Beautiful Dystopia: The Giver, by Lois Lowry

I read The Giver, by Lois Lowry sometime back in the 90’s, and again just this week, and my perception and appreciation of the book have definitely changed. Perhaps it’s just age, and experience. Sometimes I feel like I’ve lived most of my life in a fog. I wish I’d kept notes about my initial reaction to the book. What kept me from enjoying it last time the way that I did this time? If I wasn’t old enough to really appreciate it in the 90’s, how can young adults appreciate it? I’m sure there are plenty of thoughtful, sensitive young adults who can appreciate a book like The Giver, but I apparently wasn’t one of them.

The Redemption of Sara Louise Bradshaw: Jacob Have I Loved, by Katherine Paterson

At this time of the year, I often find myself drawn to children’s books, or young adult books, probably for multiple reasons. I often feel that I have challenged myself in the books I’ve read during the rest of the year, and I’m looking for something a little less demanding. Perhaps in the chaos of the holiday season, I need something short and simple. There’s another reason I gravitate toward Newbery Award winners when the weather turns cold, to be honest. I’m also looking for books that I can read quickly, so I can boost the number of books that I’ve read during the year.

Isn't It Good...Norwegian Folktales

A book of Norwegian fairy tales, East of the Sun and West of the Moon and Other Tales, was mentioned in The Paideia Program by Mortimer Adler, which is how I first became aware of it. I found my way to The Paideia Program through reading most of what I could by Adler back in the 1980’s, and became infatuated with his proposal for reforming education long before I had children of my own.

East of the Sun and West of the Moon and Other Tales is a collection of folk tales, gathered by P.C. Asbjornsen and Jorben E. Moe, who were the Norwegian Brothers Grimm, apparently, as they collected folk tales from Norway, and put what were mainly oral stories into a written form. Some of the stories are very familiar, but some are very unusual. As a good Midwestern boy of German heritage, my fairy tales tended to be straight out of the Brothers Grimm, so this was the first time I’d heard some of these Norwegian tales.

Why I Can't Like the Ginger Man

I tried. Really, I did. I tried to like the Ginger Man, both the book by J.P. Donleavy, and the main character, Sebastian Dangerfield, but it is just not possible for me.

Early in the book, we get to see Dangerfield at his worst. His relationship with his wife and child is neglectful at best, and abusive at worst. In fact, the abuse is extravagant, both physically and emotionally.

We aren’t given much of a honeymoon period with Dangerfield. Early in the book, we are exposed to the worst of his character. Here’s a passage from page 21, when his wife returns from a trip out of town to find Dangerfield passed out drunk amid the wreckage of their home.

Second Guessing the Modern Library

The time I’ve spent with Sebastian Dangerfield has been tumultuous. I almost feel like one of the people that Dangerfield uses and abuses. He certainly plays on the sympathies and prejudices of the other characters in Ginger Man, and he even does the same with his readers.

Dangerfield, who has been joyfully running from one scheme to another, has been looking forward to an inheritance when his wealthy father dies. However, his wealthy father apparently knows his progeny too well, and the stipulations placed on the inheritance at his death are grievous. I was almost disappointed to hear that we as readers were in for more of the same that we’ve been exposed to during the first ninety percent of the book, when Dangerfield learns that his father has dies and left him a fortune that is locked up in trust until Sebastian turns forty seven. (Ironically, the exact age I am right now.)

Sympathy for the Devil

As I have spent more time with the novel, I am getting more of an appreciation for Donleavy’s Ginger Man, and am coming to terms with Sebastian Dangerfield, the reprehensible main character. Here’s what I can say about my experience reading the book so far. (After all, the blog’s subtitle is “My response to what I’m reading”, so my goal isn’t to necessarily give a review of a book, but more of a reaction to it.)

The novel is written untraditionally. I do not know if it would be considered “stream of consciousness”, but if it’s not technically that style of writing, it is reminiscent of it. At times, it is told in first person, but most of the time it is from a limited third person narrator’s voice, with access to what the main character is thinking and feeling. Even more pronounced than the movement between voice is the frequent use of sentence fragments. Here is an example from the opening paragraphs:

I'm Really Not a Prude, But ...

