swagger and strut as Kodaly. Between his dance moves and suave baritone, he was as oily as you could wish. He and Ogles had great chemistry (see the footnote too.)  

Ilona (Tessa Ogles) and Mr. Kodaly (Markelle Taylor)

Steve Evans is a TES regular, most recently in Bus Stop, and he brought his homespun vibe to Maraczek - you could see him go to pieces slowly, as his typical good humor crumbled under the stress of feeling his age and losing his marriage. 

  Mr. Maraczek (Steve Evans)

As the fretful Mr. Sipos, Bryce Loo gave a convincing performance. He has returned to Bakersfield after a number of years, and I don’t recall seeing him before. Another fine voice, I hope to see him in future productions.

 Mr. Sipos (Bryce Loo)

Lucas Shearson is a young and up-and-coming local actor who has been in some pretty big parts lately. Unfortunately, I was unable to see Big River, where he played Huck Finn. As delivery boy Arpad, he showed his acting and singing talents. I think he is one to keep an eye on. 

 Mr. Sipos (Bryce Loo) and Arpad (Lucas Shearson)

The ensemble was, as I noted, excellent, filling in multiple parts each, singing in the big numbers, and doing some impressive dance moves.

She Loves Me runs through December 23. If you are in the Bakersfield area, I highly recommend it.

***

Just a note on how times have changed:

I recently read Devil In The Grove, about false rape accusations in the Jim Crow South. Thus, it really struck me to see a young African American man cast as a rake flirting with a white woman. Not that long ago - my parents’ lifetime - this could get the man murdered, either by a lynch mob, or by law enforcement, or by the courts. (Also, my second daughter is reading To Kill A Mockingbird for freshman English.)

In these times where an open white nationalist can win the presidency, an open neo-Nazi can get elected to congress in Iowa, and literal Nazis march in our streets, it is comforting to remember that things have changed. Obviously, we have a long way to go, and a vocal minority of hateful bigots had a major victory in 2016. But the decent people of the world have pushed back before, and we can and will do it again. Even here in Red Kern County a black man can kiss a white woman and nobody loses their shit. And that makes me happy and hopeful.

The Yellow Admiral by Patrick O'Brian

Source of book: I own this.

This book is number 18 in the Aubrey/Maturin series of novels about the British Navy during and after the Napoleonic Wars. I have read all of the previous books, and reviewed the last few for my blog. Because I do not duplicate all of the background information in each post, it is probably best to read them in order. And by all means, read the books in the correct order, as a particular adventure will often be stretched across several books.

The Letter of Marque

The Nutmeg of Consolation

The Thirteen Gun Salute

The Truelove

The Wine Dark Sea

The Commodore

As readers of this series will know, the narrative is carried over from book to book, so you really need to read them in order. In this case, the break with the last book is fairly clean, so you aren’t left on a cliffhanger. At the end of this book, however, there is a huge cliffhanger. I spoil it here only because it involves real history. (And if real history is a spoiler for you, well, maybe you should have paid more attention in class.) At the end of The Yellow Admiral, Jack and Stephen are on their way back to South America for a little extracurricular cloak and dagger stuff, when the word comes that Napoleon has escaped from Elba. So they are clearly going to be diverted from their current adventure. It will be interesting to see how that turns out.

So, back to this book. Having completed their adventures with the slavers in the last book, Jack finds himself awkwardly on land again. In addition to his usual issues of being a nuisance in Parliament and his tight finances (in part because of delay in compensation for the capture of the slaving ship), he is also in a feud with an adjacent landowner over enclosing the commons. Stephen, at least, finds that his fear that he had lost his fortune is in error - he remains the wealthy man he was.

Jack’s new fear, however, is a legitimate one. With the war apparently winding down, there will be too many captains and too few combat positions. Thus, instead of promoting to admiral in the usual sense, he would be promoted but without a ship or duties. He would be - in essence - retired with half pay. Since Jack’s very life is the sea, this would be a hard thing indeed.

While all this is going on, however, Stephen gets a new task from Sir Joseph Blaine - he is to do some spy work in France. Thus, Jack is given a ship as part of a blockade, and sets Stephen ashore quietly.

I won’t spoil the rest of it. As usual, there are a few things worth mentioning. For example, this discussion of democracy:

“Jack,” said Stephen, “I have been contemplating on your words about the nature of the majority, your strangely violent, radical, and even - forgive me - democratic words, which, with their treasonable implication of ‘one man, one vote’, might be interpreted as an attack on the sacred rights of property; and I should like to know how you reconcile them with your support of a Tory ministry in the House.”

