American Nations by Colin Woodard

Source of book: Borrowed from the library

 

American Nations, like any book that attempts to reduce a complex issue to a system, stretches its point a bit beyond where I think it works. However, it does propose a system that does make sense of a lot of things about American politics. 

 

The way I look at it - just like with ideas about stories - no one system explains everything, and no one paradigm will work at all times. That said, a good system or paradigm will be helpful in understanding things, and can be a part of a better knowledge of dynamics that can be easily missed.

 

The basic premise of Woodard’s book is that the United States was never a single nation, never a single culture, and never a single political idea. Instead, there were eleven rival cultures that date back to the European colonization of what is now the United States, and these rivals cludged together a union that occasionally works, but often doesn’t. Thus, understanding the regional cultures and political viewpoints does a lot to explain American politics, past and present. 

 

This idea is actually quite solid as far as it goes, and anyone who knows people from different places - particularly white people from these regions - will immediately recognize certain types and ways of thinking that feel foreign. One case in point is that I have generally found white males from the deep south to be the most different from my own Southern California perspective. Either they have deconstructed pretty hard, or they are, to be blunt, racist as fuck and shockingly certain of the congenital inferiority of black people in particular. 

 

But it is more than that: I can see huge gaps in how I think versus my parents (both born overseas, to parents from the Far West nation.) 

 

I could spend a series of posts just on the characteristics of these different nations, but that would be too much for a book review. Better to just read the book. 

 

The author calls them “nations” because to a large degree, each had its own existence and political structure before it became part of the United States. These aren’t just cultures, but ways of thinking about government and what a nation means.

 

Woodard identifies eleven total nations: Yankeedom, New Netherland, Tidewater, the Deep South, New France, Greater Appalachia, the Midlands, the Far West, El Norte, the First Nations, and the Left Coast.

 

 

In practice, there are really only ten, because the First Nations now only exist almost entirely in northern Canada. They mostly come into the book because other nations also cover Canada - Yankeedom, New France, and the Midlands. Canada’s politics therefore get a brief summary, as does the difference between northern Mexico (part of El Norte) and the southern part, which has no American counterpart. 

 

There is a map in the book that shows were these nations exist now, along with an explanation as to the historical reaches of each. The borders have changed a bit along with migration and political alignment. 

 

Another interesting point that the author makes, that I am not sure if I agree with or not (but it is plausible) is that largely immigrants to these nations assimilated into the cultures they joined, rather than influence them. Thus, an Italian who settled in New York City would adopt the New Netherland culture, while one who settled in San Francisco would adopt the Left Coast culture. 

 

Along with this is the obvious issue that this perspective is very, very white. Which the author acknowledges. And also notes that because even today white voters hold the majority of political power, these white cultures matter more when it comes to understanding the intersection of these nations with politics. 

 

I do want to be clear that the author is no right winger, and admits the white-centric viewpoint. I found the book in general to be realistic about the way race plays into all of this - including the regional differences in response to immigrants. (Why, for example, Minnesota has come out in force to protest ICE despite being a fairly white state.) 

 

Again, the author’s perspective is fascinating, and is helpful as a way of thinking about our country. 

 

The “country” of my own birth and formative years is El Norte. As with much of coastal California, it was influenced as much by Spain and later Mexico as by the other US cultures. While the author classifies my current location in Kern County as being part of the Far West (and that is plausible in some ways), I think it really could qualify as El Norte as well, with our high Hispanic population and history. 

 

In the chapter about the origins of El Norte, I noted this particular passage, which is part of the suppressed history of the Americas.

 

History has tended to portray the native peoples of the Americas as mere extras or scenery in a Western drama dominated by actors of European and African descent. Because this book is primarily concerned with the ethnocultural nations that have come to dominate North America, it will reluctantly adopt that paradigm. But there are a few factors to bear in mind at the outset about the New World’s indigenous cultures. Before contact, many had a standard of living far higher than that of their European counterparts; they tended to be healthier, better fed, and more secure, with better sanitation, health care, and nutrition. Their civilizations were complex: most practiced agriculture, virtually all were plugged into a continent-spanning trade network, and some built sophisticated urban centers. 

 

Related to this is another passage, on the nation of New France (which survives in the US as part of Louisiana, and in Canada as Quebec.) In this nation, native Americans were able to negotiate a more equal existence, and found common cause with the working-class immigrants, who were as likely to adopt Native ways of living. The wealthier French who had wished to establish a more feudal society lost out, and whined about the working class: “They seem offended by the fact that we wish to treat them like our peasants.” 

 

New Netherland is essentially the greater New York City area - it was hemmed in by other nations and had no way to expand to the west. In many ways, it reflects a lot of my own cultural preferences, in no small part because I was raised in a similarly cosmopolitan city. However, it has its own traits, including (historically) support for slavery for financial reasons, and a capitalistic way of thinking, that I do not share. This bit, though:

 

Visitors were shocked by the village’s religious, ethnic, and linguistic diversity. 

 

The book lays out many of the different people in and around New Amsterdam 400 years ago, and it sounds…a lot like NYC today. And Los Angeles. And most large cities in our nation. 

 

The different nations are introduced in chronological order - El Norte comes first of course. In between, there are often chapters on history involving the nations already founded. For example, there is a chapter that looks at the various revolts against English rule - the first in 1680. Each was related to the attempt to preserve the unique culture and government of one of the nations. I won’t summarize, but just mention that these forgotten histories were fascinating. 

 

No nation in this book is perfect - each is a blend of good and bad. Except maybe the Deep South, for which it is honestly difficult to find a single redeeming virtue. And that is to be expected for a region founded by Slave Lords from Barbados (that’s a pulp novel title right there) hell bent on instituting slavery everywhere on the planet, and willing to enslave white people if there were insufficient black people to brutalize. 

 

And, to be clear, right now, MAGA is the recreation of that anti-democracy, racist-as-fuck culture, fueled yet again by obscenely rich oligarchs (this time imported from South Africa, not Barbados.) The Southern Baptist/Confederate culture is currently ruling the other nations, who are largely not happy about it. 

 

The society founded in Charleston did not seek to replicate rural English manor life or to create a religious utopia in the American wilderness. Instead, it was a near-carbon copy of the West Indian slave state these Barbadians had left behind, a place notorious even then for its inhumanity. Enormously profitable to those who controlled it, this unadulterated slave society would spread rapidly…From the outset, Deep Southern culture was based on radical disparities in wealth and power, with a tiny elite commanding total obedience and enforcing it with state-sponsored terror. Its expansionist ambitions would put it on a collision course with its Yankee rivals, triggering military, social, and political conflicts that continue to plague the United States to this day. 