I came across Ginger Man, by J.P. Donleavy, on the Modern Library’s list of the 100 Best English Language Novels of the Twentieth Century. I was not familiar with it previously, and have not encountered many who are familiar with it since. At this point, about a fourth of the way through it, I doubt that I will be recommending it.

The main character, Sebastian Dangerfield, is a roguish anti-hero along the lines of Shakespeare’s Falstaff, though without Falstaff’s brilliance and charisma. Of course, it’s hardly fair to compare Donleavy to Shakespeare. It’s hardly fair to compare anyone to Shakespeare, and to fault a character for falling short of one of the most brilliant characters in literature is especially out of line.

I have really struggled with this book so far. I don’t think of myself as someone who needs to like the main character in order to enjoy the book. Take Cormac McCarthy’s The Road, for example. The main character there isn’t particularly likeable, but my reaction to that book wasn’t as visceral or negative as what I’m experiencing reading Ginger Man. Or, the other book that has come to mind several times while reading Donleavy’s work is A Fan’s Notes, by Frederick Exley, where the main character is living a half-life of alcoholism and deception. Or, even Wuthering Heights, where Heathcliff and Catherine are not likeable in the least, but Bronte’s tale of passion is less distasteful to me than Ginger Man has been so far.

Blue Like Jazz

Over a year ago, our pastor quoted from Donald Miller’s Blue Like Jazz in one of his sermons. I don’t remember the quote exactly, but I remember that it made me sit up and take notice. It sounded like the author was speaking directly to me. I made note of the book and author, and have been planning to read it ever since.

Sometime shortly after that sermon, someone gave me a copy of the book. They had an extra copy for some reason, and they thought that I would enjoy it. I happily accepted it, and then lost track of it.

Recently I came across the book on my shelf, and thought that it was high time for me to read it. I’m glad I did.

The subtitle of the book “Nonreligious Thoughts on Christian Spirituality”, nicely hints at the tone of the book. Miller is clearly a committed follower of Christ, but he hesitates to call himself a Christian. Christians have done too many bad things over the centuries for Miller to be comfortable identifying himself with them.

In fact, in what I found to be one of the most moving passages from Blue Like Jazz, Miller describes a confession booth that he and some friends set up on a college campus during a weekend of heavy partying on campus. However, the confession booth had an usual spin. Rather than accept the confessions of others, Miller and his friends confessed their own sins, and the sins of the Christian Church.

It might sound easy to confess the sins of the church at large. After all, I don’t feel personally responsible for the Crusades, or for repressing scientific exploration, or for misusing religion to support racial segregation. Yes, I can easily confess those sins of Christianity to the world at large. We have done an awful lot in the name of faith that really is a misrepresentation of Jesus.

However, the confession got a lot more personal.

“Jesus said to feed the poor and to heal the sick. I have never done very much about that. Jesus said to love those who persecute me. I tend to lash out, especially if I feel threatened, you know, if my ego gets threatened. Jesus did not mix His spirituality with politics. I grew up doing that. It got in the way of the central message of Christ. I know that was wrong, and I know that a lot of people will not listen to the words of Christ because people like me, who know Him, carry our own agendas into the conversation rather than just relaying the message Christ wanted to get across. There’s a lot more, you know.”

Sometimes, it takes a lot of strength for me to say that I believe in Jesus. I find myself wondering what I even mean by saying “I believe in Jesus.” What I find so refreshing in Miller is his willingness to address this type of question and doubt and insecurity, and also his dedication to trying to follow Christ regardless of those questions.

It reminds me of one of my favorite passages from the New Testament. In the book of John, just before Jesus raises Lazarus from the dead, Jesus tells his disciples to follow him back to a dangerous territory, where they had nearly been killed. Thomas, my all-time favorite disciple, says, “Well, let’s follow him, so we can die with him.” Despite Thomas’ confusion, and his logical brain telling him that nothing good can come of it, he still feels compelled to follow. That’s where I am, and Miller seems comfortable with the messiness and ambiguity of our faith.

Why Read Moby-Dick?

There are very few books that reward multiple readings in life, and Moby-Dick is one of them. I first read it in my twenties, and absolutely loved it. Now, twenty years later, I have accumulated more of the joys and bruises of life, and have more sympathy with and understanding of the narrator, and more appreciation for Melville’s poetry and humor.