“Oh, as for that,” said Jack, “I have no difficulty at all. It is entirely a matter of scale and circumstance. Everyone knows that on a large scale democracy is pernicious nonsense - a country or even a large county cannot be run by a self-seeking parcel of tub-thumping politicians working on popular emotion, rousing the mob...while as for a man-of-war, it is either an autocracy or nothing, nothing at all - mere nonsense. You saw what happened to the poor French navy at the beginning of the Revolutionary War…”

This is kind of amusing, given the state of English government, and their ongoing hostilities with those crazy Americans. Jack is right, in one sense. Democracy has its drawbacks, and the vulnerability to demagogues is certainly one. But, as Churchill would later point out, democracy may be the worst form of government...except for all the others.

In context, the question is whether small villagers who rely on the commons should have much say in whether it is enclosed (which made it more valuable, but also mostly benefited the large landholders.) It is a rather ongoing question, which has mostly been resolved in our own time by handing increasing wealth and power to the ultrawealthy.

I have frequently commented on the music in these books. Jack and Stephen play violin and cello respectively, and their music makes it into the books regularly. In this one, by happy chance, a piece I recently played appeared: the Mozart Oboe Quartet. (For a wedding, a young oboist joined three members of my quartet for a movement of this piece. Lots of fun. See below for a clip.)

Alas, the sea takes the oboist, and the moment passes forever.

This book is a bit light on the action, spending a lot more time with the land-bound characters. It is rather nice to have a bit more of Diana, and also Clarissa. Jack seems to be mellowing and maturing, with a much more nuanced understanding of things than he started out with. I do, however, hope the next book has a bit more of either the sea or of Stephen’s escapades.

The best part of the book definitely remains the relationship and interplay between Stephen and Jack - one of the epic friendships of literature.

***

A bit of Mozart. Even a light work like this is full of great melodies and good humor.

Poems by Edgar Allan Poe

Source of book: I own the complete poems and stories of Edgar Allan Poe

Poe wasn’t a particularly prolific poet, concentrating more on his stories. But the ones he did write contain some of the most memorable poems in the English language. Even those who can’t remember the exact lines will understand “Nevermore!” and think of the dark bird of the title. Likewise, “Annabel Lee” and “The Bells” are familiar to nearly everyone who has completed high school here in the United States. A few more may be familiar to avid lovers of poetry, but beyond that, few know the rest.

I decided to go ahead and read the entire set. The big three are, obviously, great - I really enjoyed re-reading them. However, I also enjoyed getting into the back catalogue a bit. Poe’s mastery of the rhythms and sounds of the English language make his lyrics memorable, and delightful to recite out loud. (Which is really how poetry is meant to be read. I think more people would enjoy poetry these days if they would just do it that way.)

Here are some which stood out for me this time.

To My Mother

Because I feel that, in the Heavens above,

The angels, whispering to one another,

Can find, among their burning terms of love,

None so devotional as that of “Mother,”

Therefore by that dear name I long have called you—

You who are more than mother unto me,

And fill my heart of hearts, where Death installed you

In setting my Virginia's spirit free.

My mother—my own mother, who died early,

Was but the mother of myself; but you

Are mother to the one I loved so dearly,

And thus are dearer than the mother I knew

By that infinity with which my wife

Was dearer to my soul than its soul-life.

I love sonnets, so I had to include this one. I cannot confirm this, but I suspect this may well be the only poem written to a mother-in-law. My own MIL is a good one, so I understand; and Poe owed a lot to his MIL - who was also his aunt - as she often supported him and his wife during his periods of financial stress. I am pretty sure this was written after his wife died (at age 24) of tuberculosis - a tragedy that Poe never really got over, turning to alcohol to numb the pain. The poem, in any case, is a great tribute to a remarkable woman.

Poe’s poems are often dark, gloomy, and atmospheric. I might say they are the best of this genre, honestly. I found this one particularly engrossing.

Dream-Land

By a route obscure and lonely,   

Haunted by ill angels only,

Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,   

On a black throne reigns upright,

I have reached these lands but newly   

From an ultimate dim Thule—

From a wild weird clime that lieth, sublime,

       Out of SPACE—Out of TIME.

Bottomless vales and boundless floods,   

And chasms, and caves, and Titan woods,   

With forms that no man can discover   

For the tears that drip all over;   

Mountains toppling evermore   

Into seas without a shore;   

Seas that restlessly aspire,   

Surging, unto skies of fire;   

Lakes that endlessly outspread   

Their lone waters—lone and dead,—   

Their still waters—still and chilly   

With the snows of the lolling lily.

By the lakes that thus outspread

Their lone waters, lone and dead,—

Their sad waters, sad and chilly

With the snows of the lolling lily,—

By the mountains—near the river   

Murmuring lowly, murmuring ever,—   

By the grey woods,—by the swamp   

Where the toad and the newt encamp,—   

By the dismal tarns and pools

   Where dwell the Ghouls,—   

By each spot the most unholy—   

In each nook most melancholy,—   

There the traveller meets, aghast,   

Sheeted Memories of the Past—   

Shrouded forms that start and sigh   

As they pass the wanderer by—   

White-robed forms of friends long given,   

In agony, to the Earth—and Heaven.

