Sunday, December 13, 2009
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Although there was unfortunately no Brad Pitt in sight on Saturday, I did get to play Thelma and Louise by taking a road trip with a group of women. To see The Phantom of the Opera. Fortunately, no bail had to be posted. The mother of my piano student told me not too long ago that "adjective" is no longer used in the classroom, as it isn't 'exciting' enough to describe descriptive words. Apparently they are now being called *sparkle words* (insert hands raised 'Hallelujah' style with wiggly fingers). Personally, using the more difficult 'adjective' never seemed to impede my ability to use them; I can't tell you what a preposition is, but I have a feeling I use those ocassionally as well. Anyway.....Here are my *sparkle words* to describe the show: Spectacular. Mesmerizing. Stunning. Beautiful. Gorgeous. Wish you were here. (Okay, I know that last one is not an adjective, and I'm only hoping the rest of them qualify, but you get the point.) I read the book for the first time in sixth or seventh grade, and ever since then, I have wondered how they could accomplish the demolition of a chandelier on stage without incurring the wrath of sue-happy lawyers. Well, now I know, and it was more than vastly entertaining. It was an artistic revelation set to breathtaking music. It is one thing to sit at a stoplight, belting out Michael Crawford and Sarah Brightman in the secure solitude of a Mercury Milan. It is an entirely different thing to feel the concussion of the drums as they accentuate the Phantom's footsteps as he descends the main staircase at the masquerade, dressed as the Red Death. It was brilliant. My only complaint is the same complaint I had before I saw it live. Christine. Being a slightly indecisive person myself, it is a shortcoming I can only barely tolerate in minimal amounts. My "favorite" part? At the end, in the Phantom's lair, after Raoul has discarded any regard for his own life, and has descended beyond the portals of hell to rescue the girl he has loved since his childhood with the type of devotion only Jane Austen heroines get the opportunity to experience- AND SHE CAN'T MAKE UP HER MIND!!!!! Really?! I know the Phantom has that aura of mystery which usually surrounds paranoid, homicidal geniuses, but enough already! While the noose is tightening around the throat of the one man who truly loves her she does nothing but cringe and wail. Voluntary helplessness is an unforgivable sin in my book. So while Raoul is dying (literally and metaphorically) Christine decides to all but have a love-fest make-out session with his murderer. Typical blonde. (In the book she is blonde. Her father was Swedish, after all.) Anyway, other than that? Marvelous. Stupendous. Entrancing. I fell in love. Not just with the production itself, but with....the conductor. Strange? I know. I can tell you the moment it happened, though. It was when Raoul first comes to see Christine after her astonishing success at the gala. The mirror prop which eventually becomes the escape route through which the Phantom kidnaps her from her dressing room was somewhat tilted towards the orchestra pit. The bottom of the stage obscured everything below the conductor's cummerbund while the angle of the mirror only revealed anything from the bowtie down. Sounding stranger all the time? Yes, I assume so, but let me explain. In other words, the only thing visible was the conductor's hands. Aside from Fred Astaire, men aren't usually described as 'graceful,' but this man was graceful. To see what you were hearing is the only way I can describe the experience. I watched him for a while, his hands enacting what the instruments would vocalize a split second later. In the next scene, as the Phantom and Christine are moving across the candlelit subterranean lake, the conductor's silhoutte was rendered a bit fantastical and spectral by the smoke skimming across the stage and cascading over the ledge. Again, his motions as he conducted the musicians was almost hypnotic. I had never really thought about the vital role the conductor plays in such a production. It was actually nearly as interesting to watch him as any of the other performers. Anyway, it was fabulous and a grand time was had by all. One day I'll see Les Miserables. But my heart will always belong to the conductor of the Phantom.
Author Quotes
- "I have great faith in fools; self-confidence, my friends call it." Edgar Allan Poe
- "The love of knowledge is a kind of madness." C.S. Lewis, "Out of the Silent Planet" (1/8/10)
- "...my private opinion is that after the words 'In the sweat of thy brow shalt thou earn thy bread; another clause has dropped out from the original text, running 'In the exasperation of thy souls shalt thou attend social functions.'" C.S. Lewis, "Collected Letters of C.S. Lewis Vol. 1" (9/17/09)
- "If the stars should appear one night in a thousand years, how would men believe and adore; and preserve for many generations the remembrance of the city of God which had been shown." Ralph Waldo Emerson (9/16/09)
- (Description of Charlotte Lucas) "Without thinking highly either of men or of matrimony, marriage had always been her object; it was the only honourable provision for well-educated young women of small fortune, and however uncertain of giving happiness, must be the pleasantest preservative from want." Jane Austen, "Pride and Prejudice" (8/4/09)
- "Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to noone, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully around with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But, in that casket-safe, dark, motionless, airless-it will change. It will not be broken, it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredemable. To love is to be vulnerable." C.S. Lewis (5/13/09)
- (Elizabeth to Jane) "Do not be afraid of my running into any excess, of my encroaching on your privilege of universal good will. You need not. There are few people whom I really love, and still fewer of whom I think well. The more I see of the world, the more am I dissatisfied with it; and every day confirms my belief of the inconsistency of all human characters, and of the little dependence that can be placed on the appearance of either merit or sense." Jane Austen, "Pride and Prejudice" (3/21/09)
- "If He who in Himself can lack nothing chooses to need us, it is because we need to be needed." C.S. Lewis, "The Problem of Pain" (3/15/09)
- "Man is the Reasoning Animal. Such is the claim. I think it is open to dispute." Mark Twain (3/14/09)
- "How frequently in the course of our lives, the evil which in itself we seek most to shun, and which when we are fallen into it, is the most dreadful to us, is oftentimes the very means or door of our deliverance, by which alone we can be rais'd again from the affliction we are fallen into." Daniel Defoe, "Robinson Crusoe" (2/12/09)
- "I did avoid a critical personal examination...I referred to all the people of high standing I could think of in the community who would be least likely to know anything about me." Mark Twain, "The Innocents Abroad" (1/10/09)
- "When we want to be something other than the thing God wants us to be, we must be wanting what, in fact, will not make us happy. We are bidden to 'put on Christ', to become like God. That is, whether we like it or not, God intends to give us what we need, not what we now think we want." C.S. Lewis, "The Problem of Pain" (12/23/08)
- "Let us never forget what the poor widow did, when we think we are charitable." Charles Dickens, "The Life of Our Lord" (11/30/08)
- (Writing of champion boxer, Max Baer, in comparison to James J. Braddock) "Everything was so easy for him-but great champions usually are fashioned by adversity." Jeremy Schaap, "Cinderella Man" (11/27/08)
- Dorian Gray to Lord Henry, "'I don't want to see him alone. He says things that annoy me. He gives me good advice.' Lord Henry smiled. 'People are very fond of giving away what they need most themselves. It is what I call the depth of generosity.'" Oscar Wilde, "The Picture of Dorian Gray" (11/18/08)
- "Humanity takes itself too seriously. It is the world's original sin. If the caveman had known how to laugh, History would have been different." Oscar Wilde, "The Picture of Dorian Gray" (11/17/08)
- "In the same way, it is natural for us to wish that God had designed for us a less glorious and less arduous destiny; but then we are wishing not for more love but for less." C.S. Lewis, "The Problem of Pain" (11/14/08)
- "Christians have often disputed as to whether what leads the Christian home is good actions, or Faith in Christ. I have no right really to speak on such a difficult question, but it does seem to me like asking which blade in a pair of scissors is most necessary." C.S. Lewis, "Mere Christianity" (11/5/08)