 

Exactly. 

 

Like Tidewater’s aristocracy, many of the planters had ancestors who had fought for the king in the English Civil War, and they embraced the trappings and symbolism of the British nobility, if not the social responsibilities that were supposed to attend them.

 

This too reflects Trump and his ilk: they love the trappings of aristocracy, but have no interest in the responsibilities that traditionally came with that social system. All the bling, none of the noblesse oblige. 

 

There is a great discussion in this chapter about the racial caste lines, and how the rules didn’t apply to rich white men.

 

Although pressed into service as wet nurses, cooks, and nannies, blacks were regarded as “unclean,” with Deep Southern whites maintaining a strong aversion to sharing dishes, clothes, and social spaces with them. For at least three hundred years, the greatest taboo in the Deep South was to marry across the caste lines or for black men to have white female lovers, for the caste system could not survive if the races began to mix. Even the remotest suspicion of violating the Great Deep Southern Taboo would result in death for a black male. 

However, like so many institutions in the Deep South, the caste system had convenient loopholes for the rich white men who created it. Having sex with your enslaved women and girls was perfectly acceptable, so long as you did it only for “fun.” 

 

The book specifically mentions Strom Thurmond and his black child (never acknowledged) - and he died in 2003. As Faulkner put it, “The past is never dead. It’s not even past.” 

 

One final bit from this chapter is amusing. Before the Deep South took over Georgia, it was founded as a philanthropic utopia. With this twist:

 

Georgia’s benefactors even forbade liquor and lawyers, as they thought both eroded moral character. 

 

Hey now! Apparently they didn’t realize Dick the Butcher was a bad guy? 

 

I am skipping over a number of chapters without quotes - but I assure you they were fascinating as well. 

 

Next I want to mention the book’s quick look at the explosion of new, uniquely American religions in the first half of the 19th Century. Most of them came out of Yankeedom, which the author does not see as a coincidence. In this context, I want to link to my recent review of The American Religion by Harold Bloom, which definitely ties in with this discussion. 

 

The culture of Greater Appalachia is also fascinating. They have often been one of the “swing” nations in our greater political story, and in ways that are both predictable and yet deeply odd. 

 

Appalachia is sandwiched between the northern nations, with the more tolerant Midland acting as a buffer between the puritanical and utopian Yankeedom, but with nothing between it and the Deep South.

 

The battle has often come down to whether Appalachia feels more of a threat from the Yankees or from the Deep South. The Yankees have always wanted to impose their values, but the Deep South has tended to eye working class whites in Appalachia as quite exploitable. 

 

It is interesting that the same anti-intellectual, anti-education ideas that we see now have always been there as a reaction to both educated Yankees and wealthy enslavers. 

 

Then as now, demagogues leveraged this desire for “freedom” from interference to rile up racial hatred, and blame liberals for interfering with slavery. 

 

While Yankeedom may have been the birthplace of religions, it was Cane Ridge, in Appalachia that birthed another thread in uniquely American religion, the experiential revivalism that Evangelicals today keep trying to, well, revive. 

 

I give further points to the book for focusing on the way the West was also a battlefield before, during, and after the Civil War. One part of this battle involved immigrants. Here again, we see a fascinating parallel between past and present. Before the Civil War, the free states had eight times as many foreign-born residents as the slave states. As the author pointed out, immigrants saw few opportunities in slave economies, and had already had enough of aristocratic feudalism in their home countries. 

 

We see this today in the way that Red states tend to both have fewer immigrants and be more anti-immigrant. 

 

Another thing we continue to see in our own time is the use of religion in the South to justify evil - calling it godliness. 

 

There is no question that the Deep South seceded and fought the Civil War to defend slavery, and its leaders made no secret of this motive. Slavery, they argued ad nauseam, was the foundation for a virtuous, biblically sanctioned social system superior to that of the free states. 

 

As notorious plantation owner William Preston said at the 1860 Democratic Party convention put it:

 

“Slavery is our King; Slavery is our Truth; Slavery is our divine right.” 

 

Understanding the Confederacy and understanding MAGA require coming to terms with that reality - this is what underlies both movements. White supremacy as god, king, truth, and divine right. 

 

The book mentions a name with local significance as well. John C. Breckinridge, notorious traitor and enslaver who was instrumental in succession, is the subject of one of two remaining Confederate monuments in my home county. One is a Daughters of the Confederacy plaque that exists somewhere in the archives of our local county museum. 

 

The other is Breckenridge Mountain, whose slopes I have hiked on many times. And no, that isn’t a typo: they misspelled his name. I strongly believe they should rename it, preferably after local conservationist, educator, poet, and advocate for goodness, Ardis Walker. 

 

Moving on to more positive things about American Nations, I found the discussion of the different nations’ approach to immigration to be fascinating. My own El Norte has always been multicultural, as has New France. New Netherland and the Midlands have also been historically welcoming to immigrants. 

 

For both these nations, being “American” had nothing to do with one’s ethnicity, religion, or language, but was rather a spirit or state of mind. 

 

This is how I was raised, before Faux News and the Evangelical Industrial Complex ate my parents. I have always loved the experience of multiple colors, religions, and languages around me - those are the neighbors I literally grew up with. 

 

Moving on to the chapters on modern politics - meaning up until 2011 when the book was published - it is again fascinating to see how alliances have remained remarkably similar despite all of the party realignments. Unfortunately, what has happened is that the worst of the Deep South has eaten one of our major parties, and shifted things sharply to the extreme right. 

 

The most conservative of Northern alliance presidents would all be considered big-government liberals by the standards of early-twenty-first-century Dixie-bloc political leaders. So, too, would the Norther alliance-led Republican Party of the 1950s. 

 

As the author notes, Eisenhower is to the left of the Democratic establishment of today by most standards. And the goals of the oligarchs hasn’t changed in 200 years either. 

 

The goal of the Deep Southern oligarchy has been consistent for over four centuries: to control and maintain a one-party state with a colonial-style economy based on large-scale agriculture and the extraction of primary resources by a compliant, poorly educated, low-wage workforce with as few labor, workplace safety, health care, and environmental regulations as possible. 

