Alas, Kawin (see previous posts) descended into complete incomprehensibility further along, which I guess is to be expected if one is trying to make sense out of Gertrude Stein. I have now started A. S. Byatt’s Elementals: Stories of Fire and Ice. I’m very fond of short stories, and I have heard good things about Byatt, so I am giving her a try. So far, I like her style a lot.
I am reading the Dutch version.
But it is also translated into English.
Jurgen Osterhammel - The Transformation of the World. A global history of the nineteenth century, 2022.
A monumental history of the nineteenth century, The Transformation of the World offers a panoramic and multifaceted portrait of a world in transition. Jurgen Osterhammel, an eminent scholar who has been called the Braudel of the nineteenth century, moves beyond conventional Eurocentric and chronological accounts of the era, presenting instead a truly global history of breathtaking scope and towering erudition. He examines the powerful and complex forces that drove global change during the long nineteenth century, taking readers from New York to New Delhi, from the Latin American revolutions to the Taiping Rebellion, from the perils and promise of Europe’s transatlantic labor markets to the hardships endured by nomadic, tribal peoples across the planet. Osterhammel describes a world increasingly networked by the telegraph, the steamship, and the railways. He explores the changing relationship between human beings and nature, looks at the importance of cities, explains the role slavery and its abolition played in the emergence of new nations, challenges the widely held belief that the nineteenth century witnessed the triumph of the nation-state, and much more. This is the highly anticipated English edition of the spectacularly successful and critically acclaimed German book, which is also being translated into Chinese, Polish, Russian, and French. Indispensable for any historian, The Transformation of the World sheds important new light on this momentous epoch, showing how the nineteenth century paved the way for the global catastrophes of the twentieth century, yet how it also gave rise to pacifism, liberalism, the trade union, and a host of other crucial developments.
Truly fascinating.
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I now have mixed feelings about Byatt’s Elementals. Her precious style is admirable in small doses but becomes wearisome at greater length. Her modern, roundabout approach to her themes is not really to my taste; it’s something I appreciate more than I enjoy. I had decided to trade the book away, and then I read the following in the final story of the book:
“You must learn now, that the important lesson—as long as you have your health—is that the divide is not between the servants and the served, between the leisured and the workers, but between those who are interested in the world and its multiplicity of forms and forces, and those who merely subsist, worrying or yawning.”
For such an eloquent expression of an idea I have always believed, Elementals stays on my shelf. The quote called to mind Dickens’s magnificent portrait of the transformation of a man who yawns his way through life, Eugene in Our Mutual Friend. I was looking for my copy of that book to check his name when I made a wonderful discovery: my late father’s copy of the Robert Fitzgerald translation of Virgil’s Aeneid.
The Aeneid is the greatest gap in my classical reading, which I feel more keenly as I age. Ever since rereading the Odyssey in Fitzgerald’s spectacular translation a few years ago, I am determined to read only his translation of the Aeneid, widely considered the best ever. I knew my father had a copy, because I had packed it. However, I couldn’t find it on my classical shelves, and didn’t feel up to going through the multitude of boxes of dad’s books. Then I found it on a shelf beside Dickens. What a curious turn of events. So the time is right, the version is at hand, and my mind is receptive. Forward, march!
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I usually listen to educational material in the car on the way to work.
Audible recommended to me “The Invisible Life of Addie La Rue”, and I started listening to that for a change.
I’m finding it really nice. A combination of beautiful writing beautifully read, with an interesting premise and plot.
I’ll let you know if it ends well 
I am filled with happy contentment now that I have finally read The Aeneid (see my previous post), a major bucket-list item for me if I had a bucket list. I also paradoxically feel restless because of the stimulating questions it raises and all the things in it that I do not understand. It has a close thematic relationship to The Odyssey, as both are about veterans of the Trojan War returning home (Odysseus) or trying to find a new home (Aeneas). But they are very different in their focus. The Odyssey is dominated by its superb characterization and attention to the fine details of life, whereas The Aeneid is much more epic in its scale and concerns (more similar to The Iliad in that regard), and it has an awesome wealth of folklore and ritual practices. The most startling to me is the story of Camilla (warrior princess of the Volscians), who was tied to a spear and hurled through the sky as a baby!