- "A wonderful fact to reflect upon, that every human creature is constituted to be that profound secret and mystery to every other. A solemn consideration, when I enter a great city by night, that every one of those darkly clustered houses encloses its own secret; that every room in every one of them encloses its own secret; that every beating heart in the hundreds of thousands of breasts there, is, in some of its imaginings, a secret to the heart nearest it." Charles Dickens, "A Tale of Two Cities" (11/1/08)
- "Many of us probably would be better fishermen if we did not spend so much time watching and waiting for the world to become perfect." Norman Maclean, "A River Runs Through It" (10/27/08)
- "'Business!' cried the Ghost, wringing its hands again. 'Mankind was my business. The common welfare was my business; charity, mercy, forbearance, and benevolence, were, all, my business. The dealings of my trade were but a drop of water in the comprehensive ocean of my business!'" Charles Dickens, "A Christmas Carol" (10/26/08)
- "The only thing to do with good advice is to pass it on. It is never of any use for oneself." Oscar Wilde (10/25/08)
- "I have been cautioned to talk but be careful not to say anything. I do not consider this a difficult task." Mark Twain, "Nineteenth Century Progress" (10/24/08)
- "Only keep your ears open and your mouth shut and everything will lead you to everything else in the end." C.S. Lewis, "Surprised by Joy" (10/23/08)
- "I think that all things, in their way, reflect heavenly truth, the imagination not least." C.S. Lewis, "Surprised by Joy" (10/22/08)
- "Shasta's heart fainted at these words for he felt he had no strength left. And he writhed inside at what seemed the cruelty and unfairness of the demand. He had not yet learned that if you do one good deed your reward usually is to be set to do another and harder and better one. But all he said out loud was: 'Where is the King?'" C.S. Lewis, "The Horse and His Boy" (10/21/08)
- "Try to exclude the possibility of suffering which the order of nature and the existence of free wills involve, and you find that you have excluded life itself." C.S. Lewis, "The Problem of Pain" (10/20/08)
- "If the whole universe has no meaning, we should never have found out that it has no meaning..." C.S. Lewis, "Mere Christianity" (10/19/08)
BOTE-9/17/09 Wuthering Heights-Emily Bronte
Well, after a very conspicuous absence of book suggestions, I have, after four months of silence, returned, hopefully in triumph and glory. What, no triumph or glory? Ah, well, I'd just settle for someone reading these, as I have a sneaking suspicion no one really (cares) does. I must confess that these are really for my own selfish purposes. I get to write about some of my favorite books; a favorite activity combined with a favorite subject. Next I'll be putting in a chat room capability so I can lure unwitting blog readers into conversation about their interpretations of the classics.
The suggestion this entry is Emily Bronte's "Wuthering Heights." *Surgeon General's Warning*-This novel is the record of one massive out-patient clinic. As someone once stated, "They should all be put in a rec-room with white walls and ping-pong tables." (Did anyone besides myself ever have coordination difficulties with the plastic athletic missile the size of a cotton puff? It's a bit discouraging to think that Forrest Gump could have beat you at something. Anyway.....) Like I said, head patients. All of them. Here's another thing: I only liked one character in the book; a character who doesn't even play a very prominent role until the last couple of chapters or so. Cathy always struck me as a very self-absorbed, self-serving, manipulative little tramp. Heathcliff always had a bit of that James-Dean-Brad-Pitt-in-Thelma-and-Louise bad boy appeal, but certainly not the type you'd want to put his feet under your mother's Christmas dinner table. Hindley was an immature alcoholic and the narrator a meddling busybody.
(Now that I've gotten that out of my system I can give you a plot outline.) The story opens with the arrival of a new tenant for Thruscross Grange, the neighboring house owned by the master of Wuthering Heights. He attempts to ingratiate himself with the landlord, an attempt which falls embarrassingly flat, as the landlord is notriously and intimidatingly misanthropic. The housekeeper of the Heights eventually pays a visit to the Grange and she and the new tenant fall into conversation which eventually drifts into a recital of the history of Wuthering Heights. I won't give any details as it would ruin the story for those who aren't familiar with the events of the novel. To wit: Heathcliff is brought as a child to Wuthering Heights, devoid of any relatable history, by the father of Catherine (Cathy) and Hindley. Hindley despises Heathcliff at first sight, but Heathcliff and Cathy soon become inseperable. The story progresses, the children grow into young men and women and old hatreds are not forgotten. These hatreds prey on the happiness that might have been, had the characters been willing to part with their pride. I suppose that is what makes this book so interesting, the inability to let go of the past for one's own sake. The characters would rather have been miserable and alone than to part with their precious hatred. The very thing which destroyed them all was the one thing they could not abandon, even to save their own lives. An interesting concept.
Even more interesting than the story is the life of Emily Bronte. The daughter of the rector of Haworth village on the Yorkshire moors. Two of her sisters died while at a boarding school (interesting to note if you have read Charlotte Bronte's "Jane Eyre."), and her only brother, Branwell died of alcoholism and an opium addiction. Emily herself died after catching cold at his funeral. She apparently lived very much in her own mind. Manuscripts were discovered, covered in a coded language, written in minute handwriting, nearly impossible to decipher, could anyone have understood the language.
Reading Wuthering Heights is almost like what a reverse therapy session would seem. Suddenly your own family begins to appear remarkably, blessedly normal; banal, even. So, you say, "If they're all head-cases, why on earth would I want to read this book?" Well, sane "normal" people aren't nearly as interesting, are they?
The suggestion this entry is Emily Bronte's "Wuthering Heights." *Surgeon General's Warning*-This novel is the record of one massive out-patient clinic. As someone once stated, "They should all be put in a rec-room with white walls and ping-pong tables." (Did anyone besides myself ever have coordination difficulties with the plastic athletic missile the size of a cotton puff? It's a bit discouraging to think that Forrest Gump could have beat you at something. Anyway.....) Like I said, head patients. All of them. Here's another thing: I only liked one character in the book; a character who doesn't even play a very prominent role until the last couple of chapters or so. Cathy always struck me as a very self-absorbed, self-serving, manipulative little tramp. Heathcliff always had a bit of that James-Dean-Brad-Pitt-in-Thelma-and-Louise bad boy appeal, but certainly not the type you'd want to put his feet under your mother's Christmas dinner table. Hindley was an immature alcoholic and the narrator a meddling busybody.
(Now that I've gotten that out of my system I can give you a plot outline.) The story opens with the arrival of a new tenant for Thruscross Grange, the neighboring house owned by the master of Wuthering Heights. He attempts to ingratiate himself with the landlord, an attempt which falls embarrassingly flat, as the landlord is notriously and intimidatingly misanthropic. The housekeeper of the Heights eventually pays a visit to the Grange and she and the new tenant fall into conversation which eventually drifts into a recital of the history of Wuthering Heights. I won't give any details as it would ruin the story for those who aren't familiar with the events of the novel. To wit: Heathcliff is brought as a child to Wuthering Heights, devoid of any relatable history, by the father of Catherine (Cathy) and Hindley. Hindley despises Heathcliff at first sight, but Heathcliff and Cathy soon become inseperable. The story progresses, the children grow into young men and women and old hatreds are not forgotten. These hatreds prey on the happiness that might have been, had the characters been willing to part with their pride. I suppose that is what makes this book so interesting, the inability to let go of the past for one's own sake. The characters would rather have been miserable and alone than to part with their precious hatred. The very thing which destroyed them all was the one thing they could not abandon, even to save their own lives. An interesting concept.