For the heart whose woes are legion   

’T is a peaceful, soothing region—   

For the spirit that walks in shadow   

’T is—oh, ’t is an Eldorado!

But the traveller, travelling through it,   

May not—dare not openly view it;   

Never its mysteries are exposed   

To the weak human eye unclosed;   

So wills its King, who hath forbid   

The uplifting of the fring'd lid;   

And thus the sad Soul that here passes   

Beholds it but through darkened glasses.

By a route obscure and lonely,   

Haunted by ill angels only,

Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,

On a black throne reigns upright,   

I have wandered home but newly   

From this ultimate dim Thule.

Thule, for those not up on their geographer’s mythology, is the supposed northernmost inhabited land of legend. But also of interest in this poem is the fact that this dark, sad, damp place is referred to by Poe as an Eldorado - the city of gold. To the sad soul, with a heart of woe, it does, paradoxically, serve as a utopia.

Connected with this dualism is another: the word “Eidolon.” There are two competing definitions. The first is “A specter or phantom.” In Greek mythology, this would be the human-seeming apparition of a dead - or even living - person. The second definition, though, is “An idealized person or thing.” The personified Night, ruler of this dark yet utopian land is both a ghost in human form, and an ideal. These ideas are carried through the rest of the poem too - the shades of the past, the Ghouls, the amphibians with their slimy connotation - all of this is both ephemeral and desirable. I re-read this poem a few times because I loved it so much.

I considered quoting only the less famous poems, but I had to include this one, which will always be a favorite. Again, read it out loud! Its genius is apparent when you hear and speak the sounds.

The Raven

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—

    While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—

            Only this and nothing more.”

    Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

    Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow

    From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—

            Nameless here for evermore.

    And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain

Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;

    So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating

    “’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—

Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—

            This it is and nothing more.”

    Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,

“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;

    But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,

    And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,

That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;—

            Darkness there and nothing more.

    Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;

    But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,

    And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?”

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”—

            Merely this and nothing more.

    Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,

Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.

    “Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;

      Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—

Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—

            ’Tis the wind and nothing more!”

    Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,

In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;

    Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;

    But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—

Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—

            Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,

“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,

Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore—

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”

            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,

Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;

    For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being

    Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,

            With such name as “Nevermore.”

    But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.

    Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—

    Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before—

On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”

            Then the bird said “Nevermore.”

    Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,

“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store

    Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster

    Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—

Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore

            Of ‘Never—nevermore’.”

    But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;

    Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking

    Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore

            Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”

    This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing

To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;

    This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining

    On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,

But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,

            She shall press, ah, nevermore!

    Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer

Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.

    “Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee

    Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;

Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”

            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—

Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,

    Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—

    On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—

Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”

            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!

By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—

    Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,

    It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”

            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    “Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—

“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!

    Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!

    Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”

            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting

On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;

    And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,

    And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor

            Shall be lifted—nevermore!

I’m not even going to attempt an analysis - I think it speaks for itself. But the rhythm! The repetitions, the consonances, the hesitations: it is delightful writing. I love the little touches like “pallid” and “Pallas” (referring to Athena), which is an unexpected and evocative wordplay.

Here is another that I like:

A Dream Within A Dream

Take this kiss upon the brow!

And, in parting from you now,

Thus much let me avow —

You are not wrong, who deem

That my days have been a dream;

Yet if hope has flown away

In a night, or in a day,

In a vision, or in none,

Is it therefore the less gone?

All that we see or seem

Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar

Of a surf-tormented shore,

And I hold within my hand

Grains of the golden sand —

How few! yet how they creep

Through my fingers to the deep,

While I weep — while I weep!

O God! Can I not grasp

Them with a tighter clasp?

O God! can I not save

One from the pitiless wave?

Is all that we see or seem

But a dream within a dream?

I think he captures that fact that while things feel real to us when they happen, our memories feel like dreams - and time passes so fast that we cannot really grasp and hold our experiences.

Also on the theme of time, and the difference between youth and age, is this little beauty.

Romance

Romance, who loves to nod and sing,

With drowsy head and folded wing,

Among the green leaves as they shake

Far down within some shadowy lake,

To me a painted paroquet

Hath been—a most familiar bird—

Taught me my alphabet to say—

To lisp my very earliest word

While in the wild wood I did lie,

A child—with a most knowing eye.

Of late, eternal Condor years

So shake the very Heaven on high

With tumult as they thunder by,

I have no time for idle cares

Through gazing on the unquiet sky.

And when an hour with calmer wings

Its down upon my spirit flings—

That little time with lyre and rhyme

To while away—forbidden things!

My heart would feel to be a crime

Unless it trembled with the strings.  

                                                         

The two metaphors are apt: the parakeet and the condor. I love condors, so I can just see stately glide, with no time to waste on wingbeats. And the contrast with the noisy and flighty parakeet.

This short poem caught my eye. I was unable to find any information on who it was dedicated to, but I wonder if it was one of the several women who Poe courted after his wife’s death, who broke the relationship off fearing Poe was after their money.

