A book to give your sister

Over the holiday, I picked up a copy of Flann O'Brien's At Swim-Two-Birds, one of the great Irish novels of the 20th century.
I can't stop laughing at the blurb on the front cover, from the poet Dylan Thomas:

"This is just the book to give your sister if she's a loud, dirty, boozy girl."

Home review

I'm a little late blogging this, but here's my review of Home, by Marilynne Robinson. 

In Gilead, a sleepy little town in Iowa in 1956, the elderly minister Robert Boughton is dying, cared for by his unmarried adult daughter, Glory.

" 'Home to stay, Glory! Yes!' her father said, and her heart sank," begins Marilynne Robinson's latest novel, Home, which is a finalist for this year's National Book Award for fiction.

Interrupting the quiet procession of the pair's days together is a letter from Jack — the black sheep son and brother gone for 20 years. Now in his 40s, he has yet to live down the bad deeds of his youth: cutting classes, stealing and, most grievously to Boughton, fathering an illegitimate child with a girl he doesn't love. ...

These characters will be familiar to readers of Gilead, Robinson's 2005 Pulitzer Prize winner. Not a sequel nor a prequel, Home eerily chronicles the same events as Gilead, but this time told from the perspective of Glory as she muddles through the drama of her brother's sudden reappearance.

This was a tough review for me to write, because I really loved Gilead, and there were a lot of things I found unsatisfying about Home, more for emotional reasons than easily defined artistic and/or critical reasons. Anyway, read the complete review here.

Sad about smoking

I saw an op-ed piece in The Washington Post recently that said to the effect "Let Barack Obama smoke if he wants to."


(Actual headline: "Let the Guy Smoke. Obama Is Probably Fibbing About Giving Up Cigarettes. That's Okay.")


I used to smoke, a lot. It's a depressing, suicidal addiction. It's not good. When you're smoking, you think it's harmless and fun, but that's the addiction tricking you. That's the nature of addiction.


It made me really sad to see that op-ed -- and not because it's particularly about Obama. I'd say the same thing about anyone.


To me, it's like saying, "Let him kill himself, what's the big deal?"


Having said all that, quitting smoking is one of the most personal decisions a person can make. No one can do it for you, and you're not gonna do it yourself until you're 100 percent mentally committed to doing it.

Nonplussed and bemused, followed by meh.

Add bemused to the list of words -- like nonplussed -- that seem to be morphing before our eyes.

The Boston Globe found several instances of political reporters writing that Barack Obama appeared to be "bemused" in debates. The context seemed to mean he was wryly amused. But bemused acutally means confused or puzzled.

Nonplussed also means confused or puzzled or taken aback -- not "nonchalant" or "unperturbed," as it's often used. (And as this blog has noted before!!)

What does this imply? Some deep-seated, society-wide revulsion to being confused? So much so that we must expunge the notion from the very language? Maybe, but probably not.

In other lexiconic news, RF would like me to note that "Meh" has gained a place in next year's dictionaries. It's an expression of indifference or apathy, supposedly originating with "The Simpsons." Homer asks Bart and Lisa, who are watching TV, if they want to go on a day trip. They say, "Meh," and keep watching TV.

I suspect "meh" was in circulation long before "The Simpsons." It sounds to me like it could be Yiddish or Italian, but that's just a gut feeling. I have no linguistic evidence to proffer.

Yeats and the Wandering Aengus

My life is full of things poetical lately. My car pool partner moved away, so to make the commute go faster, I've been searching out audio educational material. Open Yale Courses offers an online class in Modern Poetry, and I started listening to the lectures on Irish poet William Butler Yeats.
Yale has a pretty impressive set-up, and it's free and on the open Web. You can download video or audio of the lecture along with worksheets and other ancilliary materials. I like it better than the ubiquitous, proprietary, complicated Blackboard, which is the educational software of choice at University of South Florida (where I'm in library school), and many other places.

The first Yeats lecture discussed the poem "The Song of Wandering Aengus," (1899) a new poem to me. Here it is in its entirety.

I WENT out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.

When I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire a-flame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And someone called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.

Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done,
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.

The teacher of the Yale course, the marvelously named Langdon Hammer, says this is an example of the early Yeats, and we will see Yeats move toward a different aesthetic as we go forward. So this is all very interesting to me. Make no mistake, I think "Wandering Aengus" is a marvelous poem, whether it's modern, romantic or whatever. I find Yeats fascinating.

I strongly suspect Yeat's Aengus is of Dun Aengus of the Aran Islands, a site we visited on our trip to Ireland last year. "Dun" means "Fort", so Dun Aengus is the Fort of Aengus. It's an ancient cliffside fort that looks out over the Atlantic Ocean. It's kind of hard to show from our photos, but look at this one below. People are lying on their bellies looking over the edge of the cliff because it's just too scary to walk up to the edge. There's no fence or anything to keep you from plunging over the side to your death. This photo was taken by me in August 2007.