Even more interesting than the story is the life of Emily Bronte. The daughter of the rector of Haworth village on the Yorkshire moors. Two of her sisters died while at a boarding school (interesting to note if you have read Charlotte Bronte's "Jane Eyre."), and her only brother, Branwell died of alcoholism and an opium addiction. Emily herself died after catching cold at his funeral. She apparently lived very much in her own mind. Manuscripts were discovered, covered in a coded language, written in minute handwriting, nearly impossible to decipher, could anyone have understood the language.
Reading Wuthering Heights is almost like what a reverse therapy session would seem. Suddenly your own family begins to appear remarkably, blessedly normal; banal, even. So, you say, "If they're all head-cases, why on earth would I want to read this book?" Well, sane "normal" people aren't nearly as interesting, are they?
BOTE-5/13/09 Silas Marner-George Eliot
*Ahem* Okay, I have no excuse for the lengthy delay....except end of term chaos....and graduation...and my family coming for graduation....and the chaos of my family being here for graduation....good chaos, but chaos nonetheless. Anyway, excuses aside, here's the book suggestion. Hope it was worth waiting for:
"Silas Marner" by George Eliot. Incidentally, 'George Eliot' was the pseudonym for Mary Anne Evans, a very interesting individual. For a fairly "middle of the road" "don't rock the boat socially speaking" kind of person, it seems that I use that phrase quite a bit when describing the authors of some of my favorite books. I can't say as I particularly agree with her choice of morals in her living (she completely rejected all religion and lived with a married man until said man's death. (Which, had I been the wife of said man, would have been sooner rather than later....Anyway....)) Yet, it is a paradox of sorts to say that a person who seemingly disregarded any moral strictures or demands of the conscience produced such a deep study of the choices we make, the consequences which proceed from those choices, why we make the choices we do, and what we possibly forfeit in the hasty decision to trade the future for the satisfaction of the present.
Silas Marner begins with the description of......wait for it.....Silas Marner. Surprised? Silas is a weaver, a trade of misanthropes, of a breed both needed and feared by the villagers. Among the villagers whom he serves, Silas is seen as an uncomfortable and foreign member of the society. No one knows from whence he came, at a time when xenophobia was the order of the day, causing many to look upon him suspiciously and eschew his society. However, this is precisely what Silas desires. Without revealing too much of the plot, suffice it to say, Silas has a history which justifies his distrust of mankind. He has been treated unjustly and dealt the consequences for another's lack of good judgement. Betrayed, he has fled to the countryside, seeking invisibility. Silas wishes to avoid human attachment, it has already caused him undeserved pain. Why, therefore, should he seek it elsewhere? It has been proven that those whom we allow to become close to us are the very avenues by which pain travels. Yet, Silas is thrown into the path of a child, a child whom he raises, raises and learns to love, and, more importantly, learns to let himself be loved. I really can say no more than this, as too much of the simply intricate plot would be revealed and therefore ruined. However, it is interesting that every character in the novel is unknowingly linked by unseen but close ties to the other characters. Each characters' decision directly, even if not immediately, affect the others' lives. It is a novel about trading the possibilities of the future for the temporary satisfaction of the things we think we want now. It is about finding joy in what we are given, what we retain, not dwelling on that which we have lost. It is a novel which considers the effects unseen which we believe will never come to pass nor be of any concern, as they are not visible to anyone but ourselves. Are these consequences, then, of no matter, if, indeed, no one but ourselves can witness the decisions which lead to them? Or, is every decision, public or private, to be made in the thought of others, how it affects them or how it would affect us, even in the unlikely chance others should discover our most secret actions?
Like I said, a very interesting novel for one who claimed a disbelief in organized morals.
"Silas Marner" by George Eliot. Incidentally, 'George Eliot' was the pseudonym for Mary Anne Evans, a very interesting individual. For a fairly "middle of the road" "don't rock the boat socially speaking" kind of person, it seems that I use that phrase quite a bit when describing the authors of some of my favorite books. I can't say as I particularly agree with her choice of morals in her living (she completely rejected all religion and lived with a married man until said man's death. (Which, had I been the wife of said man, would have been sooner rather than later....Anyway....)) Yet, it is a paradox of sorts to say that a person who seemingly disregarded any moral strictures or demands of the conscience produced such a deep study of the choices we make, the consequences which proceed from those choices, why we make the choices we do, and what we possibly forfeit in the hasty decision to trade the future for the satisfaction of the present.
Silas Marner begins with the description of......wait for it.....Silas Marner. Surprised? Silas is a weaver, a trade of misanthropes, of a breed both needed and feared by the villagers. Among the villagers whom he serves, Silas is seen as an uncomfortable and foreign member of the society. No one knows from whence he came, at a time when xenophobia was the order of the day, causing many to look upon him suspiciously and eschew his society. However, this is precisely what Silas desires. Without revealing too much of the plot, suffice it to say, Silas has a history which justifies his distrust of mankind. He has been treated unjustly and dealt the consequences for another's lack of good judgement. Betrayed, he has fled to the countryside, seeking invisibility. Silas wishes to avoid human attachment, it has already caused him undeserved pain. Why, therefore, should he seek it elsewhere? It has been proven that those whom we allow to become close to us are the very avenues by which pain travels. Yet, Silas is thrown into the path of a child, a child whom he raises, raises and learns to love, and, more importantly, learns to let himself be loved. I really can say no more than this, as too much of the simply intricate plot would be revealed and therefore ruined. However, it is interesting that every character in the novel is unknowingly linked by unseen but close ties to the other characters. Each characters' decision directly, even if not immediately, affect the others' lives. It is a novel about trading the possibilities of the future for the temporary satisfaction of the things we think we want now. It is about finding joy in what we are given, what we retain, not dwelling on that which we have lost. It is a novel which considers the effects unseen which we believe will never come to pass nor be of any concern, as they are not visible to anyone but ourselves. Are these consequences, then, of no matter, if, indeed, no one but ourselves can witness the decisions which lead to them? Or, is every decision, public or private, to be made in the thought of others, how it affects them or how it would affect us, even in the unlikely chance others should discover our most secret actions?
Like I said, a very interesting novel for one who claimed a disbelief in organized morals.