 

Yep, that is literally the GOP platform these days. Factory farming and fossil fuels, no regulations that might interfere with profit. 

 

And how do these oligarchs get the masses to follow them against their own interests? Same way as always…

 

When these systems were challenged by African Americans and the federal government, they rallied poor whites in their nation, in Tidewater, and in Appalachia to their cause through fearmongering: The races would mix. Daughters would be defiled. Yankees would take away their guns and Bibles and convert their children to secular humanism, environmentalism, communism, and homosexuality. Their political hirelings discussed criminalizing abortion, protecting the flag from flag burners, stopping illegal immigration, and scaling back government spending when on the campaign trail; once in office, they focused on cutting taxes for the wealthy, funneling massive subsidies to the oligarchs’ agribusinesses and oil companies, eliminating labor and environmental regulations, creating “guest worker” programs to secure cheap farm labor from the developing world, and poaching manufacturing jobs from higher-wage unionized industries in Yankeedom, New Netherland, or the Midlands. 

 

Yep. Exactly. 

 

Two factors worked in the oligarchs’ favor, however: racism and religion. 

 

Again, EXACTLY. Those two things have become essentially inseparable in Evangelicalism, and other conservative-leaning religious groups. 

 

And it isn’t the religion of the Yankees either. 

 

Borderlanders and poor whites in Tidewater and the Deep South shared a common religious tradition: a form of Private Protestantism that rejected social reform, found biblical justification for slavery, and denounced secularism, feminism, environmentalism, and many key discoveries of modern science as contrary to God’s will. 

 

This is why my mom believes I am going to hell. Not because of theological disagreements, but because of this politicized religion that opposes female equality, pluralism, and science. It is a religion of whiteness, of privilege, and of deep denial of reality. 

 

One of the most fascinating things in this chapter, though, was the way that the author ties regionalism to some unexpected voting patterns. The Deep South voted for Carter over Ford in one of the very rare political defections of the last century. This is even more unusual than Appalachia going for Clinton over Dole. After all, Carter was, in his political views, the polar opposite of the usual Deep South obsessions. The local liberal won out over the conservative Yankee. 

 

The epilogue is all about how the unlikely union of such disparate nations has survived as long as it has. It really does feel like a miracle, and one whose power has faded in our time as it did in the 1860s. Will we hold together? I am not confident in that, not least for a reason that the author notes:

 

But one thing is certain: if Americans seriously want the United States to continue to exist in something like its current form, they had best respect the fundamental tenets of our unlikely union. It cannot survive if we end the separation of church and state or institute the Baptist equivalent of Sharia law. We won’t hold together if presidents appoint political ideologues to the Justice Department or the Supreme Court of the United States, or if party loyalists try to win elections by trying to stop people from voting rather than winning them over with their ideas. The union can’t function if national coalitions continue to use the House and Senate rules to prevent important issues from being debated in the open because members know their positions wouldn’t withstand public scrutiny. 

 

Oh, snap! That’s literally MAGA and Trump and today’s GOP being literally described. They want to impost Baptist Sharia on the rest of us. They have already stuffed SCOTUS and the Justice Department with party hacks. They are trying to end voting rights. They are using Trump’s orders to accomplish deeply unpopular policies, from illegal wars to the destruction of the Federal Government. 

 

And those of us from the nations that are not the Deep South are pretty furious about all this. We are tired of subsidizing the lazy whites in Red states. We are tired of religion protecting pedophiles. We do not want the tech bros to own everything. 

 

Will the nation hold together, or will we cut the Red states loose to become a third world country? We shall see. 

 

It’s an interesting book, for sure, and one that I recommend to those who like history, politics, philosophy, and thoughtful ways of looking at the above. 

 

***

 

For a quick look at the nations, Business Insider revisited the idea during the Covid pandemic.  

Babel by R. F. Kuang

Source of book: Audiobook from the library

 

This book was our selection for this month for the Literary Lush Book Club. It was on my list already both because I read one of Kuang’s other books, Yellowface, and liked it; and because several friends liked Babel. 

 

These books are, shall we say, very different. Which is an indication that Kuang is versatile in multiple genres.

 

I ended up listening to this on audiobook along with my wife (also part of the book club) since we had a couple of trips out of town together. We finished most of it, then set aside an evening to do our ironing and listen to the rest. 

 

Before I get into the book itself, I want to say at the outset that I very much enjoyed the book. Its strengths include excellent and consistent worldbuilding, a sympathetic yet complicated and messy protagonist, a compelling story, and so much delicious discussion of translation and words. And also, an ending that felt inevitable and satisfying, which isn’t always the case in modern fiction. 

 

The weaknesses are several. First, the book does way too much preaching about the evils of colonialism. If I were here editor, I would have insisted on cutting 50 to 100 pages worth of preachiness. The thing is, it isn’t necessary. The story itself is ample argument, and the preaching detracts, rather than adds. 

 

In my opinion, the core problem is that Kuang (who was in her mid-20s and a grad student when she wrote the book - so youthful follies) doesn’t trust her readers. She sees them as being like Letty - who I suspect was based on a person or persons the author knew - rich white girls who fail or refuse to understand how racism affects people of color. Thus, too many explanations. 

 

I would like to assure Kuang (in the unlikely event she runs across this blog) that many of her readers already are on her side regarding colonialism, and also can draw their own conclusions from the story itself. We don’t need the preaching. And I suspect that most of the people who would be drawn to this kind of book are that kind of reader already. 

 

The other flaws are more minor. There are a few minor plot holes that astute readers can find, although they are not significant to the story. A few in our club, myself included, wish that we had gotten Victoire’s back-story sooner than the epilogue. And perhaps more of Victoire herself, because she is a great character. 

 

Finally, I think that there is the question of ostensibly 19th Century characters talking using modern ideas of sexism, colonialism, racism, and so on. In some books, this importation of modern ways of thinking irritates the hell out of me. On the other, since this book was clearly set in an alternate reality - one in which, most notably, women are allowed to attend Oxford in the 1830s - I found it to be just part of the worldbuilding along with the silver-based magic/technology. 

 

Okay, so all of that out of the way, what is this book anyway?

 

The book is an alternate history or perhaps alternate universe version of Oxford University in the 1830s. In this world, Britain’s worldwide empire is sustained by a peculiar form of magic - aka technology - that doesn’t exist in our world. 

 

The technology requires silver bars, inscribed with similar words in different languages - words that could be translated as synonyms, but, because translation is never entirely exact, have very slightly differing meanings or connotations. This gap in meaning creates the power to create in reality the difference in nuance. 