The narrative highlight for me is the heartbreaking love story of Dido and Aneas, which I never really knew even though it is the basis for some opera, ballet, and stage adaptations. It is very provocative to imagine that this was the basis for the enmity between Carthage and Rome, as the author intended, which would have made it even more compelling to ancient readers.
Virgil, as an act of ingratiating PR aimed at his readers, especially his friend and patron Octavian (Augustus), puts in anachronisms in two places. He mentions future events of Roman history to point out the long-term significance of certain actions. These can be interpreted as portents. However, the second occurrence is when Aeneas visits the underworld in a vision. Here, all the dead, past and future, reside together, which does not seem like a portent to me, but rather like the conception of time expressed in Boethius’ The Consolation of Philosophy (6th century A.D.), in which all time exists simultaneously in the mind of God (or in a higher dimension, if you prefer, nicely exploited in the 2014 SF movie Interstellar). Did this idea really exist more than 500 years before Boethius?
In conclusion I find I not only need to reread The Iliad (which I read when I was about 13), but I am very keen on finding and reading a detailed commentary about The Aeneid.
Now I have started Piranesi by Susanna Clark for my book group. It reads super-fast, so I should be able to finish in a week. It’s a bizarre, mysterious story that reminds me of a combination of Gormenghast and Myst (the pioneering adventure-puzzle computer game from the 1990s). I like it a lot so far, but this kind of story can blow up if the final revelation is cheesy, cliched, or trivial, or if the author loses control and over-complicates it. We’ll see.
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What version of the Iliad did you read?
I don’t think I’ll ever read a very faithful version. I read a very simplified version when I was a kid. And I had a lot of fun reading Ilium by Dan Simmons. But an actual transcription of the poems? That sounds daunting.
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It is very provocative to imagine that this was the basis for the enmity between Carthage and Rome, as the author intended, which would have made it even more compelling to ancient readers.
Walter Raleigh translating a poem attributed to Ausonius:
I AM that Dido which thou here dost see,
Cunningly framed in beauteous imagery.
Like this I was, but had not such a soul
As Maro feigned, incestuous and foul.
Aeneas never with his Trojan host
Beheld my face, or landed on this coast.
But flying proud larbas’ villainy —
Not moved by furious love or jealousy —
I did, with weapon chaste, to save my fame,
Make way for death untimely ere it came.
This was my end. But first I built a town,
Revenged my husband’s death, lived with renown.
Why didst thou stir up Virgil, envious Muse,
Falsely my name and honour to abuse ?
Readers, believe historians ; not those
Which to the world Jove’s thefts and vice expose.
Poets are liars ; and for verses’ sake,
Will make the gods of human crimes partake.
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I believe it was Lattimore, which is the version I have from my late father’s library. However, I don’t clearly remember. At that age I was unconcerned about particular translations. Today, I think I will hunt for a copy of Fitzgerald’s translation—I so admire his work.
I know what you mean. I felt just like that when I started to read my first classical work, Xenophon’s Anabasis, about age 11, I think. I had taken it up because I heard that it was a great, true, adventure story—which it is—but I was discouraged by the wall of unfamiliar names of people and places. My father then gave me one of the best pieces of advice I ever got, saying to ignore the names and focus on the story, the actions and motivations. That planted the seed of my love of classical literature. Years later, my interest was reignited by a reading of Seneca’s Letters from a Stoic, which got me through a low period when I had a menial day job as a courier for a law firm. Looking back I realize what a tremendous learning experience that job was, teaching me about people and the way the world works.
That is an intriguing piece. Consulting Wikipedia, I would guess that it comes from Ausonius’ Epitaphia, “26 epitaphs of heroes from the Trojan war, translated from Greek.” If so, the iconoclastic viewpoint is less startling, and the awkward translation would be explained by the journey from Greek to Latin to English. If I can find a commentary on The Aeneid, this is one more item that I hope it will discuss.
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Piranesi by Susanna Clarke, mentioned in a previous post, was enjoyable. The build-up was better than the ending, but I have no complaints.