BOTE-3/14/09 The Picture of Dorian Gray-Oscar Wilde
In keeping with the festivities of the month, I decided to pick an Irish author (and just to throw everyone off, I picked someone other than C.S. Lewis.....) Oscar Wilde......hmmmmm......very interesting character. He led quite an....shall we say, 'eventful' life. But, whatever his moral shortcomings, his writing is wonderful; his sense of humor was entirely undeniable. Speaking of George Bernard Shaw, Wilde said, "Well, he hasn't become important enough to have any enemies. But none of his friends like him." I'm sorry, but whether or not you want to, you have to admit that's funny. Anyway, about the book:
Dorian Gray is the only novel Wilde ever wrote. It has been turned into a very cliche "thriller" through film, but I believe that was not his intention whatsoever. Granted, it is the type of book that at times gives you the absolute creeps. The interesting thing is, this doesn't come from anything that, on film, would translate into a dark, shadowy sequence, necessarily. Rather, it is watching the gradual transition, voluntary transition, of Dorian Gray from an unaffected, innocent youth, to a corrupt force devoid of human emotion or affection. Above all, I think, Dorian Gray is a psychological book. It is a book about the choices we make, and what we become because of them. I'll attempt to clarify without giving away too much of the plot. When the story commences, Dorian is a very sheltered young man of great means and potential. He is admired for his 'youthful bloom,' both physically and mentally speaking; he has yet to become tainted by the stains of bad decisions. Someone, who plays an intermittent, indirect main part of the developement of the story, suggests it is time he tried a more Bacchanalian lifestyle-try the forbidden fruits of various material pleasures. Another indirectly main character fills the role of attempted moral preservationist and warns Dorian against such unwise behaviour; but unfortunately, as in so many cases, this advice goes unheeded. However, this 'conscience' is also a painter by trade, and, while Dorian is yet in his innocence, the artist paints his portrait, beseeching him to stay always as he is in the portrait. Dorian takes this portrait, and, upon the completion of his first act of defiance and rebellion, notices a small change in the portrait's appearance. Not a change of coloring, posture, or any other obvious detail, but rather a slight change of expression, especially in the eyes, into a more sinister, cruel expression. This continues, year after year, as Dorian slides further and further into a self-constructed cage of jaded unhappiness, unable to be satisfied by the empty nothings which used to thrill him. He continues in this state, constantly looking for something to fill the void he created within himself. All the while, Dorian is miraculously maintaining the same freshness of youth which he had at twenty well into his thirties, to the amazement, horror, and suspicion of many. The portrait, meanwhile is showing in its face what cannot be found in Dorian's. It is, in essence, acting as Dorian's conscience. Dorian is behaving in such a manner because he can, to the outer eyes of the world, 'get away with it.' As his actions leave no palpable mark on his visage, he feels as though he can do whatever he pleases, the consequences not being for him to bear. He can act without a conscience, with nothing to horde up guilt in his mind with which to torture him in any quiet moments of accidental contemplation of character or actions. Or so he thinks. Dorian keeps the portrait, at first, in a room, visible to all, then in another room behind a curtain, and eventually in a locked room, which none but him can enter. Dorian begins to become obsessive, sitting in the locked room for hours, staring intently at the portrait, reviewing each line and wrinkle, each cruel curve of the mouth as he becomes more and more hideous to himself. So, I suppose, the book is more about a few things such as: Can one ever really escape one's self and one's conscience, and if so, how heavy a price is exacted? What would we allow ourselves to become if we felt we could do what we wished, not fearing the consequences?
Dorian Gray is the only novel Wilde ever wrote. It has been turned into a very cliche "thriller" through film, but I believe that was not his intention whatsoever. Granted, it is the type of book that at times gives you the absolute creeps. The interesting thing is, this doesn't come from anything that, on film, would translate into a dark, shadowy sequence, necessarily. Rather, it is watching the gradual transition, voluntary transition, of Dorian Gray from an unaffected, innocent youth, to a corrupt force devoid of human emotion or affection. Above all, I think, Dorian Gray is a psychological book. It is a book about the choices we make, and what we become because of them. I'll attempt to clarify without giving away too much of the plot. When the story commences, Dorian is a very sheltered young man of great means and potential. He is admired for his 'youthful bloom,' both physically and mentally speaking; he has yet to become tainted by the stains of bad decisions. Someone, who plays an intermittent, indirect main part of the developement of the story, suggests it is time he tried a more Bacchanalian lifestyle-try the forbidden fruits of various material pleasures. Another indirectly main character fills the role of attempted moral preservationist and warns Dorian against such unwise behaviour; but unfortunately, as in so many cases, this advice goes unheeded. However, this 'conscience' is also a painter by trade, and, while Dorian is yet in his innocence, the artist paints his portrait, beseeching him to stay always as he is in the portrait. Dorian takes this portrait, and, upon the completion of his first act of defiance and rebellion, notices a small change in the portrait's appearance. Not a change of coloring, posture, or any other obvious detail, but rather a slight change of expression, especially in the eyes, into a more sinister, cruel expression. This continues, year after year, as Dorian slides further and further into a self-constructed cage of jaded unhappiness, unable to be satisfied by the empty nothings which used to thrill him. He continues in this state, constantly looking for something to fill the void he created within himself. All the while, Dorian is miraculously maintaining the same freshness of youth which he had at twenty well into his thirties, to the amazement, horror, and suspicion of many. The portrait, meanwhile is showing in its face what cannot be found in Dorian's. It is, in essence, acting as Dorian's conscience. Dorian is behaving in such a manner because he can, to the outer eyes of the world, 'get away with it.' As his actions leave no palpable mark on his visage, he feels as though he can do whatever he pleases, the consequences not being for him to bear. He can act without a conscience, with nothing to horde up guilt in his mind with which to torture him in any quiet moments of accidental contemplation of character or actions. Or so he thinks. Dorian keeps the portrait, at first, in a room, visible to all, then in another room behind a curtain, and eventually in a locked room, which none but him can enter. Dorian begins to become obsessive, sitting in the locked room for hours, staring intently at the portrait, reviewing each line and wrinkle, each cruel curve of the mouth as he becomes more and more hideous to himself. So, I suppose, the book is more about a few things such as: Can one ever really escape one's self and one's conscience, and if so, how heavy a price is exacted? What would we allow ourselves to become if we felt we could do what we wished, not fearing the consequences?
BOTE-2/1/09 The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society-Mary Ann Shaffer
Before everyone looks at this title and decides I have finally lost the last, infintesimal, minute bit of mind I have left, let me 'splain. Well, actually, I can't go into too much detail, even to explain the origins of the title of this particular book, as I fear it would reveal too much of the plot and ruin some of the delicious surprises this novel offers with each new page. It is, quite honestly (and I don't offer this high praise to just every piece of paper and ink I have close encounters with) one of the best books I have ever read. Now, considering the fact that I avoid any book, the author of which has not been dead for at least, oh, let's say, four decades, (C.S. Lewis died on November 22, 1963; incidentally, the same day John F. Kennedy was assassinated) the fact that this is a book published just within the last year also speaks to its magnificence.
A series of letters, (and trust me, for all of you who read 'letters' and say, "No way is that ever going to happen," just hear (read ) me out) the book follows the journey of a female journalist, living in London immediately after the end of World War II. I have to admit, that had me at the start: England? History? World War II History? Heck yes! Anyway, the main character is a journalist, and begins, through a series of events, to correspond with an inhabitant of a small village on the island of Guernsey. The Guernsey Isles sit in the English Channel; technically a part of Great Britain, they are nevertheless a self-governing set of islands. Victor Hugo, author of Les Miserables and The Hunchback of Notre Dame spent time in exile in the Guernsey isles, where he did much of his writing, as it is also very close to the French coast. Which is why, as Germany began its conquest of Europe, it chose these particular islands as an ideal stepping stone from defeated France to the stronghold of England. (Yes, I said 'defeated'.....I don't care too much for the French when it comes to discussing history.....Anyway, my feelings on that subject do not have any part in this summary, so I'll save that tangent for later....) However, as it soon became apparent that England was not going to fold like a piece of wet cardboard (like some other countries....), the German soldiers who had accomplished the occupation of the Guernsey isles were left to starve alongside the islanders. All of this plays a vital part in the story, but it only unfolds one letter at a time, as do the interesting and varied personalities of those penning the letters.
Humorous and serious by turns, the novel carries with it a sense of life learned through heartache. Reading the vivid descriptions within the letters, you almost begin to feel the salty sea air, hear the gulls, smell the brine, and taste the spray. What is so unique about this novel is the approach it takes to all the characters described, including the memories of German soldiers who lived among the Guernsey islanders during the occuptation. They describe how many of the soldiers aided the very people they had come to subdue. Many of them showed kindness, mercy, compassion, and a human bond which not even the most depraved tyranny can sever, if the individual refuses to relinquish it. This is quite a refreshing aspect of the novel. So often, in cases where history has given us a certain remove from events, it is easy to divide people into simply 'heroes' and 'villains.' Such is not the case with this book. People are people. Some use the opportunities they are given to prove that human nature does not have to be base, immoral and wretched, even if the conditions in which it finds itself are thus; if we so choose, we can use wretched conditions to show the greatest humanity, in its highest form. It shines all the more, in direct contrast to the deplorable surroundings. Much of this is what lies at the root of this novel. However, it is such a highly entertaining, informative, even educational book, it is a sheer joy to learn as you read.