 

These silver bars and their magical (or technological - a distinction without a difference, perhaps…) powers are the basis for everything that England is able to do, from steam power to weapons. And a lot of mundane things too, like making flowers smell better and have brighter colors. 

 

This particular magic is well thought out, and developed in fascinating ways throughout the book. It is a brilliant idea that happens to be a lot of fun, while also carrying meaning in our own world.

 

One could see the silver-based industrial revolution in the book as a stand-in for several ideas in our own world. The real-life Industrial Revolution, for example. As the book points out, industrial technology had a number of nasty consequences, from mass unemployment to environmental degradation. 

 

One could also, perhaps, see the silver as a metaphor for fossil fuels, which powered the Industrial Revolution. Or for extractive capitalism. Or capitalism more generally. Or for whatever technologies enabled Empire. 

 

The fact that any or all of these can be seen in the silver bars is why they work so well in the book. They are a reduction of a spectrum of factors that enabled the existence of the British Empire, and now enable the existence of an American Empire, and all the exploitation, enslavement, genocide, and other evils that those empires have brought to our world.

 

Unlike the more complicated reality of our own world, in the book, all that sustains Empire is concentrated in one single - and thus vulnerable - base of material, knowledge, and technology. Because of this, taking down the Empire is far easier than it was and is in our world. 

 

Born into this alternative world is Robin, a Chinese boy whose mother dies of Cholera at the beginning of the book. Robin is saved by a mysterious professor from Oxford, who whisks him away to England to study to gain admittance to Oxford, specifically the Royal Institute of Translation, aka “Babel.” 

 

This institute has its own tower at Oxford - yeah, not at all subtle with the Biblical references, although I wonder how many of Kuang’s generation are familiar with those stories now. In that tower is contained all the knowledge of languages collected over the centuries, which is necessary to discover new translation pairs to power the silver bars. 

 

As Robin discovers, he was literally created to be a cog in this Institute - to take a fluent knowledge of Mandarin and Cantonese along with English (he was provided an English nanny as a child) to mine the translation possibilities. To this end, Professor Lovell fathered him with an impoverished Chinese woman, and took him to England to train him for the task. 

 

At first, Robin loves Oxford and all it stands for. He makes friends with his “cohort” of translators: the English Letty, sent to Oxford after her brother dies a drunken death; Victoire, a Haitian woman born into quasi-slavery; and Ramy, born in British India. All four are linked by their experiences of discrimination at the mostly all-white-male Oxford, and their backstories containing loss in various ways. 

 

Soon, however, Robin realizes that all is not well. His father, who never acknowledges his paternity, sees Robin as a pawn in the larger game of Empire, not a fully human person. Babel’s silver bars seem to be used, not to better the lives of colonized people, or even working class Brits, but for either frivolous or nefarious purposes. And the once close cohort begins to fray as time goes on. 

 

Robin also meets his older half-brother, Griffin, who faked his own death and left Babel to work for a mysterious organization called the Hermes Society, which works to undermine the Empire in various ways, from lobbying work to sabotage and theft. 

 

And finally, the British Empire is on the brink of starting the Opium War - a true parallel to our world. This would serve both to cement the Empire and devastate China, which horrifies Robin. 

 

I’ll stop there, because I don’t want to give any further spoilers. 

 

I did want to discuss a few more things about the book, however. 

 

First, the Opium Wars. I remember reading about them in high school, and being thoroughly appalled and disgusted. It is difficult to think of a more thoroughly evil and deplorable action than what the British Empire did. There is literally nothing remotely redeeming about it. The only “good” to come of it was that it made a handful of merchants obscenely rich. And that came at the cost of British and Chinese lives, the destruction of far more lives, and the establishment of a precedent that money would govern foreign policy. 

 

I mean, the slave trade is still probably the worst, but the Opium Wars are pretty damn close. 

 

One wonders if there had been a chance for an ordinary student like Robin in our own world to prevent the Opium Wars, if he would have taken it. Morally, it would seem he would have been compelled to. 

 

In this way, Kuang, by carefully choosing a historical event that was morally sickening, makes her point very well indeed. And thus, in my view, didn’t need to preach about it. 

 

The book is notable for a near-complete absence of sex. It is hard to tell how much of this is due to Kuang’s choice of era - how to write convincing sexuality in early-Victorian England. I mean, this was the era of Jane Austen, who used a lot of dialogue to create frisson, but carefully avoided anything actually physical. 

 

But the other thing that is possible, in my opinion, is that Kuang just didn’t feel like sexuality was necessary. All we get are a few hints here and there. So, we know, for example, that Letty has a thing for Ramy, but we are also teased very subtly that Ramy and Robin are the actual lovers. Very subtly indeed. I think it is there, but you have to pay attention. 

 

The book is, in my opinion, a classic tragedy. Like an old Greek play, or a modern Shakespeare like, say, Hamlet, it is laid out in five parts which correspond well to the acts in a tragedy. You can find the inciting event (Robin going to England), the turning point (the inciting of the Opium Wars), and the final catastrophe. 

 

The arc of Robin’s character is in many ways similar to Hamlet, and the end result equally morally ambiguous. Which, perhaps, depends on what you think of Fortinbras, or what would have come after a British Empire that collapsed in the 1830s. 

 

This was another thing I greatly enjoyed about the book. It taps into the things I love about Shakespeare and about the ancient Greeks and their stories. 

 

As I noted early in this post, I personally loved all the stuff about translation. Even if I disagree with the one character who opined that all translation is lying - it is untrue to the original meaning. 

 

For me, I think that all human communication suffers from that problem. We never entirely communicate our meaning to each other, both because words are imperfect substitutes for human experience of ourselves, and because humans are all imperfect in their ability to use words to express meaning. 

 

One of the things I have experienced over and over throughout my 16 years as a blogger is that try as I might, what I type on my screen is at best a translation of what I intend to say, a reduction of my feelings and experiences and reactions to the straitjacket of language. Some days, I feel I have come close, and that this translation is “good” in some way. And I have certainly been told by readers that what I communicated resonated for them. 

 

Perhaps even more so, all of us are confined by our own literacy. I am (sadly) monolingual, able to think in English, but not in other languages. This is Robin’s superpower - that he can think in multiple languages - a power shared by his friends, of course. But any language contains its limitations, and to a disturbing extent, our ability to think and reason and express happens within the confines of the language we speak and the meaning of words in our time and place. 