Even in the chapters that feel digressive, where Melville distracts us with details of whale anatomy or the mechanics of whaling, Melville still cannot refrain from making the most mundane item into a philosophical discourse. It is like listening to a spectacularly good conversationalist. For example, here is a quote from Chapter 60: “The Line”, which is ostensibly about the rope attached to the harpoon.

“All men live enveloped in whale-lines. All are born with halters round their necks; but it is only when caught in the swift, sudden turn of death, that mortals realize the silent, subtle, every-present perils of life. And if you be a philosopher, though seated in a whale-boat, you would not at heart feel one whit more of terror, than though seated before your evening fire with a poker, and not a harpoon, by your side.”

That kind of writing can drive some readers crazy, but I think the key is to embrace it. The key is to not try to race through the story. Melville lingers in the telling. He’s clearly in no hurry to tell us the bare facts. He first needs to prepare us, both intellectually and emotionally, for the real impact of the story.

From the very first paragraph, Melville makes it clear that his narrator is in no hurry. If we are going to listen to this story, we need to know something about the kind of person that the narrator is, and to recognize ourselves in him. He’s someone who has clearly felt that quiet desperation of which Thoreau speaks. Who knows if Thoreau did not articulate the phrase after reading Moby-Dick?

That nameless restlessness and dissatisfaction that plagues the narrator is something with which we can all identify. In the first paragraph, Ishmael, as he asks us to call him, clearly states that his life is not what he wants, and he is willing to engage in a sea voyage as a desperate act to maintain his sanity. I found myself referencing that paragraph more than once over the years since I first read it. In fact, I probably think of it every November, as it prominently references the “damp, drizzly November in my soul.” That November can happen at any time of the year, but it’s usually toward the end of the year that I cast my eye back on where I have been, and turn it hopefully to the future.

Read the first paragraph of Moby-Dick. Savor the cadence, and the way Melville beautifully describes the human condition, right there on page one. I will definitely be reading this again, when I have gathered more joys and bruises.

New York Diaries: 1609 to 2009

I’ve given a lot of thought to New York Diaries: 1609 to 2009, and to the way that it’s organized, and whether that organization system is a strength or a weakness. My wife gave me the book as a spontaneous gift. She had picked it up at a bookstore while browsing, and I thumbed through it some there with her, and was absolutely intrigued by the way that the book is put together. So, responding to my immediate enthusiasm, she bought the book for me. Isn’t she wonderful?

By way of a brief review, the book is a collection of diary entries from over a hundred different diarists, spanning four centuries. Some of the authors are well known, and some are unknown; some have only one diary entry included in the collection, and some have dozens of entries. The book is organized by day of the year, rather than by strict chronology, so January 1 has diary entries from four different authors, ranging from 1844 to 1953. January 2 has two entries, from 1850 and 1880. You get the idea. The entries for each day are organized chronologically, but that chronology starts fresh each day, with an abrupt jerk back to the past, like the platen on a typewriter racing back to the left side of the page at the end of each line.

So, here are the consequences from that structural scheme. Major events, that last for years, like wars, tend to be continuously present. For example, the Civil War is mentioned every month, and may actually be mentioned weekly. It’s like we’ve all become unstuck in time, like Billy Pilgrim, and our pasts are all continuously with us. The reader is always responding to the stresses leading up to the Civil War, and always exposed to the threats of British invasion during the Revolutionary War. The experience is interesting, but it doesn’t give us the flow from one event to another. We are jerked back and forth, and the move from historical cause to effect is lost.

This would have been a better collection had it been organized in the traditional way. We would have begun with the very earliest entries from Henry Hudson and Robert Juet as they recorded their exploration of the area in 1609. This would have set the stage for the eventual settling of the area, and then the challenges of settling the colony would have gradually become tensions leading to the Revolutionary War. The book could have told a historical story through the disparate diary entries.