The main character, the journalist, begins corresponding with a member of the Guernsey community, and eventually decides to write a piece on the occupation. She therefore begins to correspond with other members of the same small community, to gather different perspectives and anecdotes to compile within her articles. These turn into deep friendships, as each learns more about each other and about themselves, and begins the healing process. Although no one who has ever lived through such a horrendous experience as a world war will ever 'recover' or forget their experiences, they must find a way to return to the 'normal,' 'everyday,' blessedly trite affairs of living. With no intention of downplaying the role of America in the second World War, it must be admitted that we knew very little, if anything, of the deprivations, cruelties, horrors, and losses of those whose fields and pastures became the blood-soaked grounds upon which the immolation of young lives were offered in return for the defeat of hatred and the sanctity of human life restored. By reading this novel, you begin to get a sense of this, an appreciation for that which the non-soldier was forced to endure.
Yet, as I said, it is not all serious history. There are quite a few passages which I found so amusing I had to stop reading, as my concentration was interrupted by fits of laughter. "Witty" is certainly an appropriate description of this book. Many of the older women who frequent the library have also read this novel, and I have yet to hear one declare anything but praise for it. In fact, one older gentleman recently described it as "the best book he's ever read." Says quite a bit coming from one of the male-type, doesn't it? Anyway, the other librarians and I have decided that we all want to visit the Guernsey Isles for a month or so; so, if you venture to the library one day in the near future, and see a sign posted on the door, "Gone to Guernsey-back in a month" you'll know why.
A series of letters, (and trust me, for all of you who read 'letters' and say, "No way is that ever going to happen," just hear (read ) me out) the book follows the journey of a female journalist, living in London immediately after the end of World War II. I have to admit, that had me at the start: England? History? World War II History? Heck yes! Anyway, the main character is a journalist, and begins, through a series of events, to correspond with an inhabitant of a small village on the island of Guernsey. The Guernsey Isles sit in the English Channel; technically a part of Great Britain, they are nevertheless a self-governing set of islands. Victor Hugo, author of Les Miserables and The Hunchback of Notre Dame spent time in exile in the Guernsey isles, where he did much of his writing, as it is also very close to the French coast. Which is why, as Germany began its conquest of Europe, it chose these particular islands as an ideal stepping stone from defeated France to the stronghold of England. (Yes, I said 'defeated'.....I don't care too much for the French when it comes to discussing history.....Anyway, my feelings on that subject do not have any part in this summary, so I'll save that tangent for later....) However, as it soon became apparent that England was not going to fold like a piece of wet cardboard (like some other countries....), the German soldiers who had accomplished the occupation of the Guernsey isles were left to starve alongside the islanders. All of this plays a vital part in the story, but it only unfolds one letter at a time, as do the interesting and varied personalities of those penning the letters.
Humorous and serious by turns, the novel carries with it a sense of life learned through heartache. Reading the vivid descriptions within the letters, you almost begin to feel the salty sea air, hear the gulls, smell the brine, and taste the spray. What is so unique about this novel is the approach it takes to all the characters described, including the memories of German soldiers who lived among the Guernsey islanders during the occuptation. They describe how many of the soldiers aided the very people they had come to subdue. Many of them showed kindness, mercy, compassion, and a human bond which not even the most depraved tyranny can sever, if the individual refuses to relinquish it. This is quite a refreshing aspect of the novel. So often, in cases where history has given us a certain remove from events, it is easy to divide people into simply 'heroes' and 'villains.' Such is not the case with this book. People are people. Some use the opportunities they are given to prove that human nature does not have to be base, immoral and wretched, even if the conditions in which it finds itself are thus; if we so choose, we can use wretched conditions to show the greatest humanity, in its highest form. It shines all the more, in direct contrast to the deplorable surroundings. Much of this is what lies at the root of this novel. However, it is such a highly entertaining, informative, even educational book, it is a sheer joy to learn as you read.
The main character, the journalist, begins corresponding with a member of the Guernsey community, and eventually decides to write a piece on the occupation. She therefore begins to correspond with other members of the same small community, to gather different perspectives and anecdotes to compile within her articles. These turn into deep friendships, as each learns more about each other and about themselves, and begins the healing process. Although no one who has ever lived through such a horrendous experience as a world war will ever 'recover' or forget their experiences, they must find a way to return to the 'normal,' 'everyday,' blessedly trite affairs of living. With no intention of downplaying the role of America in the second World War, it must be admitted that we knew very little, if anything, of the deprivations, cruelties, horrors, and losses of those whose fields and pastures became the blood-soaked grounds upon which the immolation of young lives were offered in return for the defeat of hatred and the sanctity of human life restored. By reading this novel, you begin to get a sense of this, an appreciation for that which the non-soldier was forced to endure.
Yet, as I said, it is not all serious history. There are quite a few passages which I found so amusing I had to stop reading, as my concentration was interrupted by fits of laughter. "Witty" is certainly an appropriate description of this book. Many of the older women who frequent the library have also read this novel, and I have yet to hear one declare anything but praise for it. In fact, one older gentleman recently described it as "the best book he's ever read." Says quite a bit coming from one of the male-type, doesn't it? Anyway, the other librarians and I have decided that we all want to visit the Guernsey Isles for a month or so; so, if you venture to the library one day in the near future, and see a sign posted on the door, "Gone to Guernsey-back in a month" you'll know why.
BOTE-1/10/09 The Mascot-Mark Kurzem
Okay, okay, I realize that I must assume full responsibility and admit my laziness in not posting a new book recommendation. But I do have a good excuse....a really good one....a really convincing, legitimate excuse.....which is that.....let me 'splain.....Okay, alright, I don't have one. (At least, not one that could hold water.) But, while on my road toward sincere penitence, I deliberated long and hard as to what should be my first recommendation for this new year. I considered "Great Expectations" (which I love) but I was afraid I might begin to receive anonymous death threats from those who took my advice and only finished with the conclusion my mother came to that, "They're all just crazy! Crazy!" So, next I weighed the assets of "Wuthering Heights" (another favorite) only to realize that my mother, after reading it replied to my questioning, "They're all crazier than that last lot!" Which, as these make up a portion of the inner circle of my favorites, made me begin to be concerned about my own state of sanity......which thought was followed directly by the thought, "Survival of the fittest...Most of the time you have to be crazy to deal sanely with at least half of the things that happen in life. The crazier you are, the less you have to worry about." Finally, I decided on "The Mascot," a book I just recently finished, which I found thoroughly interesting.
"The Mascot," by Mark Kurzem, is about his father, whom he always believed to be Latvian. However, he discovers, after a rather abrupt and unforeseen confidence shared with him by his father, that there was very little, if indeed, any, truth to the story of his father's childhood which had always been related to Mark as a boy. The father began to wish, before he died, to both tell, and learn, of his own history, as he could remember very little of his life before the age of five or six. He could not remember either his mother's or father's name, the faces of his younger siblings, the name of the village he grew up in, anything of his life previous to a remarkable, nearly fantastical, event which threw his life onto an entirely different road; he became the anthropomorphism of a paradox-a Jewish child from Belarus who was inducted into the SS and used as a mascot for the very epitome of the genocidal machine Hitler created.