 

As a philosopher might say, “here lie dragons.” It is certainly uncomfortable to think one’s ability to think depends that much on one’s learned communication forms as an infant. 

 

While I am monolingual, I very much enjoy reading books in translation, and even with my own limited knowledge, I can appreciate the art that goes into it. Reading multiple translations, for example, one can see the different compromises and approximations and how different readers choose to prioritize the different nuances. 

 

As a result of this, though, I realized as a young person that translation was an art, not a science, and that translators bring their own selves and biases and ways of thinking to their work. Which is why it frustrates me to see ancient works like the Bible used as if our English translations, with all their theological baggage, are somehow word-for-word straight from the mouth of Almighty God. Rather than what they are: an attempt at communication across millennia and culture and distance and language - an attempt that is not always even in good faith on some points. (See: male supremacist decisions in translation) 

 

And, with that, it circles back to my point that all human communication is in some sense translation - an imperfect but necessary art. Arguments over meaning tend to overlook this, and too many demand certainty and the superiority of their own views rather than accept the spectrum of existence and meaning and connection that define us as humans. 

 

As a final thought, I want to talk a bit about the ending and the message of the book. If you haven’t read the book yet, I would advise skipping this part, as it definitely has spoilers.

 

I have seen two different subtitles for the book, but the one that I want to focus on is “Or, the Necessity of Violence.” 

 

There is a lot going on here, and I do not think the subtitle expresses the message of the book at all. 

 

Most obvious is the dispute between Griffin - pro-violence and impatient with non-violent resistance - and Antony, committed to non-violent means of protest. In the end, Robin chooses Griffin’s way. 

 

Or does he?

 

I don’t think that is at all clear. Robin certainly destroys property. And human life is lost as collateral damage. Indeed, the destruction of Empire - any Empire - inevitably causes great suffering. But so does the continued existence of Empire. The moral calculus is impossible for any one person to truly make. 

 

But with the one notable exception, Robin doesn’t do direct violence to anyone. Rather, he takes down the system by direct sabotage. Which isn’t the same as violence, exactly. 

 

This isn’t the classic “assassinate the king” with the expectation that everything will get better. It isn’t the “start a war” ploy either. 

 

Conveniently, the Empire in the book depends on a single point of failure. If only it were so in our own world. (And, believe me, if such a point existed, someone would have utilized it long ago.) Robin simply causes that point to fail. 

 

The book also conveniently stops at a dramatically satisfying place. It is an ending to a story. 

 

But what comes afterward is actually more important than what Robin has done. We do not know the outcome, only that the Empire has lost its overwhelming advantage. Will something better be built? Or will it just lead to another Empire taking its place. Meet the new boss, same as the old boss…

 

It is the building that comes afterward that matters the most in our own world. What will we build? How will we build it? It isn’t enough to collapse and Empire; the rebuilding will make all the difference. 

 

In the end, it will be left to people like Victoire, with her ability to communicate across geography and language, who will be most necessary in finding an alternative to the exploitation of Empire. It is an interesting thought to end the book with, for sure. 

 

So, as I noted, I really did enjoy this book a lot. Yes, it had its flaws and felt at times like a first novel, but so much was very good, and I was drawn into the world and the story. 

 

 

Topdog/Underdog by Suzan-Lori Parks (Empty Space 2026)

In its 20+ years of existence, The Empty Space has always been willing to take risks, to put on plays that weren’t guaranteed to sell. Plays that challenged audiences in various ways. And, admirably, that brought the stories of marginalized groups to the stage. 

 

In this case, Topdog/Underdog is a Pulitzer-winning play by African American playwright Suzan-Lori Parks, who has written for both the screen and the stage. It explores both family dynamics and the challenges faced by African American men in America.

 

I wouldn’t say I exactly enjoyed this play. It is pretty traumatic, and doesn’t end happily. It also can be triggering for everything from domestic violence to child abuse to firearm violence. So be warned. Also, a lot of x-rated dialogue, if that is a problem for you. 

 

That said, it is a compelling play, and the production at The Empty Space was excellent. Even as everything goes to absolute shit by the end of the play, you can’t look away, and you genuinely care about the characters, as flawed and difficult as they are. 

 

This is a two-man play, with brothers Lincoln and Booth sharing a crappy apartment in the city somewhere, and trying to get by in a world that isn’t exactly eager to give young black men good jobs. 

 

Abandoned by their parents as children, and left with $500 each as an “inheritance,” the two have a close but fraught relationship. 

 

Lincoln formerly hustled a Three Card Monte con, but after his buddy was shot, has gone straight and is impersonating Abraham Lincoln in whiteface at a carnival. Booth is unemployed, but has the apartment, and assists by “boosting” merchandise. 

 

Oh, and don’t worry, this is definitely a “Chekhov’s Gun” play, and the names are a portent. 

 

The plot itself isn’t the most important element in this one. Rather, the relationship between the brothers, with jealousy, resentment, family trauma, and poverty making for incredible tension and difficult is the center of the play. 

 

One could see this as a retelling of a combination of Cain and Abel with Jacob and Esau, although with the birth order reversed. It feels kind of Biblical in its own way. 

 

Because of the small cast, the chemistry between the actors is crucial, and I can say that in this case, Ty Halton as Lincoln, and Nasiyr Johnson as Booth played off each other superbly. Both truly inhabited their characters, and the sibling rivalry felt very real. 

Booth (Nasiyr Johnson) and Lincoln (Ty Halton) 

 

Halton has been a regular on stage for years, in a variety of roles and genres, and on literally every stage in this town. He has been reliably excellent, and brings a distinct personality to every role. 

 

I’m not sure I have seen Johnson in a big role before, but he matched Halton’s jaded elder brother with a certain manic energy and seething resentment. It was a compelling performance. 

 

The set for this play was a good part of the attraction. The bathroom in particular was a work of art, with all the stains and grime and even a magnet-powered cockroach. It didn’t help that for the first act, the place looked like the caricature of a bachelor pad, with dirty clothes and porno mags everywhere, pinups on the walls, and a general lack of cleaning. 

 

I’ll also note my pleasure at the perfect coordination of the light operator (Michael Hendrix, who also directed) with the actors on the various light switches on stage. Little details like that make me smile. We saw opening night, and the only possible technical issue I saw was a doorjam that came loose when slammed. Which might have been intentional, come to think of it. It worked. 