In telling that historical story, the editor, Teresa Carpenter, wouldn’t have lost the glimpses into day to day New York life. These interludes would have nestled nicely in their original historical location, and offered glimpses into the life in the midst of the crises. One very memorable entry was a lament by an author who resented how people seemed to go about their daily lives so carelessly during the Civil War. That entry would have had more punch had it rested directly among other diary entries from the same time period, making for a better history, and not losing the charm of the unexpected amid the larger historical headlines.

Temporal Whiplash

George Templeton Strong

During a day spent largely in airports or airplanes, I continued my reading of New York Diaries: 1609 to 2009. Many of the entries I read were the oldest in the collection, dating from 1609, and describing the exploration of the area by Henry Hudson. One of the more diligent diarists to accompany Hudson during the expedition, Robert Juet, recorded the first known European expedition into New York’s Upper Bay. Interestingly, that entry was made on September 11^th, 1609, so the entries for that day include that historic expedition, and the response of several New York diarists to the terrorist attacks that same day, 392 years later.

That juxtaposition and conversation between the centuries produced a kind of dizziness in me. The rapid jumping back and forth across the years can give one a feeling of vertigo. Of course, the artificial atmosphere and pressurized cabins of modern air travel might have contributed to my sense of temporal whiplash.

For example, in my reading yesterday, I encountered vivid descriptions of the 9/11 attacks by those who lived in New York. Those descriptions were interspersed with news of George Washington’s brilliant retreat from New York in 1776. (Yes, it was a retreat. Yes, it was brilliant. If you’re not familiar with this episode of American history, I recommend reading 1776, by David McCullough.) There was also a moving account of a New Yorker with a loved one living through the London bombings of 1940, and the news of Benedict Arnold’s treason in 1780. Among those more dramatic entries were several that just recorded day to day life, from society news of 1832, to World Series news of 1963, and teacher strikes of 1968.

Among the more quotable were two separated by a little more than 100 years. George Templeton Strong, who I apparently favor, as he featured in my previous entry, had a scathing entry condemning the church in 1862 for not speaking out more forcibly against the evil of slavery. “Her priests call on Almighty God every day…to deliver His people from ‘false doctrine, heresy and schism,’ from ‘sedition, privy conspiracy, and rebellion.’ Now, at last, when they and their people are confronted by the most wicked of rebellions and the most willful of schisms on the vilest of grounds, viz. the constitutional right to breed black babies for sale…—the church is afraid to speak.” That sentiment is still alive and well today. The church as a whole is often afraid to take on the real issues of the day, but often seems content to focus on theological debates that don’t matter to the common woman or man, especially in light of suffering and injustice.

The other quote also refers to race, and to suffering. It’s from Judith Malina, in 1968, and is about the teachers’ strike going on in October of that year. The strike drew interesting supporters, among them, the Black Panthers, which made people’s reaction to the strike into a reaction to the Panthers, and a reaction to racial tensions. Malina quotes a conversation she had with her dentist about the strike, and Malina’s political activism. The dentist was Jewish, and felt himself to be among the persecuted as well. However, Malina’s final comment on his attitude was scathing.

“Suffering has only taught him how to suffer.”

The Drive to Make a Difference

This has been a wild week. My parents, who are 74, landed in the emergency room after a freak accident. Mom has a broken hip, and is still in the hospital, awaiting a transfer to a rehabilitation facility. Dad has returned home, which presents its own problems. In the days since the accident, I’ve been facing questions about their future health and safety, and, of course, mortality. While going through their closets, looking for clothes to take to them for their stay in the hospital, I had an epiphany, a sort of déjà vu-in-reverse experience. I was struck with the realization that I would be going through that closet again one day, when they have left the house for the last time.

Those thoughts echoed with an entry in the book I’m reading, New York Diaries: 1609 to 2009, edited by Teresa Carpenter. The book is a collection of diary entries from New Yorkers famous, infamous, and unknown, and from visitors who recorded their observations while passing through the Big Apple. It’s organized by calendar date, so today, May 27^th, has entries from 1844, 1925, and 1972, for example. I’m enjoying the book on the whole, though its organizational approach presents some interesting challenges. Reading it cover to cover, as I am, one sees little vignettes played out over days, when a diarist is included for several days in a row. For example, Gouverneur Morris records his response to the killing of Alexander Hamilton in a series of diary entries from July, 1804. These entries are interspersed with others made during the same week of July, ranging from 1776 to 1885, which, of course, have nothing to do with the duel between Burr and Hamilton. Much of the time, however, there is no narrative thread connecting one day to the next, as the diary entries included jump from century to century. At times, this lack of a narrative thread is mildly irritating, but it’s a natural consequence of the clever organization structure.