To ___

I heed not that my earthly lot

Hath little of Earth in it,

That years of love have been forgot

In the hatred of a minute:

I mourn not that the desolate

Are happier, sweet, than I,

But that you sorrow for my fate

Who am a passer-by.

Whatever the case, it is a sad and bitter poem.

I also want to mention the longer poems, “Ulalume” and “Tamerlane.” Both of these have fantastic language, evocative descriptions, and are worth reading in full. “Tamarlane” is about a historical figure, who makes an extended appearance in The Possessed by Elif Batuman, which I read recently, so that was a fun connection. One line was really excellent - and devastating.

You call it hope - that fire of fire!

It is but agony of desire.

A succinct and poignant thought.

Poe’s poems often have that quality of non-conformism. He sees things differently - see “Dream-Land” for just a few. Here is another where he flips the script, preferring the distant Venus to the “too cold” moon.

Evening Star

'T was noontide of summer,

    And mid-time of night;

And stars, in their orbits,

    Shone pale, thro' the light

Of the brighter, cold moon,

    'Mid planets her slaves,

Herself in the Heavens,

    Her beam on the waves.

        I gazed awhile

        On her cold smile;

Too cold- too cold for me-

    There pass'd, as a shroud,

    A fleecy cloud,

And I turned away to thee,

    Proud Evening Star,

    In thy glory afar,

And dearer thy beam shall be;

    For joy to my heart

    Is the proud part

Thou bearest in Heaven at night,

    And more I admire

    Thy distant fire,

Than that colder, lowly light.

The layout of this poem is fascinating too, changing at the fulcrum point: the cold smile of the moon.

I’ll close with this one, which is the second to last poem in the collection. I have felt different since I was a child. Too introverted. Too brainy and bookish. Too interested in music. Too emotional to be a “normal” male child. Even now, with no real place for me in organized religion any longer, I feel the difficulty of finding my tribe, so to speak. Perhaps this is why Poe speaks to me.

Alone

From childhood’s hour I have not been

As others were—I have not seen

As others saw—I could not bring

My passions from a common spring—

From the same source I have not taken

My sorrow—I could not awaken

My heart to joy at the same tone—

And all I lov’d—I lov’d alone—

Then—in my childhood—in the dawn

Of a most stormy life—was drawn

From ev’ry depth of good and ill

The mystery which binds me still—

From the torrent, or the fountain—

From the red cliff of the mountain—

From the sun that ’round me roll’d

In its autumn tint of gold—

From the lightning in the sky

As it pass’d me flying by—

From the thunder, and the storm—

And the cloud that took the form

(When the rest of Heaven was blue)

Of a demon in my view.

I’m glad I took the time to read through this collection in its entirety. Poe was a skilled writer, but I think his true soul shows more in the poems than in the stories - as fantastic as those are.

The Hermitage Cats by Nicolai Gol & Maria Haltunen

Source of book: Gift from a friend.

This is a bit of an unusual book for the blog - it falls in the category of “coffee table book” although it is a good bit smaller than that image invokes. It is heavy on the pictures and light on text, more for perusing and enjoying, than spending time engrossed in a narrative. This isn’t a bad thing, obviously. Different books for different purposes.

Let me start out by disclosing that I am a cat person. I have had cats nearly continuously since age 5, and seriously love them. I love how they purr, I love the soft spot behind their ears, I love the way they sleep in specific shapes I dub “catiforms” (like cuneiform, but with cats…), and I like the way they aren’t perpetually needy. This is not at all to say I hate dogs. I actually like most dogs - just not Pomeranians, with which I have a long history of mutual dislike - and dogs mostly like me. I’m just a cat person.

So anyway, a friend picked up this little book for me last Christmas, and I read it.

The Hermitage is the State Hermitage Museum of St. Petersburg, Russia. This museum was founded by Catherine the Great as a place to house her private collection. She located it next to her winter palace in St. Petersburg. Later, it was opened to the public. These days, it has expanded to five interconnected buildings - including the palace itself.

The Hermitage is famous for its cats. Famous enough that the cats have their own press secretary. Originally brought in by They live in and around the museum, keeping the rodents at bay, and entertaining visitors. In addition to the living cats, the museum also has a number of works of art featuring cats, many of which are reproduced in this book.

The text portions of the book cover the history of feline domestication around the world. (Russia was a rather late adopter.) The history of humanity is largely one of agriculture - and with agriculture came granaries - and with granaries came rodents. Hence, the need for cats, to protect the precious grain from the insatiable rodents. It has long been known that cats have been domesticated for at least the last 5,000 years - the Nubian breed is a point where the wild crossed into domestic. However, more recent discoveries show that cats and humans go back much further. A grave in Cyprus has both human and feline bones dating back 9,500 years. This is highly unlikely to be a coincidence: wild animals were not buried with humans.