In addition to my gradual rereading of Montaigne, I have started to read a really fun volume, The Book of Lost Books: An Incomplete History of All the Great Books You’ll Never Read by Stuart Kelly. Organized chronologically by authors, the chapters are generally short, with very judicious balance between biographical detail and description of the lost books. This is not a new idea, as various essays and critical discussions have focused on the missing over the centuries, going all the way back to Diogenes Laertius (4th century A.D.). I was introduced to the idea in my youth, because a portion of Beyond Life (1919), by James Branch Cabell, talks about a library of lost books. In that work, Cabell laid out his philosophy of literature as a preface to his monumental 18-volume fantasy series, The Biography of the Life of Manuel.
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Across the Nightingale Floor by Hern
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Could you tell something more about this book?
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The full title is Across the Nightingale Floor, Tales of the Otori #1. Fictional story that takes place in Sengoku period of Japan. Warlords, peasants, samurai, etc. It is first in a trilogy fallowed by "Grass for my Pillow, Brilliance of the moon, fallowed by a sequel to "Across the Nightingale Floor called, Harsh cry of the heron. There are prequels as well. If you like Japanese history and culture its good. Another book i would recommend is The Tokaido Road by St. Clair Robson. Hope this helps
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I start on the morrow…
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Is that a go book?
Negatory, according to Nick. I recall him saying it contains a Go reference but it’s just general fiction.
Excuse the ignorance, but do you mean this guy? I see he’s known (among other things) for thoughts on herd behavior. My alternate choice to Sibicky is on the right (I’ll add it to the queue):
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Yes, Michel de Montaigne. Those first two paragraphs in Wikipedia are a fine summary. He wrote on practically everything, and the breadth of his classical references is awesome.
I first read Montaigne in high school, due to the influence of Eric Hoffer, who worshipped him. I love essays and felt I should reread him while I still have time. I am about half done.
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The desire to create a kind of mystical bond or fusion with a wild animal is presumably as old as humanity itself. Some have learned the hard way that it’s a dubious proposition at best. This idea is central to Helen MacDonald’s 2014 memoir H is for Hawk, although it isn’t necessarily obvious in the early going.
MacDonald is a seasoned falconer who found herself reeling emotionally following her father’s sudden passing. In the days that follow she experiences a general sense of disconnectedness that just won’t let go. Her thoughts stray back to her first reading of The Goshawk by T.H. White. Ostensibly a guide to the basics of falconry, the book focuses more substantially on the author’s attempt to reconcile his deep-seated need for approval with other problematic features of his character. The unlikely medium chosen for this task is not just a hawk but a goshawk, a notoriously temperamental and difficult species. The battle of wills that follows all too often brings out White’s darker side, and it’s a bit much for the eight-year old Helen MacDonald. Revolted by White’s overbearing ways, she later takes comfort in the falconry world’s dismissal of the book as a guide to all the things to avoid doing when training a bird of prey. Now, decades later, she has decided that something raw and elemental is required to restore her equilibrium. Hence her determination to follow White’s example, hopefully without his mistakes.
Readers expecting a detailed overview of the ins and outs of falconry will likely find this book a bit superficial. MacDonald is more concerned with exploring the essence of the human/hawk relationship, and her account doesn’t lack for compelling details. I think my favourite passages involve the initial getting acquainted phase. Sitting alone indoors day after day with a hawk on her fist or on a nearby perch, MacDonald finds her world revolving around questions such as, do I scratch my nose at this time or would that be too abrupt? Any number of innocuous sounds might cause Mabel the goshawk to start or “bate” from her perch. Consider these observations:
" This killing grip is an old, deep pattern in her brain, an innate response that hasn’t yet found the stimulus meant to release it. Because other sounds provoke it: door hinges, squealing brakes, bicycles with unoiled wheels–and on the second afternoon, Joan Sutherland singing an aria on the radio. Ow, I laughed out loud at that. Stimulus: opera. Response: kill. But later these misapplied instincts stop being funny. At just past six o’clock a small, unhappy wail came from a pram just outside the window. Straight away the hawk drove her talons into my glove, ratcheting up the pressure in savage, stabbing spasms. Kill. The baby cries. Kill kill kill."
MacDonalds’s anxiety doesn’t subside when she ventures afield with Mabel. Even an expertly trained raptor might arbitrarily decide to go off on its own, and some of these birds never return. As success follows success, her isolation continues to grow. Somehow her immersion into the hawk’s world was supposed to bridge the gap that increasingly made her not quite fit for human company. It’s only when she not only accepts but rejoices in the hawk’s essential otherness that true healing begins.