 

Topdog/Underdog has had its share of big-name headliners on and off of Broadway since it was written a couple decades ago. I think our local guys have every reason to be proud of the work they did in this production. 

 

This play had a limited run of three performances, which I get, since it didn’t sell out the night we were there. It isn’t the sort of play you see to escape reality or leave feeling good. But it is compelling, and I’m glad we saw it. 

 

This show has already run its course, but The Empty Space has a bunch of other stuff coming up that I hope to see. Check out their season, and give our local theaters some love. 

Elektra by Richard Strauss and Hugo von Hofmannsthal (San Francisco Opera)

The story of Electra is the middle episode in a trilogy of Greek stories about the family of Agamemnon. Each of the three great Greek tragedians - Sophocles, Aeschylus, and Euripides - wrote a version of the Electra story, each with different takes on the central character of Electra. 

 

For Aeschylus, Electra is certain that her father’s murder must be avenged, but is conflicted and unable to commit to doing the deed herself. Hence why her brother Orestes must take the lead. 

 

For Sophocles, Electra is consumed with hatred for her mother and stepfather, perhaps even unhinged and obsessed with revenge. In this account, Orestes is at most an equal participant, and perhaps even a victim of Electra’s revenge. 

 

Euripides portrays Electra as cold and clinical, carrying out the revenge the gods demand. Orestes becomes a mere tool in her hands. 

 

In addition to the three ancients, there are many others who have retold versions of this story. I previously wrote about Electricidad by Luis Alfaro, which our local community college put on. If you want a good summary of the backstory and plot, that post has it. 

 

For this version, the librettist, Hugo von Hofmannsthal, took the Sophocles version as his starting point for his stage play. He then added a bunch of Jung’s psychology - Jung coined the term “Electra Complex” after Hofmannsthal wrote his play - to Elektra’s obsession with revenge. 

 

Composer Richard Strauss saw Hofmannsthal’s play in 1905, and knew it would make a great opera. However, having just written Salome, he worried that it was too similar in its plot and ideas. 

 

Hofmannsthal, however, kept encouraging Strauss to take on the project, and eventually prevailed. The playwright was also a good sport about all the cuts that Strauss insisted upon - much of the overt Jung and Freud was too wordy for an opera, and Strauss pared the action down to make it more stage-friendly. 

 

(In retrospect, Strauss was probably on the right track, as the opera is more often performed than the play.) 

 

For this version, there is a lot more emphasis on Chrysothemis, the forgotten younger sister, who wants a normal life and a family, but is essentially held prisoner along with Elektra by their domineering mother. For both, they hope that young Orestes, sent away as a child to prevent his murder (because he is a rival to the new guy, Aegisth), will return and set things right. 

 

The interplay between the sisters - Elektra consumed by her desire for revenge, and Chrystothemis yearning to marry and have children - makes up a good bit of the first half of the play. 

 

When Aegisth and Klytemnestra announce that Orest is dead, Elektra decides to take matters into her own hand - and nearly convinces Chrystothemis to assist. 

 

Whether the sisters would have carried it out will never be known, because Orest, who is definitely not dead, reappears in disguise, reveals himself to Elektra, and does the dirty deed himself. 

 

Hofmannsthal largely takes the Sophocles version as his model for the play, and focuses a lot on Elektra’s obsession with revenge. However, there is no doubt in this version that Orest is no child manipulated by his older sister. He comes back with a swagger, fully aware that his mother has it in for him, having sold out to her new lover. There is zero hesitation on his part to kill. In fact, he doesn’t even need to use the axe that murdered his father - he has his own. (A bit of a metaphor for coming of age there…) 

 

The other twist that Hofmannsthal puts on things is that Elektra dances herself to death at the end, having accomplished her goal, but finding no ultimate satisfaction in it. 

 

So much for the libretto, which focuses mostly on Elektra’s inner state. This opera is hugely demanding on the singer in that role, as she gets nearly one half of the hour and three-quarters of time. 

 

Strauss’ score is wonderful, lush, rich, and modern. It isn’t atonal, exactly, but it, like Salome, lacks a true tonal center most of the time, with nothing ever quite resolving. 

 

It felt to me a lot like a movie score. While there are arias and so on, they run into each other with no breaks. Indeed, the entire opera is presented in one act, without any pauses. 

 

The music supports the emotions throughout, swelling at each climax, and wringing every bit of pathos out of the conflicts. I love the entire experience of listening to it. (That’s why I picked this opera as the one we went to see this year - Strauss’ music fascinates me.) The emotional landscape of the score makes it a true masterpiece. 

 

The orchestra is huge. According to the program, it requires 95 musicians. It includes a few unusual instruments: four Wagner tubas, and a heckelphone. (Kind of a bass oboe, but not quite the same thing.) 

 

To sing over this group is a challenge, which I am pleased to say, the cast of this one did admirably. 

 

The War Memorial Opera House first hosted Elektra in 1938, and it quickly became apparent that the orchestra pit, although large, would be unable to fit the epic ensemble required. Thus, an additional tunnel under the stage, nicknamed the “Torpedo Room,” was added to accommodate the extra players. 

 

For this production, the San Francisco Opera added a framing story. The set is a museum with artifacts related to the Greek myth. A visitor hides herself inside after becoming obsessed with the story. In the process, the story comes to life, and the visitor herself takes the role of Elektra. 

 

The set was quite creative, with various rooms sliding out on stage - a bedroom, kitchen, foyer - and each of the exhibits becoming a prop in the drama to follow. 

 

Another interesting choice was to use the role of “Tutor of Orest” as a stand-in for the ghost of Agamemnon. I thought that worked well, as it made the entire story haunted from start to finish by the dead father. 

 

As a professional opera company, it was no surprise that the musicianship was top notch. The singing too was excellent. I want to specifically call out Elena Pankratova as Elektra - as I noted, she sang much of the time - at least close to half, although I would not be surprised if she got more than that. 

 

Also notable were Michaela Schuster as Klytemnestra - her malevolence was apparent, and matched Elektra’s unhinged psyche. The two, shall we say, matched. And also Kyle Ketelsen as Orest. It is a baritone part, and his projection and diction were superb. He filled that hall completely.

 

I should note here that my approach to professional concerts is generally to buy cheap seats and go to more concerts. That was the case here, as we were in the balcony. So I can confidently say that the singers filled the hall to the back. 