I'll have some more thoughts on poetry in upcoming posts ...

For the NYT fans out there.

This is only funny if you're pretty familiar with New York Times columnist Frank Rich ... an actual conversation at my house Sunday night.

Scene: Me and the spouse sitting on the couch reading the NYT. 

Me: "Hey, did you read Frank Rich today? Was it good?"

The Spouse: "Yes, I did. Frank Rich is always good." 

Me: "Hmm. Can you boil down this week's column for me, so I don't have to read it?"

The Spouse: (thinks for a minute ...) "The pundits are all wrong. The administration is all wrong. Only I, Frank Rich, can tell what is really going on."

Too much RSS ...

Do you use an RSS reader, like Google Reader? Do you know what RSS is? Basically, it's a way to scoop up all the postings from your favorite blogs and gather them in a single place. Each blog's new updates are called a feed; you use your reader to subscribe to feeds.

I often get carried away subscribing to too many RSS feeds. When my RSS reader tells me that I have "1000+" unread posts, I know things have gone too far.
So every so often , I just give up and delete all the unread posts and start over. In the stock market, there's a term for when the sellers accept the fact that market has bottomed out and stop waiting for an upsurge: capitulation. It's typically associated with with a horrible bear market. That's what the "mark all posts read" button is. Once, I even deleted all my RSS feeds. That's super-capitulation.

There were dozens and dozens of posts made in the 48 hours after the election. Most of them variations on this theme: "Obama won! What does it mean? What will he do now? Maybe this? Or this? Or how about this?"

I'm not trying to make any kind of political statement here -- this being a strictly nonpartisan blog and all -- but this was mostly low-information junk food. The actual news content was very, very low. Political reporting has become like sports reporting, in that reader interest exceeds new content by a significant margin. Hence the massive proliferation of commentary. In my line of work, I'm more of a "just the facts, ma'am" type.

So I junked all my unread RSS posts -- I capitulated -- and started over again. Deep cleansing breath! Ahhhhh ...

The specter of economic meltdown

When the economy goes south, I turn into a business news ADDICT. We may be in heading for the worst downturn since the Great Depression, so you can imagine what I'm like these days. I'm always looking around for the next good stuff.

My favorite sources:

• National Public Radio's Planet Money blog and podcast. Fun, frightening stuff: It's got a casual, shooting-the-sh*t-over-beers vibe to it, cool music and interviews with global economists.
• A triumvirate of big dailies: The New York Times, The Washington Post, The Wall Street Journal. These guys rock. I particularly like The New York Times series The Reckoning, and I particularly recommend their story on ostensible wise man Alan Greenspan.
• Slate Magazine's The Big Money. I'm particularly fond of a Depression-era diary they're running, written by a lawyer who lived through it in Youngstown, Ohio. Check it out here and here.
  

When I get scare of what's going to happen in the coming months, I comfort myself with this thought: the life of the mind is pretty cheap. Instead of spending money, I'll stay home and read The Brothers Karamazov.

Baseball and Man's Hubris

The baseball season ended this week, and no, my beloved Rays did not win, but they gave it a great try and I'm very proud of them. Way to go, guys! 

They had the worst record in baseball last year, so this year's efforts are quite an accomplishment. Also, the paper's book section interviewed Rays outfielder Fernando Perez about what he was reading, and he mentioned two poets that I will check out -- Robert Creeley and John Ashbery. 

But I'm very bothered about one aspect of this year's World Series. The weather was awful in Philadelphia, and it delayed one game to a 10 p.m. start, and suspended another game so that part of the game had to be played two days later.

This is an outrageous turn of events, due mostly to an extended schedule that now has the World Series played in Northern climes at the end of October. Baseball is  supposed to end in crisp autumnal air, not in the onset of winter, as is what happened in Philly last week -- rain and cold temps. 

It used to be, the World Series was played at the beginning of October (in the afternoon, no less) and that's really the way it should be. There are lots of reasons the season has been extended, which I won't go into here. But baseball management needs to find some way to shorten the season up. And they also need to start the games earlier in the evening; these 8:37 p.m. ET times are too late. It's not fun to have to stay up until 1 a.m. on a work night. 

But really, I'm most bothered by the idea that human beings can or should be playing the championship game of what is essentially a summer sport at the tail end of October. It's fine in Florida, but in the more established baseball cities with their outdoor stadiums-- New York, Boston, Pittsburgh, St. Louis -- it's insane. It's man foolishly saying he can overcome the turn of the seasons. It's just wrong and it makes me worry.

PS The spouse says he agrees but basically says, get in line. It's an old complaint and nothing seems to come of it.