by Paul Johnson
The purpose of this book is to question the moral right of intellectuals over the ages to counsel people on how to behave; to this end Johnson examines several so-called “intellectuals” from Rousseau to Normal Mailer: their private lives, their regard for truth, and their skill in public affairs. It is a fascinating and at times irritating book, made all the more amazing by the fact (never mentioned here) that Johnson, although a profoundly conservative thinker, was a socialist for a part of his life. Thus his attacks on intellectuals’ credulity in dealing with the Communist Party is somewhat ironic. Leaving that aside, when he exposes the blatant hypocrisy and even cruelty of some supposed champions of the people and self-proclaimed moral paragons (Marx and Rousseau, especially), he is admirable. It is also perfectly legitimate to expose the lying of a Hemingway or a Lillian Hellman.
But I have several objections to the book as well. First, there is no separate intro or conclusion, no preparatory definition-setting. So what is an intellectual, exactly? It seems to be a thinker who believes that intellect alone can change the world, rather than time-honored traditions. Well, maybe, but then it seems Edmund Wilson is a “man of letters,” then an intellectual, then a man of letters again. An intellectual actually seems to be a bright left-winger. Second, who ever said Hemingway or Shelley or Sartre, for example, were paragons of virtue? They might well be exposed as awful people, but their excoriation does not make as much sense as Marx’s. Johnson seems to simply hate creativity, bitterly resenting the fact that 50,000 mostly young people attended Sartre’s funeral (and dwelling rather unnecessarily on his ugliness). Third, his attacks are inconsistent: he berates most of his victims for their adulterous affairs, but also attacks Ibsen for his platonic relations with girls, accusing him of using people as archetypes rather than individuals. Would he rather Ibsen slept with them? Or he will imply that an intellectual’s change of allegiance is a flaw, but also deplores Brecht for remaining loyal to the CP. In any case, this is obviously an utterly absorbing series of essays, thought-provoking and lucid.
three stars
Tuesday, February 16, 1999
Thursday, February 11, 1999
The Epic Of Gilgamesh
by anonymous
translated and edited by N.K. Sandars
The hero, Gilgamesh, befriends Enkidu, a man brought up by animals, and they seek immortality through great deeds. After Enkidu dies, Gilgamesh tries to acquire true immortality, but realizes the quest is futile. It’s a rather pessimistic tale, emphasizing the inevitability of death and the unpredictability of this world. The edition I read is not a translation, apparently, but a rendering from other translations. The intro, giving the literary and historical background, is longer than the epic itself, which is a mere 60 well-spaced pages. Since the intro was written in 1960, it may be out of date by now, and mentions some literary discoveries which were even then under way. In any case, I found the epic less than thrilling, more interesting as historical document than literary work. This is due to the fact that we don’t understand some of the symbolism the Mesopotamians used, and to the fragmentary or contradictory aspects of the epic, though Sandars does her best to present it as an unbroken narrative.
three stars
translated and edited by N.K. Sandars
The hero, Gilgamesh, befriends Enkidu, a man brought up by animals, and they seek immortality through great deeds. After Enkidu dies, Gilgamesh tries to acquire true immortality, but realizes the quest is futile. It’s a rather pessimistic tale, emphasizing the inevitability of death and the unpredictability of this world. The edition I read is not a translation, apparently, but a rendering from other translations. The intro, giving the literary and historical background, is longer than the epic itself, which is a mere 60 well-spaced pages. Since the intro was written in 1960, it may be out of date by now, and mentions some literary discoveries which were even then under way. In any case, I found the epic less than thrilling, more interesting as historical document than literary work. This is due to the fact that we don’t understand some of the symbolism the Mesopotamians used, and to the fragmentary or contradictory aspects of the epic, though Sandars does her best to present it as an unbroken narrative.
three stars
Tuesday, February 9, 1999
King Harald's Saga
by Snorri Sturluson
translated and annotated, with an introduction by Magnus Magnusson and Hermann Palsson
This book is comprised of a brief excerpt from Snorri’s Heimskringla, his complete history of Norway. It tells the story of Harald Sigurdsson, half-brother of St. Olaf, who through cunning and treachery became king of Norway, then in 1066 vied for the English throne with Harold of England, just before the latter was defeated by William the Bastard. Although Snorri doesn’t preach the moral of the story, it becomes clear that Harald is not a noble man. He breaks his word several times: for example he promises his enemies safe passage and then murders them; and he tests his co-king and nephew Magnus by insisting (unjustly) on his right to use the royal jetty.