Obviously, Ancient Egypt gets some love. There are plenty of cat-themed artworks from there. Europe was interesting for a different reason. While Pope Gregory I reportedly had a kitten he carried with him everywhere, by the Middle Ages, cats were viewed as in league with the Devil, and thus mistrusted. And of course, they were equated with witches. Cats were burned at the stake along with women. We still see this in the trope of the “catty woman.” Even now, in certain circles, cats are viewed as “feminine” pets, with dogs as the “manly” companion. 

 The Nativity of St. John the Baptist, Tintoretto (1554)

Note the allegorical cat trying to kill the chicken.

The art followed the views. Even during the Renaissance, cats are depicted as malevolent creatures. Later, the prejudice softened, and cats are pictured as a normal part of domestic scenes.

I found the section on China to be interesting. The primordial cat was named Mao - both phonetical and interesting in light of later politics. In China, as in Egypt, the relationship of rodents, food, and cats is depicted in some rather striking artwork. 

 The Cat Hills, China. Late 19th - early 20th Centuries

Japan too viewed cats as royalty. None less than Muhammad taught that cats had a special place in paradise. (I for one would find a paradise deficient without a cat.)

One final bit that was pretty interesting was the various Russian tales of cats and mice. Usually the cats win, but more memorable are the tales in which the cat is finally caught by the mice. They throw an elaborate funeral. Sometimes, the cat is indeed dead and the mice celebrate. Other times, the cat awakens and eats the mourners.

The book is short and fun, and does make me want to visit The Hermitage some day. 

***

And, because I know you want to see a couple more cat pictures, here is my little companion. Chocolate Chip is ostensibly my youngest daughter's cat, but she knows a cat person when she sees one. She likes to purr and cuddle while I am reading after the kids go to bed. And, while I typed this post, she took up half my chair.

Come on, scratch behind my ears again...

What? You think you get the whole chair?

Walk Two Moons by Sharon Creech

Source of book: Audiobook from the library

This book is part of our haphazard exploration of Newbery Award winners and runner-ups. Walk Two Moons won the award in 1995. Literature seems to go in cycles. There was a time in the 1970s when it seemed like books were sad or troubling, and then again in the 1990s. This book leans in that direction, although it isn’t nearly as dark as The Giver, which was pretty triggering for me given my background. Walk Two Moons isn’t creepy, actually, just filled with, as the main character puts it, “the birds of sadness.” That said, despite the tragedy, grief, trauma, and conflicted emotions, the book is also full of hope and love. 

 

I am kind of hesitant to give much of a plot summary, as some of the really important details aren’t revealed until late in the book. I’ll try to avoid any major spoilers.

The book is divided into three narratives, which are interwoven. The first is almost a framing story: Salamanca, aka Sal, a 13 year old girl, is traveling with her grandparents on an epic road trip from Ohio to Idaho. Sal’s mother, after suffering a traumatic miscarriage and hysterectomy, has questioned her identity, and taken a road trip to see a cousin in Idaho. She has not returned. Sal dances around the reason why until near the end of the book. While on the trip, Sal tells us the story of her parents and her former life on a farm in Kentucky. She tells her grandparents the story of her life in Ohio, where her dad has moved with her after her mom’s departure. That story centers around her friend Phoebe, whose own family is coming apart at the seams. Each of these threads is unfolded as the book goes along. Sal essentially has to process her own emotions and experiences through each thread.

One of Sal’s discoveries is how different marriages work - or don’t. Phoebe’s mom is uptight and conventional, pouring herself into being the perfect wife and mother. But her family doesn’t really appreciate her, so she is dying inside, as Sal can see. Neither parent is horrible, but they are dysfunctional, and can’t seem to really connect. In some ways, this mirrors her own parents, although they have different personalities. Her mom is a bit of a free spirit, but feels she cannot live up to the perfection of her husband, who is kind, gentle, and thoughtful. Basically two good people who are too insecure to be truly happy.

In contrast are a couple of other marriages. Sal’s friend Mary Lou’s parents preside over a somewhat chaotic and low income household, but the home is filled with love. They embrace anyone who comes their way, including their nephew Ben, whose mother is in a mental institution. The other is that of Sal’s paternal grandparents - the ones she is taking the trip with. They are goofy, eccentric (they once got arrested for borrowing a wheel off a police car, among other capers), and not quite normal, but they are, 50 years later, still madly in love with each other.

Throughout the book, it seems that Creech contrasts the straitlaced, uptight sorts with the free spirits. Apparently, this is one element she drew from her own life. (The road trip is also drawn from her experiences. As is her complicated relationship with her mother.) I rather suspect she had relatives who fell on both sides of this issue, and perhaps struggled with where she would fit in.

Overall, a well written book. My kids found the humorous sections fun, and didn’t seem to mind the sadder stuff. Your mileage may vary.

Devil in the Grove by Gilbert King

Source of book: Borrowed from the library.