 

The dates worked out so that seeing this opera became part of an anniversary trip for my wife and me. We also saw the “Monet in Venice” exhibit at the De Young, which was also a real treat. 

 

In a very real way, the two different art forms as interpreted by Strauss and Monet are connected. Monet painted subjects over and over again as he sought to portray the effects of light and haze as they changed throughout a day. Strauss utilized a primary motif for Agamemnon - it appears not only when his name is sung, but thematically throughout the work - and changed its color as the emotions in the drama changed. 

 

Like Monet, Strauss didn’t use his music to paint a literal, photographic, representation, but instead painted the less literal but deeper truth of the drama using unexpected colors. As Monet did, he found colors that might not have literally appeared, but due to the interaction of light, the human eye, and more importantly, the human brain. So did Strauss in this score, creating colors that seemed almost beyond the spectrum, tapping deep into the human psyche. 

 

To understand both requires standing at a distance, taking in the whole, not just granular detail. The meaning of a Monet painting, like Elektra, isn’t just the plot, or just the music, but the entire picture of obsession, of betrayal, and of reunion. It was quite the experience. 

Purgatorio by Dante

Source of book: I own this. 

 

It is hard to believe how much time has flown by. I read the first installment of Dante’s Divine Comedy a full 14 years ago. 

 

I had intended to go back and read the other two parts, but harbored a hope that Robert Pinsky would translate them like he did Inferno. Alas, he is now 85, and his translation is 31 years old, so I strongly doubt one will be forthcoming. 

 

For this post, I read the two very different translations that I own: the classic Melville Best Anderson poetic translation from 1921, complete with the illustrations by William Blake; and a prose translation by H. R. Huse from 1954. 

 

There are literally over 100 English translations to choose from, including ones by such luminaries as Dorothy Sayers and Clive James. I guess I could have purchased one of the well-regarded alternatives as well. And who knows? Maybe I will when it comes to Paradiso. 

 

 As I noted in my previous post, I liked the Pinsky one best. All translation is a compromise, an approximation of meaning. This is doubly true for poetry, where the form is as important as the individual words. I talk about this at greater length in my earlier post. 

 

In this case, I will be contrasting a highly poetic version which preserves the stanzas and the terza rima, but stretches meaning quite a bit, and is also pretty obscure, with the prose version which has no meter or rhyme, but is more literal and easy to follow. The former is great to read aloud, but the latter is definitely easier to follow and understand. 

 

I confess that, despite my fairly large vocabulary, I had to look up a number of words in the Anderson translation. He often picks ones that haven’t been in common usage for centuries - archaic even when he wrote it. For example, “benison” is one of his recurrent favorites. It kinda-sorta means the same thing as “benevolence.” But with one fewer syllable, it fits the meter better. 

 

There are some other fascinating choices. Anderson translates not only the Italian, but also the quotes from Latin. Huse, in contrast, translates only the Italian, and leaves the Latin intact. The Latin is then translated in a footnote. This is interesting in that it clearly signals which language is being used at any given time. 

 

Because Divine Comedy is filled with references to literature, history, and contemporary figures, any translation needs some explanation. Anderson leaves these to endnotes, and doesn’t signal in the text itself when to refer to them. Huse, in contrast, introduces sections with a brief explanation, and inserts further information in brackets in the text where needed. I found this helpful in many cases. My knowledge of classic mythology is decent, but not every metaphor is obvious. Even more than that, though, Dante includes a lot of contemporary Italian history and people in this book, few of which I was familiar with. 

 

That, of course, is the truth about the book: it is really the OG “diss track,” where Dante wreaks literary revenge on the people who exiled him from his city. He is talking shit and naming names, and relishing the ability to damn his enemies to hell, or sentence them to lengthy penance in Purgatory, while rewarding those who treated him well. It’s pretty epic. 

 

As someone raised Evangelical, I was taught that Purgatory was a made-up false doctrine, and that people either went to Heaven or Hell, based on mental assent to a particular doctrine of atonement. So, it was kind of interesting to read this and see what Dante’s vision of the process was. 

 

I’m kind of an agnostic about the afterlife these days - Shakespeare called it “the undiscovered country from whose borne no traveler returns,” and Rabelais labeled “the great perhaps” - but I think there is something morally necessary about the existence of Purgatory as part of any coherent afterlife. After all, pretty much all of us would be skeptical about, say, a Hitler who repented at the end of life walking scot-free into a Heaven where his victims never received restitution. 

 

The idea that all of us, but particularly those who have done the most damage in life, would need to be “purified” of our sins, and pay some sort of penance or make some sort of amends for what we have done, makes a lot of moral sense. 

 

I could write a whole post or more on my thoughts on this matter, but that is beyond the scope of this review. 

 

Dante envisions Purgatory as a combination of carrots and sticks - there are negative examples of bad behavior and positive examples of good behavior, combined with the penitents experiencing the opposite of their sins. The proud must be made humble, for example. 

 

As with the entire work, everything is built around the number three. There are 33 cantos in each of its three parts. The form is terza rima - an interlocking series of tercets. There are 33 syllables in each tercet. Each of the three parts is broken down into nine circles. There are undoubtedly more that I am missing. 

 

Leaving the horrors of Hell behind, this middle section represents the rise from the lowest point to the brink of heaven. Having passed all the way through the earth, Dante and his guide, Virgil, emerge at the base of the mountain of Purgatory.

 

From there, we get what are essentially nine layers, a mirror of the circles of Hell. 

 

First is a kind of waiting room outside of Purgatory proper. Here are the souls yet to be admitted to the purging process. According to Catholic doctrine, the prayers of the living are crucial here for the release of the waiting souls. (And, historically, rich people could pay an “indulgence” to the church to kickstart things…cue Luther and his hammer…) 

 

After that, there are levels for the purging of each of the seven deadly sins: Pride, Envy, Wrath, Sloth, Avarice, Gluttony, and Lust. With these completed, Dante emerges into an earthly paradise: the Garden of Eden restored. 

 

It was particularly fascinating to me how Dante ties all of the deadly sins to love in some way. To him, vices come from love that is inappropriate, or, more accurately, misdirected and out of balance. Envy is in a way the opposite of love, for example, because to envy someone is to fail to love them. But it is also misdirected love: love of what one envies, rather than for the one whom one envies. There is much that could be said, but I did find Dante’s conception to be worth thinking about. 