It is a quite vivid picture of what men had to do in those conditions to gain and keep power, although other personages in the saga can be chivalrous, and are evidently disgusted with Harald’s duplicity. My sympathies never lay with Harald, even given his context. The editors note, interestingly, that Harold might have defeated William if he hadn’t been drawn into the mass slaughter with Harald at Stamford Bridge.
four stars
translated and annotated, with an introduction by Magnus Magnusson and Hermann Palsson
This book is comprised of a brief excerpt from Snorri’s Heimskringla, his complete history of Norway. It tells the story of Harald Sigurdsson, half-brother of St. Olaf, who through cunning and treachery became king of Norway, then in 1066 vied for the English throne with Harold of England, just before the latter was defeated by William the Bastard. Although Snorri doesn’t preach the moral of the story, it becomes clear that Harald is not a noble man. He breaks his word several times: for example he promises his enemies safe passage and then murders them; and he tests his co-king and nephew Magnus by insisting (unjustly) on his right to use the royal jetty.
It is a quite vivid picture of what men had to do in those conditions to gain and keep power, although other personages in the saga can be chivalrous, and are evidently disgusted with Harald’s duplicity. My sympathies never lay with Harald, even given his context. The editors note, interestingly, that Harold might have defeated William if he hadn’t been drawn into the mass slaughter with Harald at Stamford Bridge.
four stars
Saturday, February 6, 1999
Brighton Rock
by Graham Greene
A small time Brighton gang, led by Pinkie, a nasty youth with ageless eyes, kills a man. But this man just befriended Ida, a breezy, confident woman, who determines to set things Right. Pinkie must kill again, and marries a very young girl to prevent her being a witness.
The “detective” story gives way to an eerie condemnation of the modern world, with its automated machines and various perversions. There’s an (unfought) battle for moral superiority between Pinkie’s twisted Catholic urge for damnation and Ida’s righteous, amoral sense of justice, living life for fun without hurting innocent people. I liked the bleak tone of the book, but the pacing is plodding. There are bits of dark genius, but I found the whole overlong and far from engrossing.
two stars
A small time Brighton gang, led by Pinkie, a nasty youth with ageless eyes, kills a man. But this man just befriended Ida, a breezy, confident woman, who determines to set things Right. Pinkie must kill again, and marries a very young girl to prevent her being a witness.
The “detective” story gives way to an eerie condemnation of the modern world, with its automated machines and various perversions. There’s an (unfought) battle for moral superiority between Pinkie’s twisted Catholic urge for damnation and Ida’s righteous, amoral sense of justice, living life for fun without hurting innocent people. I liked the bleak tone of the book, but the pacing is plodding. There are bits of dark genius, but I found the whole overlong and far from engrossing.
two stars
Monday, February 1, 1999
Blue Highways: A Journey Into America
by William Least Heat-Moon
The author, an English teacher of Sioux descent, loses his job and his wife, and decides to tour the small towns of America. The blue highways, as he calls them, are the back roads, compared to the red highways on maps (that’s changed now, of course). Taking along nothing much, he sleeps in his truck, talking with the people about their lives, the past, their local history, their philosophies, etc.
Quoting Whitman and American Indian creeds every few pages, he makes his own views pretty clear: progress brings loss as well, military buildup is tragic, burger chains are boring as well as bad, etc. He reports at great length the conservationist tirades of old folks and local lore experts, but doesn’t stop to talk with people with whom he disagrees, letting their brief unbidden comments about those maniacs in Moscow represent their thoughts. All of which would be off-putting enough, but the book is way overlong at 420 pages. I realize it was a long journey (the circumference of the continental USA), but about three quarters of the way through I’d quite gotten his point about treasuring the past and traveling in order to find oneself.
two stars
The author, an English teacher of Sioux descent, loses his job and his wife, and decides to tour the small towns of America. The blue highways, as he calls them, are the back roads, compared to the red highways on maps (that’s changed now, of course). Taking along nothing much, he sleeps in his truck, talking with the people about their lives, the past, their local history, their philosophies, etc.