At times, it seems nearly impossible that such an event could happen, but then, you remind yourself, the mid-twentieth century was, itself, an event which, during peace times, one finds hard to believe it could have occurred. The father, Alex, was born in a small village in Belarus, a tiny country which strongly resisted Hitler's attempts. It must be explained that, at the beginning of Hitler's "plan" for the Jewish portion of the population, the "Final Solution" had not yet been conceived of; the intial plan was to gather the Jews and send them to the farthest reaches of the world. Which meant that, in order for the Jews who were being forced from their homes in Germany and the newly occupied territories to have somewhere to be sent to, room must be made in those farther corners of German occupation. Which meant, in short, that the Jews who already occupied those farther corners, must be permanently removed to make way for the "transplants." Thus began an extermination (albeit less systematic than it would become) of Jews in small villages. In his home village in Belarus, Alex, his mother and two younger siblings, were forced to join other Jews in a long queue, to await their execution by a firing squad. Waiting at the rear of the line, they witnessed the murder of their family and friends; suddenly a deluge descended, and the executions were called off. The Jews were ordered to return to their homes, to suffer a night of knowing what their fate would be as soon as the sun arose the next morning. Alex's mother took her children back to their home, trying to explain to Alex what was happening. That night, the terrified child crawled from his bed and out a window, running into the forest, away from the death awaiting him. He did not get very far, being so small, only as far as a hill above the town, where he witnessed the remaining executions, including that of his mother and siblings. Alex then escaped further into the forest, not knowing where he was going, only knowing it must not be back to the village. After many days, and through a series of events, the child was thrown into a line of men, Jews, he later realized as an adult, who were standing against a wall, to be "disposed of" by a firing squad similar to that which had murdered his family; a squad which was a contingent of a Latvian police brigade which was later inducted into the SS as the Eighteenth battalion. For reasons he never understood, Alex was pulled from the line by one of the soldiers. The young boy quickly ingratiated himself with the soldiers through his resourcefulness and ability to learn quickly. As the soldiers had been indiscriminate in their brutality, many non-Jewish members of these villages were killed alongside their Jewish neighbors, which meant that no one knew for certain whether Alex was Jewish or not, except the soldier who pulled him from the line. This soldier, whose motives Alex could never sort out, even when he became an adult, warned Alex that he must not, under any circumstances, let anyone know he was Jewish. The only difficulty lying in the fact that Alex, being such a young child, did not realize he was Jewish, or why this would be detrimental, as he had not reached an age at which he believed he could discern any differences among people. However, he took the soldier's warning seriously and never let anyone bathe him, which would have given away his secret, as he was circumcised. The result of this being that, as some explanation must be given for his origins, Alex was taught that he was Latvian and given a new birth date, and turned into a miniature model of a Nazified Latvian soldier, complete with fitted out uniforms and military titles.
Yet, even as a child, a child who could not clearly remember his family or history, Alex was sickened by what he saw, even if he did not understand the "reasons" or the extent to which it was carried out. However, he knew his life somehow hung in the balance, that, above all, he must not give himself away or make any "undue" objections which would bring him into disfavor. Alex was eventually turned over to the care of a Latvian family which owned and operated a chocolate factory, and who eventually, at the end of the war, took the child with them when they escaped to Australia.
Due to the scattered remnants of a child's memory, which were mixed with the fabricated memories provided by the soldiers, discovering Alex's true history and origins proved to be a nearly unsolvable enigma. Piece by piece the story unfolds, to the writer and his father, as well as to the reader. A combination of a story of a father and son, a personal history, and a completely absorbing mystery, this book is nothing short of amazing. The complexities are manifold: was the soldier who saved a boy, a Jewish boy no less, from the firing squad of which he was a member, who continued to participate in the horrific actions of a regime which gloried in brutal inhumanity, a damnable human being? The soldier murdered, but he also preserved a life. Did the soldier participate because he believed in the brutality, or did he see it as a means of survival? Could Alex, as he finally learned the full truth of what these men who raised him were, learn to loathe and despise them, as they were the only "family" he had ever really known? Was the Latvian family who cared for him as their own complicit in the murder of millions, even if they did not have an immediate part, because they rubbed elbows with high Nazi officials? Were they inhuman even though they had been careful caretakers of this small, lost child? It is certainly a book that leaves one asking questions. As the search progresses, you find your self almost as obsessed with finding the truth as the writer and his father were. You want Alex to find his "identity" but are as afraid as he of finding something which may horrify, hidden in the past he did not remember. Certainly a very intriguing read.
"The Mascot," by Mark Kurzem, is about his father, whom he always believed to be Latvian. However, he discovers, after a rather abrupt and unforeseen confidence shared with him by his father, that there was very little, if indeed, any, truth to the story of his father's childhood which had always been related to Mark as a boy. The father began to wish, before he died, to both tell, and learn, of his own history, as he could remember very little of his life before the age of five or six. He could not remember either his mother's or father's name, the faces of his younger siblings, the name of the village he grew up in, anything of his life previous to a remarkable, nearly fantastical, event which threw his life onto an entirely different road; he became the anthropomorphism of a paradox-a Jewish child from Belarus who was inducted into the SS and used as a mascot for the very epitome of the genocidal machine Hitler created.
At times, it seems nearly impossible that such an event could happen, but then, you remind yourself, the mid-twentieth century was, itself, an event which, during peace times, one finds hard to believe it could have occurred. The father, Alex, was born in a small village in Belarus, a tiny country which strongly resisted Hitler's attempts. It must be explained that, at the beginning of Hitler's "plan" for the Jewish portion of the population, the "Final Solution" had not yet been conceived of; the intial plan was to gather the Jews and send them to the farthest reaches of the world. Which meant that, in order for the Jews who were being forced from their homes in Germany and the newly occupied territories to have somewhere to be sent to, room must be made in those farther corners of German occupation. Which meant, in short, that the Jews who already occupied those farther corners, must be permanently removed to make way for the "transplants." Thus began an extermination (albeit less systematic than it would become) of Jews in small villages. In his home village in Belarus, Alex, his mother and two younger siblings, were forced to join other Jews in a long queue, to await their execution by a firing squad. Waiting at the rear of the line, they witnessed the murder of their family and friends; suddenly a deluge descended, and the executions were called off. The Jews were ordered to return to their homes, to suffer a night of knowing what their fate would be as soon as the sun arose the next morning. Alex's mother took her children back to their home, trying to explain to Alex what was happening. That night, the terrified child crawled from his bed and out a window, running into the forest, away from the death awaiting him. He did not get very far, being so small, only as far as a hill above the town, where he witnessed the remaining executions, including that of his mother and siblings. Alex then escaped further into the forest, not knowing where he was going, only knowing it must not be back to the village. After many days, and through a series of events, the child was thrown into a line of men, Jews, he later realized as an adult, who were standing against a wall, to be "disposed of" by a firing squad similar to that which had murdered his family; a squad which was a contingent of a Latvian police brigade which was later inducted into the SS as the Eighteenth battalion. For reasons he never understood, Alex was pulled from the line by one of the soldiers. The young boy quickly ingratiated himself with the soldiers through his resourcefulness and ability to learn quickly. As the soldiers had been indiscriminate in their brutality, many non-Jewish members of these villages were killed alongside their Jewish neighbors, which meant that no one knew for certain whether Alex was Jewish or not, except the soldier who pulled him from the line. This soldier, whose motives Alex could never sort out, even when he became an adult, warned Alex that he must not, under any circumstances, let anyone know he was Jewish. The only difficulty lying in the fact that Alex, being such a young child, did not realize he was Jewish, or why this would be detrimental, as he had not reached an age at which he believed he could discern any differences among people. However, he took the soldier's warning seriously and never let anyone bathe him, which would have given away his secret, as he was circumcised. The result of this being that, as some explanation must be given for his origins, Alex was taught that he was Latvian and given a new birth date, and turned into a miniature model of a Nazified Latvian soldier, complete with fitted out uniforms and military titles.