 

I won’t get into all of the specifics - there are plenty of online guides for that. What I do want to do is highlight some passages that I particularly enjoyed. Throughout the process of reading, I started with the poetic version, usually out loud, then followed up with the prose, primarily to figure out who the historical characters were.

 

Here is the opening, as Anderson translates it: 

 

Sets sail the little vessel of my mind

And henceforth better waters furrowing

Leaves such a cruel ocean far behind.

 

And of that Second Kingdom will I sing

Wherein the human spirit, purged of stain,

Grows worthy to ascend on heavenward wing.

 

This is one of the sections where the poetic seems superior to the prosiac - the gist is easy enough to understand, and the music of the meter adds to the experience. In contrast, here is Huse:

 

To move over better waters now hoists sail

The little vessel of my mind

Which leaves behind so rough a sea;

 

And I will sing of the second realm

Where the human spirit is cleansed

And becomes worthy to rise to Heaven. 

 

Huse is more literal and true to the original, but Anderson catches the cadence so much better here. 

 

Later in Canto I, Virgil explains for the first - but definitely not the last time - exactly how the non-dead Dante manages to get to the afterlife. 

 

This man has never seen his final night,

But by his folly had come near it, so

That little time was left to turn aright.

 

I was sent to him, as I let thee know,

For his redemption, and there was no road

Save this whereon I set myself to go.

 

I have shown him all the bad and their abode;

And now intend to show him the array

Of spirits who are purged beneath thy code.

            (Anderson)

 

Next is a bit from Canto VII, still outside of Purgatory proper, where certain souls wait in an analogue to Limbo. Here again, the contrast between prose and poetry is striking. It was easier to understand in the prose version, but the poetic version sung. 

 

There is a place below not otherwise

Tormented save with gloom, where the laments

Are uttered not in wailing but in sighs;

 

There I abide with little innocents

Bitten by fangs of Death and all undone

Ere yet exempt from man’s maleficence;

 

There I abide with those who put on none

Of the three holy virtues, yet who knew

The others, following guildless every one.

 

And the other version:

 

There is a place down there not sad through torment

But from darkness only, where the laments

Sound, not as groans, but as sighs.

 

There I stay with the little innocents

Bitten by the teeth of Death

Before they were exempt from human sin.

 

There I stay with those not clothed

With the three holy virtues, but who, without vice,

Knew the others and observed them all. 

 

The opening of Canto VIII is really beautiful, particularly in the poetic translation. 

 

Now was the hour that melts the heart anew

In voyagers with yearning for the shore

The day beloved friends have said adieu

 

And the new pilgrim feels the pang once more

Of love, on hearing from the far-off land

Bells that belike the parting day deplore

 

In Canto XIII, which is about envy, various historical and contemporary figures appear. One of the contemporary figures is noblewoman Sapia Salvani, who probably would be little known if Dante hadn’t gotten a bit of revenge at her in this part. One of her lines is excellent, however:

 

Sapient was I not, though named of it

Sapia; greeting with far greater glee

Another’s bane than mine own benefit.

 

Alternately:

 

Sapient I was not, though named Sapia.

I was much happier at others’ harm

Than at my own good fortune.

 

This is, in my opinion, the core value of MAGA: a glee at the harm Trump causes other people, who they hate, even as he makes things worse for everyone. 

 

In the next Canto, Guido del Duca gives an extended commentary on the downfall of various towns along the Arno - this is serious diss track smack talk. But he too notes that envy is, at its core, a desire that other people suffer. 

 

So Envy did the blood of me imbue,

That, had I seen a man grow joyful there,

Thou wouldst have seen me tinged with livid hue.

 

Or:

 

My blood was so on fire with envy

That if I had seen a man becoming happy

You would have observed my face grow pale.

 

In Canto XV, Dante expounds on this idea that the opposite of vice is divine love. Virgil, a personification of the intellect and of wisdom, talks at length about this. Envy is excessive desire for earthly good, a selfish grasping that does not admit of sharing. In this passage, I think Anderson buries the meaning in his attempt to preserve the poetry. The Huse version is more clear. Here are the highlights of the passage:

 

Because your desires are directed

Toward things diminished by sharing, 

Envy moves the bellows of your sighs

 

But if the love of the highest sphere

Lifted up your desires

That fear would not be in your hearts,

 

For the more up there who say “our,”

The greater the good each possesses

And brighter love glows in that cloister.

 

***

 

And he said to me, “Because you still

Set your mind on earthly things,

You gain darkness from the light itself.

 

The infinite and ineffable good above

Runs toward love for itself

As a ray of light to a bright surface.

 

As much brightness as it finds, so much it gives

So that the more widely love extends

The more eternal goodness grows upon it,

 

And the greater number who comprehend

And love each other, the more love there is, 

Since one gives to another, like a mirror.”

 

In the next Canto, there is another discussion, about whether things are fated, or brought about by human decisions. Here, Virgil comes down firmly on the side of free will. (Fascinating in this connection, of course, is the tension throughout Shakespeare’s works between fate and free will - it is Cassius, after all, who has the famous line, “The fault is not in our stars, but in ourselves.”) 

 

You who are living consider every cause

As originating in the heavens

As if they determined all, of necessity.

 

If this were so, free will would be destroyed,

And there would be no justice,

No joy for good nor sorrow for evil. 

(Huse)

 

In Virgil’s argument, the fates are not passive, but humans are given the ability to tell good from evil, and to choose good. So don’t go blaming the stars. 

 

In Canto XVII, Dante takes the position that Wrath isn’t mere anger, but a desire to harm others. Hence, he contrasts Wrath with peacemaking. 

 

I felt a fanning on my face like beat

Of wings, and heard, “Blest the Peacemakers are,

For wrath unrighteous hath in them no seat!”

(Anderson)

 

There is so much in here that I didn’t specifically write down. To a large degree, I just read and let the words wash over me through the poetic version, then went back to the prose version to make sure I understood things. 

 

I’ll end with the opening stanza of Canto XXIII, because, well, I feel seen. 

 

Because these eyes of mine yet never stirred

From the green foliage, like such an one

As wastes his life to hunt the little bird

(Anderson)

 

Divine Comedy is such a curious blend of history, personal grudges, theology, and above all imagination. I find it a bit disorienting to read at times, yet at its best, it contains glorious language, amazing word pictures, and an underlying ethic that feels so much more Christian than the individualistic faith tradition I was raised in. More than anything, it is a work that demands to be read out loud, and pondered.