Quoting Whitman and American Indian creeds every few pages, he makes his own views pretty clear: progress brings loss as well, military buildup is tragic, burger chains are boring as well as bad, etc. He reports at great length the conservationist tirades of old folks and local lore experts, but doesn’t stop to talk with people with whom he disagrees, letting their brief unbidden comments about those maniacs in Moscow represent their thoughts. All of which would be off-putting enough, but the book is way overlong at 420 pages. I realize it was a long journey (the circumference of the continental USA), but about three quarters of the way through I’d quite gotten his point about treasuring the past and traveling in order to find oneself.
two stars
Friday, January 29, 1999
Iron And Silk
by Mark Salzman
The author, a graduate of Yale in Chinese language and literature, went to China for two years to teach English and study martial arts. This account is presented as a series of episodes, each with its own life lesson. The book gives a clear picture of the variety of experiences he had, from the unsympathetic, even vicious, foreign-hating bureaucracy, to the incredibly open hospitality of those who had the least time to give.
The culture gap (and gape) is made readily apparent, in the student who thinks Americans must be cruel just to think up something like the Shirley Jackson story “The Lottery;” in the family of fishermen who wash and brush their teeth in the same river they use as a toilet; in the intellectual who calls The World According To Garp the most “unsuitable” book he’d ever imagined, then asks to keep it; in the man whose greatest wish is to eat and sleep well, saying Salzman’s dreams, to be liked and to excel, are easily attainable, but to eat and sleep well are beyond one’s control... A beautiful, clever, unassuming book.
five stars
The author, a graduate of Yale in Chinese language and literature, went to China for two years to teach English and study martial arts. This account is presented as a series of episodes, each with its own life lesson. The book gives a clear picture of the variety of experiences he had, from the unsympathetic, even vicious, foreign-hating bureaucracy, to the incredibly open hospitality of those who had the least time to give.
The culture gap (and gape) is made readily apparent, in the student who thinks Americans must be cruel just to think up something like the Shirley Jackson story “The Lottery;” in the family of fishermen who wash and brush their teeth in the same river they use as a toilet; in the intellectual who calls The World According To Garp the most “unsuitable” book he’d ever imagined, then asks to keep it; in the man whose greatest wish is to eat and sleep well, saying Salzman’s dreams, to be liked and to excel, are easily attainable, but to eat and sleep well are beyond one’s control... A beautiful, clever, unassuming book.
five stars
Monday, January 25, 1999
An Indian Summer
by James Cameron
Cameron, a journalist, returns to India after a lifetime as a foreign correspondent, now married to an Indian. He recalls his past there as well as India’s past and present, and along the way muses about life and death and everything else. Then he gets into a serious car collision and finds that he needs an artificial heart.
A rich book, filled with truly deep thoughts and stunningly honest self-assessments about fear and dying as well as the human condition: “I am not afraid of the dark, I am afraid of the night, and I am afraid of the night only because it does not complete the finished day but announces the new one, which would almost certainly be as inadequate as the one before.” He has some very perspicacious remarks about Indian politics and culture, and offers some reasonable explanations of why India works the way it does. As insightful as these comments are, they’re not the main point. It’s not so much a book about coming to an understanding of India but how it is possible to both love and hate that maddening country without fully understanding.
four stars
Cameron, a journalist, returns to India after a lifetime as a foreign correspondent, now married to an Indian. He recalls his past there as well as India’s past and present, and along the way muses about life and death and everything else. Then he gets into a serious car collision and finds that he needs an artificial heart.
A rich book, filled with truly deep thoughts and stunningly honest self-assessments about fear and dying as well as the human condition: “I am not afraid of the dark, I am afraid of the night, and I am afraid of the night only because it does not complete the finished day but announces the new one, which would almost certainly be as inadequate as the one before.” He has some very perspicacious remarks about Indian politics and culture, and offers some reasonable explanations of why India works the way it does. As insightful as these comments are, they’re not the main point. It’s not so much a book about coming to an understanding of India but how it is possible to both love and hate that maddening country without fully understanding.
four stars
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