Yet, even as a child, a child who could not clearly remember his family or history, Alex was sickened by what he saw, even if he did not understand the "reasons" or the extent to which it was carried out. However, he knew his life somehow hung in the balance, that, above all, he must not give himself away or make any "undue" objections which would bring him into disfavor. Alex was eventually turned over to the care of a Latvian family which owned and operated a chocolate factory, and who eventually, at the end of the war, took the child with them when they escaped to Australia.
Due to the scattered remnants of a child's memory, which were mixed with the fabricated memories provided by the soldiers, discovering Alex's true history and origins proved to be a nearly unsolvable enigma. Piece by piece the story unfolds, to the writer and his father, as well as to the reader. A combination of a story of a father and son, a personal history, and a completely absorbing mystery, this book is nothing short of amazing. The complexities are manifold: was the soldier who saved a boy, a Jewish boy no less, from the firing squad of which he was a member, who continued to participate in the horrific actions of a regime which gloried in brutal inhumanity, a damnable human being? The soldier murdered, but he also preserved a life. Did the soldier participate because he believed in the brutality, or did he see it as a means of survival? Could Alex, as he finally learned the full truth of what these men who raised him were, learn to loathe and despise them, as they were the only "family" he had ever really known? Was the Latvian family who cared for him as their own complicit in the murder of millions, even if they did not have an immediate part, because they rubbed elbows with high Nazi officials? Were they inhuman even though they had been careful caretakers of this small, lost child? It is certainly a book that leaves one asking questions. As the search progresses, you find your self almost as obsessed with finding the truth as the writer and his father were. You want Alex to find his "identity" but are as afraid as he of finding something which may horrify, hidden in the past he did not remember. Certainly a very intriguing read.
BOTE-11/27/08 Shepherds, Why This Jubilee?- Jeffrey R. Holland
Okay, this is definitely one of my top 5 favorite books. (Of course my list runs horizontally as well as vertically, so...) But still, if the house was burning down, and I only had time to grab a handful of books to save, this would certainly be one. It is a thin book, not even 100 pages, but the wealth of emotion and understanding to be garnered from it is far beyond its physical length. I have to read it, not only at Christmas, but any time during the year that I am struggling for acceptance of why certain events had to occur, or why I am having to endure a particular trial. Now, I know we all get to the point, when we are going through a particularly difficult time, that we really don't want to hear some comment along the lines of "Well, you know, it is ultimately all for the best..." or "You'll understand everything later..." No, I'm sorry, sometimes I want to understand now. Sometimes, I want to know what my pain is really going to accomplish, why it is so "necessary," because it certainly doesn't seem to be "necessary" at the time. Now, if you are one of those people who never has trouble accepting what is doled out, or cheerfully accepts heartache, well, more power to you, I (and I think most people) am not. Call it what you will, that is just the way of it. So, when I get into that frame of mind, I pull out this book. And I cry...and cry...and cry some more. It doesn't change the situation, but I find that I can more firmly say, "I can do what has been asked of me. I can endure what I have been asked to endure." There is nothing more I can say except I absolutely, postively, completely, wholly, totally adore this book. Because there is nothing I can say to really convey why I love it, or how much, I'll just insert an excerpt. (Plus, it is just fun to say "insert an excerpt...")
"As they made their way toward the temple that day, the Holy Spirit was resting upon a beloved elderly man named Simeon, one whom the scriptures describe as "just and devout." It was revealed to this gentle and venerable man that he would not die before seeing the Messiah-"the Lord's Christ," as Luke phrases it. The Spirit then led him to the temple, where he saw a young carpenter and his even younger wife enter the sanctuary with a new-born babe cradled in his mother's arms. Simeon, who had waited all his life for "the consolation of Israel," took that consolation in his arms, praised God, and said: "Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace, according to thy word: for mine eyes have seen thy salvation, which thou hast prepared before the face of all people; A light to lighten the Gentiles, and the glory of thy people Israel. And Joseph and His mother marvelled at those things which were spoken of Him. And Simeon blessed them, and said unto Mary His mother, Behold, this child is set for the fall and rising again of many in Israel; and for a sign which shall be spoken against; (yea, a sword shall pierce through thy own soul also,) that the thoughts of many hearts may be revealed." (Luke 2:29-35)
He [Simeon] was joyously happy. he had lived to see the Son of God be born. He had held the child in his very arms. He could now die the happiest man in all of Jerusalem, maybe in all the world. But his joy was not of the superficial kind. It was not without its testing and trying. No, his joy had something to do with "the fall and rising again of many in Israel," and with this child's life-or at least his death-which would be like a sword piercing throuh his beloved mother's soul. We might well ask, "Was such an ominous warning, such a fateful prophecy, appropriate in this season of joy? Surely such was untimely, even unseemly, at that moment-when the Son of God was so young and tender and safe, and his mother so thrilled with his birth and his beauty?"
Our answer is, yes, it was appropriate and important. I submit that unless we see all the meaning and joy of Christmas the way old Simeon saw it all-the whole of Christ's life, the profound mission, the end as well as the beginning-then Christmas will be just another day off work...The true meaning, the unique and lasting and joyous meaning of the birth of this baby, would be in the life he would lead and especially in his death, in his triumphant atoning sacrifice and in his prison-bursting resurrection.
It is the life at the other end of the manger scene that gives this moment of nativity in Bethlehem its ultimate meaning. Special as this child was and divine as was his conception, without that day of salvation wherein he would gain an everlasting victory over death and hell on behalf of every man, woman, and child who would ever be born-until that day should come-this baby's life and mission would not be complete.
But wise old Simeon understood all of this-that the birth was ultimately for the death-and it thrilled his soul that salvation was come. Thus Christmas was sobering as well as sweet for him, and so too will most Christmases be for us. Lying among those gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh were also a crown of thorns, a makeshift royal robe, and a Roman spear.
Yes, for me the most important Christmas visitor of all may have been old Simeon, who, not in the absence of hard days and long years but because of them, would sing with us tonight at the top of his voice, 'Joy to the world, the Lord is come; let earth receive her King!...No more will sin and sorrow grow, nor thorns infest the ground; he'll come and make the blessings flow, far as the curse was found.'"
"As they made their way toward the temple that day, the Holy Spirit was resting upon a beloved elderly man named Simeon, one whom the scriptures describe as "just and devout." It was revealed to this gentle and venerable man that he would not die before seeing the Messiah-"the Lord's Christ," as Luke phrases it. The Spirit then led him to the temple, where he saw a young carpenter and his even younger wife enter the sanctuary with a new-born babe cradled in his mother's arms. Simeon, who had waited all his life for "the consolation of Israel," took that consolation in his arms, praised God, and said: "Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace, according to thy word: for mine eyes have seen thy salvation, which thou hast prepared before the face of all people; A light to lighten the Gentiles, and the glory of thy people Israel. And Joseph and His mother marvelled at those things which were spoken of Him. And Simeon blessed them, and said unto Mary His mother, Behold, this child is set for the fall and rising again of many in Israel; and for a sign which shall be spoken against; (yea, a sword shall pierce through thy own soul also,) that the thoughts of many hearts may be revealed." (Luke 2:29-35)
He [Simeon] was joyously happy. he had lived to see the Son of God be born. He had held the child in his very arms. He could now die the happiest man in all of Jerusalem, maybe in all the world. But his joy was not of the superficial kind. It was not without its testing and trying. No, his joy had something to do with "the fall and rising again of many in Israel," and with this child's life-or at least his death-which would be like a sword piercing throuh his beloved mother's soul. We might well ask, "Was such an ominous warning, such a fateful prophecy, appropriate in this season of joy? Surely such was untimely, even unseemly, at that moment-when the Son of God was so young and tender and safe, and his mother so thrilled with his birth and his beauty?"