H is for Hawk runs a bit long in my opinion. MacDonald’s background as a poet serves her well, but there are only so many ways to describe a hawk chasing down a rabbit or pheasant. Endings can be terribly difficult. Some scenes may seem indispensible if the writer is to do justice to their story, but it’s almost always a fine line to walk. In this case it’s a mere quibble on my part. The relationships between people and animals, especially the obsessive ones, is a subject that seldom fails to hold my attention, and I find this book a worthy entry in that genre.
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I highly recommend Animal Thinking by Donald R. Griffin, a renowned zoologist who was a pioneer in the field of animal behavior.
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Stuart Kelly’s The Book of Lost Books turned into a huge disappointment after the excellent first third, which treated classical literature. The judicious balance disappeared, the writing became preciously self-indulgent, and his choice of subjects descended into tedium. Most of the “lost” were burned by their authors, or never finished, or never even written. He also rehashes stories too well known, such as the original Book of Mormon or Pound’s “botch” of The Cantos. Yuck, I am going to trade the book after all.
Kelly, as a respected Oxford don, only treated “high literature,” while ignoring all genre writing, which also has “lost books.” For instance, he could have included a page on the loss of the original version of James Branch Cabell’s most famous novel, Jurgen. Cabell, who hand-wrote his manuscripts, mailed his only copy to the publisher, but the mail sack fell off the train, scattering the contents to the wind. He had to rewrite it from memory. Or the case that really irks devoted fans is the unwritten final volume of E. C. Tubb’s Dumarest series. After 33 novels describing Dumarest’s adventures searching for the legendary Earth, while being chased by the evil Cyclan (cyborgs who many fans believe served as the model for the Borg in Star Trek), Tubb died just as Dumarest was about to succeed. (I’ve read 17 of them.)
Next, I will finally read Hammett’s The Maltese Falcon. Inspired by my reading of Woolrich, I am going to start exploring the mystery field. This is ironic because most of my friends in the SF world turned to mysteries in the ‘80s and ’90s, and I could never understand why. My best friend, a well-known reviewer, tried to explain it to me, saying that good mysteries were better written, had vibrant characterization, and tight, ingenious plots. I can finally see his point, God rest his soul.
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I’ve had a delightful 3 weeks romping through Dashiell Hammet’s books. Read his last three novels—The Maltese Falcon, The Glass Key, and The Thin Man—but still need to obtain his first two. The greatest revelation for me was Hammett’s phenomenal stylistic versatility. TMF is hardboiled detective noir, and it supplied virtually all of the dialogue and scenes for the famous movie, a testament to Huston’s good taste and sense. TGK presents a scathing portrait of politics, with a corrupt senator, his crooked ward heeler, and the heeler’s amoral fixer, who must solve a murder to save the campaign. In another shift of style, TTM features high society and sophisticated repartee. William Powell and Myrna Loy, in the 1934 movie, so perfectly embody the book’s protagonists that I couldn’t help seeing and hearing them in every scene. The characterization in these books is also superb; the characters are all distinct, alive individuals.
I continued with A Man Called Spade, a collection of all three Sam Spade short stories and two other mysteries. It is a cheap 1950s knock-off of The Adventures of Sam Spade, which had two more stories. The stories are good, but only the non-Spade novelette, “His Brother’s Keeper,” was particularly distinguished.
Hammett’s amazing versatility can also be seen in The Continental Op (Steven Marcus, ed.), a collection of 7 of his 36 early stories about a detective in a national agency, inspired by Hammett’s 8 years with the Pinkertons. Here we see, not a hard-boiled detective, but a middle-aged, overweight, almost bored investigator whose methodical application of professional craft is his main asset. In many cases, the stories seem closer to police procedurals than detective stories.
Finally, Lost Stories, edited by Vince Emery, combines a look at some of Hammett’s early work in a variety of genres (many are short, clever fillers) with the editor’s excellent contextual continuity that constitutes a very informative, short biography.
I’ve now started Fredric Brown’s The Deep End, considered one of the best of his 25 mystery novels.
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