This has to be one of the hardest books I have ever read. Not because it is difficult, but because it is so horrifying - particularly in the difficult times we are in right now. The events in this book took place a little over 70 years ago - during the lifetimes of some of my parents’ generation. And, sadly, the last few years have proven that we haven’t moved forward all that much since then either.

On the one hand, this book is about great heroes. It is about the hope that people can change their minds and become better. But it is also about the unfortunate fact that the good people do not always win. And also that humans can be simply horrid: full of hate, prejudice, and easily incited to murder by whatever means they have at hand.

My older daughters have each had to read To Kill a Mockingbird for freshman English - they had already read it, so they had a head start. I remember my mother reading it to us. I read it for myself the first time in junior high, and again as an adult. It never gets easier; it is still one of the most moving and horrifying stories in the canon. It is precisely because it is all too true that makes it horrifying.

The events in Devil in the Grove likely inspired Harper Lee’s novel, although she certainly had her pick of judicial lynchings to choose from. This particular case is interesting in part because Thurgood Marshall played a role in it. As a result of his involvement, the FBI did a series of investigations into aspects of the case. Sadly, political realities kept the findings of these investigations secret for decades afterward, and the truly guilty parties went to their graves without paying any meaningful penalty for their roles in the murders. Gilbert King was able to access these files, and illuminate what really went down - information which Marshall lacked during the trials, and which could have changed the course of a number of lives.

The underlying story is one repeated thousands of times across the Jim Crow south: a white woman cries rape, some young black men are arrested, beaten into confessing, and either lynched, or given a sham trial and executed. Never mind any exculpatory evidence. Never mind rock solid alibis. Never mind due process. The honor of all white women must be avenged, and human sacrifice committed.

In the Groveland case, two of the men had indeed had brief contact with the woman and her semi-estranged husband. But their behavior afterward looked nothing like that of men who even suspected a charge of rape would be made. The other two men, believe it or not, could not possibly have committed a rape. In one case, he was clearly out of town long before it could have been done, while the other was...wait for it...in police custody when the rape was alleged to have occurred. But never mind, blood sacrifice was needed.

These facts were generally known at the time of trial. But there was more. The behavior of the alleged victim afterward was completely inconsistent with that of a rape victim. Multiple witnesses saw her and talked with her, and her appearance, story, and actions were at odds with her later story. Even more damning: she was given a medical exam, and no semen or signs of force were discovered. This fact was withheld from the defense, and the judge refused to let the doctor be called as a witness. (Just one of many obvious actions by the judge to guarantee a conviction. Seriously, as a lawyer, it is astounding that this sort of stuff happened routinely. I guess this is the sort of judge that Le Toupee thinks we should have…)

After the arrests, the three defendants were beaten nearly to death. Two of them confessed - including the one, a mere teen, who was in custody at the time of the alleged crime. The third never did confess, but the sheriff made sure the newspapers printed that all of them had confessed. (Yep, more tampering with justice.) The fourth defendant was gunned down by a posse.

And then, the KKK showed up - from other towns. A few unsuccessful attempts at gaining access to the prisoners to lynch them, they went and blew up and burned down most of the African American neighborhood. The sheriff stood by and watched it happen, and then refused to identify any of the perpetrators. In addition, the local head of the NAACP, Harry Moore, and his wife were murdered by a bomb put under their house. Again, no arrests were ever made.

Although Thurgood Marshall was involved in the preparation for the first trial, it was Franklin Williams and Alex Ackerman who actually tried the case. Both deserve props for outstanding work. Williams as a young black attorney taking a huge personal risk by even appearing in court in Florida, and Ackerman for essentially sacrificing his political career for the sake of justice.

Unsurprisingly, the verdict was guilty. However, in the case of the teen who was clearly not guilty, the jury recommended only life imprisonment. That’s as close to an exoneration as an African American could expect in Jim Crow Florida in the 1940s.

Marshall then appealed the case, barely keeping ahead of the prosecution’s efforts to have the defendants executed without delay. Eventually, the Supreme Court heard the case, and reversed it.

Prior to the second trial, however, the sheriff took the two defendants (only those two cases were appealed, for strategic reasons), drove them to a remote location, and shot them, claiming they tried to escape. One of them survived, however.

The second trial - now for just one remaining defendant - went about the same, despite Marshall’s personal involvement in the case. During the appeals of this second sham trial, Florida elected a new governor, one more eager to shed Florida’s reputation as a racist hellhole in order to attract investment from wealthy Yankees. The death sentence was commuted to life. And yet, despite this, while out on a temporary parole, this defendant was found dead under suspicious circumstances. It was rule “natural causes” and that basically ended the matter.

So yeah, a really sad story. The silver lining, to the extent there was one, was in the fact that this case played a key role in galvanizing the Civil Rights Movement. The open murder by the sheriff and the railroading of justice by a corrupt judge led to outrage in the North, and shined a light on the festering evil that thrived in places like Florida. Bad publicity eventually led to political pressure to change.