The entry that jumped out at me this week is from George Templeton Strong, a well-to-do lawyer whose contributions included in the book range from 1835 to 1875. His diary entry from July 7, 1851, struck a chord with my thoughts on mortality, morality, and the way that we all want to live a life of consequence. In that entry, he commented, with a mixture of revulsion and pity, upon gangs of young girls that could be found in parts of the city, and the terrible lives that they were forced to live in order to provide for themselves.

His final sentence, quoted below, is a beautiful appeal to himself to remember his urge to live a life of significance.

“But if Heaven will permit and enable me, I’ll do something before I die—to have helped one dirty vagabond child out of such a pestilential stink would be a thing one would not regret when one came to march out of this world…and would be rather more of an achievement than the writing [of] another Iliad.”

2012 Year in Review

Despite a lack of much progress during most of November and December, 2012 was a strong year for reading overall. Here is Rjeffy’s Books of the Month for 2012.

Love in the Time of Cholera, by Gabriel Garcia Marquez
The Hammer of God, by Bo Giertz
The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, by Arthur Conan Doyle
The Grapes of Wrath, by John Steinbeck
Radical: Taking Back Your Faith from the American Dream, by David Platt
The Odyssey, by Homer, translated by Robert Fitzgerald
The Sounds of Poetry: A Brief Guide, by Robert Pinsky
All the King’s Men, by Robert Penn Warren
Bridge to Terabithia, by Katherine Paterson
Washington’s Crossing, by David Hackett Fischer
King Lear: The Pelican Shakespeare, by William Shakespeare
Lord Jim, by Joseph Conrad

Yes, that’s a list of which I can be proud. I only read one book each in November and December, but they were certainly strong books. (I was going through a rough time in life, and found myself unable to focus much on reading. It looks like I’m moving past that period, as I’m eagerly back into reading The Anatomy of Peace, despite the fact that I read it fairly recently, and it’s a type of book that I could easily look condescendingly at as a “self-help” book. I’m rereading it to help address the personal crisis that I’m experiencing right now. I found it helpful the first time, and am finding it even more helpful on the second reading.)

Given such a strong list of candidates, I struggled picking the Book of the Year. Honestly, I would have felt fine with naming at least half of them with the honor. There have been years where none of the books I read were as strong as the list I had before me this time around.

Another interesting thing about the list is that two of the works were read while I was in Mexico. I finished Love in the Time of Cholera in January, while I was working in the state of Michoacan. In fact, I finished it in Zihuatanejo, which is a small, beautiful resort town on the Pacific coast. (The work site wasn’t nearly as beautiful as Zihuatanejo, which served as the way in and out of the country for us.) I enjoy trying to match the book I’m reading with the place I’m traveling, and in this instance, Love in the Time of Cholera was a perfect match for the location.

Then, in March, I finished The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes while working in the state of Durango, near a small town called Casas Blancas. In this case, the work didn’t as nicely match the location, but it was still a memorable read, and a memorable location.

Several of the works this year surprised me with how much I enjoyed them. I did not expect to find The Hammer of God so rewarding, but it certainly was a work that I found quite meaningful. Lord Jim also struck me as remarkably good. Conrad is an artist with the language, and I really should spend more time with him. Washington’s Crossing also was an incredibly rewarding book, and in a different year, I would have proudly named it the Book of the Year.

Finally, two works caused me some real sadness at not being able to grant them the honor of being named the Book of the Year. The Grapes of Wrath and All the King’s Men are incredibly well written books. I consider them two of the top 10 novels written in the 20th century.

However, the honors for Book of the Year go to William Shakespeare, and King Lear. I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve read this classic, and still find it irresistible. It’s not really fair to the rest of the works that they have to compete with Shakespeare’s most profound work.

So, here’s to 2013, to joy of new discoveries, and to revisiting the challenging and rewarding works of the past.