The other positive was that a few characters in this book - including Mabel Norris Reece, a journalist who originally was staunchly against the defendants - changed their minds as a result of seeing Southern “justice” in action. Sadly, many more stuck to their views even when it became obvious that the authorities had murdered innocent men.

If I had read this book a few years ago, I probably would have felt relief in the idea that things are a lot better now. And in some ways, yes they are. In other ways, though, things are much the same. Our whole discussion of the Black Lives Matter movement is nothing more or less than a continuation of this story. The casual murder of unarmed black men (and sometimes women) by police, with a weak “I was afraid” used to justify it, even in the face of video evidence to the contrary continues. Protestors are still demonized (including by the most powerful politician in America), and “ungrateful” is just another term for “uppity negro.”

For that matter, the KKK hasn’t gone away. Sure, it is unusual to see white robes and hoods in public. But the new white hood is the red MAGA hat. And the new euphemism is the “Blue Lives Matter” response to BLM. It’s still the same argument. Most discouraging was to read statement after statement dehumanizing blacks, and realize that while we don’t usually use the N-word anymore in public, the statements are largely unchanged. It isn’t even a shock anymore to see a Florida candidate warn the public about “monkeying it up” by electing an African American candidate. And of course the racist white guy won, because Florida hasn’t changed that much.

I do think, though, that the book does point to some ways to fight back against hate and the KKK. First, those who do not subscribe to these ideas need to stand up and say it out loud. We also need to keep exposing the evil. Over and over as often as necessary. As young(er) people, we need to remind our “racist uncles” that their words and behavior are not acceptable to us, and that they will not be coddled. And, of course, VOTE! One reason we have the KKK in the White House is that too few of us decent people showed up - particularly in the swing states.

While the entire book is exceedingly quotable, a few things stood out to me. First is the history of the NAACP and Thurgood Marshall. I was 15 when Marshall retired from the US Supreme Court. I remember watching the announcement with my dad, and his chuckle at his line, “What’s wrong with me? I’m old!” (See 3:20 in this clip from his press conference.) At the time, even though I was reasonably informed about law and politics, I didn’t really grasp just how much of a legal badass Marshall was. Once I got to law school, obviously, I saw him in a new light. Arguing (successfully) Brown v. Board of Education while he was with the NAACP was obviously a highlight, but he had a whole string of cases that chipped away at the foundation of Jim Crow. 

Likewise, the work done by the NAACP and its legal branch was singularly impressive. I jotted down the three criteria used to determine if they would get involved in a criminal case:

Marshall issued a memorandum that established three rules to be applied “to the types of criminal cases we accept…(1) That there is injustice because of race or color; (2) the man is innocent; (3) there is a possibility of establishing a precedent for the benefit of due process and equal protection in general and the protection of Negroes’ rights in particular.”

Rape cases presented a particular problem. King gives a few examples of contrasting cases. Often, when a consensual liaison between a white woman and a black man was discovered, she cried rape rather than face the scorn of her fellow whites. These charges were often impossible to defend against. Furthermore, as in the case of Joseph Spell and Eleanor Strubing, she actually abused her position to blackmail him into sex. (All too similar to Joseph and Potiphar’s wife…) In many states, a rape conviction meant a death sentence for a black man.

In contrast, even if a white man was convicted of raping a black child, he would get off with a fine or time served. Even worse if the white rapist was wealthy and/or powerful. An extended quote from The Mind of the South by W.J. Cash is interesting:

“[T]he actual danger of the Southern white woman’s being violated by the Negro has always been comparatively small...much less, for instance, than the chance that she would be struck by lightning,” it was “the most natural thing in the world for the South to see it as very great, to believe in it, fully and in all honesty, as a menace requiring the most desperate measures if it was to be held off.” In Cash’s estimation, the Southern rape complex “had nothing immediately to do with sex,” but rather with the feeling among Southerners that if blacks were allowed to advance beyond their severely circumscribed social station, they might “one day advance the whole way and lay claim to complete equality, including, specifically, the ever crucial right of marriage.”

This is why a rape accusation was so incendiary: the entire honor of all white women was at stake. As the crooked prosecutor in the Groveland case argued, (white) women valued their chastity more than life itself, and cited an apocryphal case of a woman throwing herself into the river rather than be raped. (Personally, given the choice between rape and death, I’d stay alive. Since I haven’t been raped or murdered, though, take that for what it is worth, I guess…)

It is not an accident that Le Toupee claimed that immigrants were “rapists.” This is deliberately loaded language aimed at dehumanizing minorities, and making racism into a “noble” defense of white chastity. And of course, has used such “desperate measures” as tearing children from their parents as punishment for seeking asylum. As I said, we have the KKK in the White House right now.

Those “desperate measures,” by the way, included flagrant misconduct. King tells of another of Marshall’s cases, where he and the defendant got the prosecutor to admit that he was literally present at the beating given to induce a confession. The prosecutor was literally shaking when Marshall was done with him. And yet. He still got a guilty verdict. The jury recommended a light sentence, though, which was as close as they could come to an acquittal. The greatest victory out of that case, though, was that the father of the (white) murder victim himself decided that the defendant was innocent and said so. And actually joined the NAACP.

Another thing which really struck me was the fact that the Civil Rights Movement has always been slurred by accusations of communism. Today’s Right does the same thing, of course, claiming everything is communism or socialism, whether or not it actually is. But it is a “conversation ender.” Accuse the other side of being communist, and that ends discussion. And thus it was in the 1940s too, except being accused of communism got you arrested or blackballed. (Ah, the halcyon days of McCarthyism…) I think this book actually explains pretty well why this happened. Under the name of “L. B. DeForest,” a young woman seeking to abolish the death penalty came to Lake County. She was also doing a bit of investigation for the NAACP in this case. What she heard was enlightening. Some church ladies offered their opinion of the case:

One of the ladies noted that “Negroes are o.k.,” but if they “step out of their place...they’ll burn.” Another said, “The Notherners spoil them and treat them like equals.”

I think this is ultimately the issue. “Communism” means, at an emotional level, that class and race get leveled. That prospect is, perhaps, the most terrifying. And also why racial equality is seen as “communism.” In that sense, nothing has changed. I myself have been accused of being a communist, which seems rich considering I have blogged extensively against communism and totalitarianism in general. But, if racial equality and public infrastructure that benefits all is communism, I guess I am one.

Speaking of the way things used to be - and still are - how about the connection between the KKK and violence against Jews? A few weeks ago, a Jewish center in Pittsburg got attacked by a White Supremacist gunman. Who was also racist against others. Well, same thing in the 1940s. The KKK gave equal attention to bombing Jewish targets along with the African American ones.

One other thing that was quite interesting was the way that certain historical figures came off. Douglas MacArthur has always been, shall we say, complex. On the one hand, he did some rather heroic things in war, and may have been right about Korea. (I still wonder if he had been allowed to march to Beijing, if we might have avoided Vietnam later.) But. But he was a thoroughgoing racist. Even after the Supreme Court in ordered the military desegregated (and president Truman concurred), MacArthur refused. Once he was relieved of command - for other reasons - the Army was desegregated in a few weeks. (A note here: I love air shows. One of the things I love about them is that our military men and women look a heck of a lot like America. Our finest young people are of all colors, and it makes me proud to be an American when I see them.)

Also not appearing particularly well was FDR, who seems to have been lukewarm at best to the idea of racial equality.

Eleanor Roosevelt, on the other hand: my goodness, what a magnificent woman. After Harry Moore’s murder - the first assassination of a civil rights leader - she came out with a prescient warning.

“That kind of violent incident will be spread all over every country in the world, and the harm it will do us among the people of the world is untold.” Indeed, stories in newspapers as far off as Asia and Africa reported the “violent incident,” and editorials in the world’s most influential newspapers condemned it.

Oh yes, this is so applicable to our own time. When even the most loathsome regimes can point to us and mock our own violence and hatred, we have a problem. (Hint: this is what you get when you elect a narcissist with a deep racist streak. Just saying…)

I’ll end with a quote from a pastor, Donald Harrington. I cannot help but think that if white pastors across our nation had had the courage to stand up and condemn the growing racism and xenophobia within their congregations, things would look different now. Anyway, here is a key part of his speech:

“Our whole country stands blackened and discredited in the eyes of the world because of Florida’s failure to protect the lives and liberties of all her citizens….I am ashamed of Florida, I am ashamed of the white race...I am ashamed of all the churches of Florida and elsewhere that have turned their eyes away from what has been going on in Lake County for these past years, and passed by on the other side while their fellow-Americans of a darker skin were being denied the most basic American and human rights and privileges. I weep for my country’s sacred honor.”

Amen, pastor Harrington. Amen. I too share that deep sense of shame at what so many of my race and religion have done to those who do not share their skin color. And how they justify racism, xenophobia, and hate by misusing the very name of God.

This book really should be required reading. It is horrifying, but it is all too true. The evils of racism continue in our society - where we really have never fully accepted the idea of true equality, where we value other people’s children like we do our own. We still live in a world where the KKK wields disproportionate power, and rogue sheriffs, prosecutors, and judges (see, respectively, Joe Arpaio, Jefferson Beauregard Sessions, and Roy Moore) work to terrorize non-whites while carefully maintaining white supremacy. But we also have the power to fix this. We are indeed in the middle of an epic civil rights battle. It is time for a renewed Civil Rights Movement, dedicated to the premise that all are equal under the law, and are entitled to social, political, and economic equality. Thurgood Marshall and many others fought for nothing less. We owe it not just to our children, but everyone’s children, to leave them a world in which this is not merely possible, but reality.