Our answer is, yes, it was appropriate and important. I submit that unless we see all the meaning and joy of Christmas the way old Simeon saw it all-the whole of Christ's life, the profound mission, the end as well as the beginning-then Christmas will be just another day off work...The true meaning, the unique and lasting and joyous meaning of the birth of this baby, would be in the life he would lead and especially in his death, in his triumphant atoning sacrifice and in his prison-bursting resurrection.
It is the life at the other end of the manger scene that gives this moment of nativity in Bethlehem its ultimate meaning. Special as this child was and divine as was his conception, without that day of salvation wherein he would gain an everlasting victory over death and hell on behalf of every man, woman, and child who would ever be born-until that day should come-this baby's life and mission would not be complete.
But wise old Simeon understood all of this-that the birth was ultimately for the death-and it thrilled his soul that salvation was come. Thus Christmas was sobering as well as sweet for him, and so too will most Christmases be for us. Lying among those gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh were also a crown of thorns, a makeshift royal robe, and a Roman spear.
Yes, for me the most important Christmas visitor of all may have been old Simeon, who, not in the absence of hard days and long years but because of them, would sing with us tonight at the top of his voice, 'Joy to the world, the Lord is come; let earth receive her King!...No more will sin and sorrow grow, nor thorns infest the ground; he'll come and make the blessings flow, far as the curse was found.'"
BOTE-10/25/08 Nicholas and Alexandra-Robert K. Massie
This is one of my all-time-most-favorite books (and that is saying a lot). It is about, *shock,* Nicholas and Alexandra. (I know you were all on the edge of your seats to see what the title foreshadowed.) Better known as Nicholas II and Alexandra Fedorovna, Romanovs, and the last of the Russian autocrats. Robert K. Massie is a wonderful author; he won the Pulitzer for his biography on Peter the Great (which I own, but am trying to get around to reading. I know, I know...what a slacker.) But, despite his winning the Pulitzer, he is not one of these "use-15-syllable-words-to-make-you-feel-like-an-idiot-and-show-how-much-smarter-he-is-than-you" kind of authors; and trust me, I have had to become acquainted with quite a few of these kinds of historians, who apparently have no social skills (and hence no friends), and so, therefore try to make themselves feel important by making your life miserable when you have to write a paper on their work. (Can you tell I'm getting to the "disillusioned" stage of the semester?) "Focus, Kelly, focus..." So, anyway, "Nicholas and Alexandra"-consider yourselves forewarned that this book will make you cry. It isn't like we don't know what happens, events surrounding their deaths are still considered one of history's greatest enigmas; although, in recent years, much more information has come to light, and inquiries have been allowed, which were adamantly refused permission in preceding years. (We all know how those Russians can be.) Reading this book, you come to know the family, how they interacted, the devotion shared among them, the genuinely kind and compassionate people they were. You come to understand how Alexandra could be taken in by someone as blatantly evil as Rasputin. Hemophilia is not a disease of which the effects are always obvious, other than the inability of the body to stop the flow of blood, the child is healthy, wanting to play as any other child, forgetting their body is not equipped to take the tumbles and blows inherent in childhood. Thus, they do forget, and a scraped knee, or a bumped elbow results in excruciating, protracted pain which leaves the child screaming in agony, the parents completely helpless. If you have ever cared for anyone younger than yourself, over whom you felt any level of protectiveness, it is easy to understand how you would resort to nearly anything, or anyone, as long as it eases the child's suffering. This is the personal hell Nicholas and Alexandra were forced to endure. To exacerbate the problem, it was unknown, it could not be acknowledged before the public, that the young heir to the Russian throne was thus afflicted. It was not simply familial pride, but a question of political stability. Russian autocrats were seen as demigods, this was one way in which they had maintained their power for so long. To acknowledge any such physical shortcomings, not to mention a genetic one, would have placed the family's power in jeopardy. Rasputin was often described as having a hypnotic stare, and this could have lent itself to his ability to actually help young Alexis. "Hypnotizing" the boy could have allowed his mind and body to calm down, allowing his body the rest it needed to begin the healing process. It is understandable, then, that Alexandra was willing to ignore the warnings of those around her, whispering to her of Rasputin's filthiness (literal and metaphorical). She was also suffering under the extreme guilt of knowing that her child's affliction came directly from her, as hemophilia is only carried on the x chromosome. (She was a carrier through her grandmother, Queen Victoria.) Add to this the political rumblings that had steadily been growing in intensity since long before Nicholas's ascension to the throne, and you have a country that is inevitably set to fracture along political fault lines. Following the family from the first meeting of the parents, through the births of the children, the daily habits, and personalities of each member, until their imprisonment at Tsarskoe Selo, through their brutal murders in the basement of the Ipatiev House, you become very attached. They were good, kind people, caught in a riptide of events over which they had no control, but which eventually overwhelmed and drowned them. You have to believe, though, that it was better for them all to die with each other than be left to remember what they lost, and how it was taken from them. It is an example of misunderstandings among people; misunderstanding their motives, their intentions, their very natures, what they are silently struggling with. Russian peasants were taught by some to hate the Tsar, although they knew nothing of him, nor of what he would do for them, had he the ability. It is a poignant story, to say the least. I would suggest it be read when it can be read continuously, rather than picked up sporadically. It requires a consistent flow of reading, rather than a page here and a chapter there. Read it, though, and you'll come to love the family, and truly mourn their fate.
BOTE-10/20/08 The Boy in the Striped Pajamas-John Boyne
I finally decided what my first book recommendation would be. It was a tough call to make, as there are so many excellent books that I keep reading in the hopes that one day I will be able to quote the entire thing verbatim, they are that good. I tried to mentally do the "put your hands behind your back and pick a hand" trick, but that doesn't work too well when you're trying it on yourself, somehow you always still know what is in each hand, so it defeats the purpose. Anyway, about the book. It is the most recent read that left an indelible mark. I read it about a month or so ago, but it is one of those novels that you continue to think about long after you have closed the back cover. It is told from the point of view of a nine-year-old German boy. His father is a Nazi, which you find throughout the course of the book, is a bone of contention in the family; the grandfather is proud of his son, the grandmother wonders where she failed her child, for him to become this type of human. The young boy, named Bruno, reveals that the "Fury," as he mistakenly pronounces Fuhrer, has been to dinner, and he did not think much of him at all. He considered him very rude and unimpressive. The "Fury" has "great things in mind," for Bruno's father, but he has no idea that these "great things" culminate in his appointment as head of Auschwitz, or "Out-With," as the child calls it. The family relocates, and the young boy is soon miserable. Lonely and dejected, he searches for ways to entertain himself. On an "exploration," he trudges along beside the barbed wire fence which has been an enigma to him since his arrival. As he searches for the end of the fence, he happens upon a boy in 'striped pajamas,' sitting on the other side. He is overjoyed to finally have a companion, and strikes up a friendship with ''Shmuel," his corruption of the boy's foreign Jewish name of Ishmael. He questions Ishmael about life on his side of the fence. Upon querying how many children were on the other side, and receiving the unsatisfactory answer that there are hundreds, Bruno complains that it is unfair that Ishmael should have so many children to play with, while he, Bruno, has no one. It is this way throughout the novel. As a reader looking at the circumstances from a vantage point of over half a century, we know what is occurring around Bruno, but he is too innocent to recognize and understand, and so he remains naive; yet, his astute sense of justice and kindess are troubled, although he does not understand why. It is not a happy book, per se, but it is certainly worth reading. It does not take long to read, I was able to read it in one evening, but it remains with you. I like those types of books that you dwell on, turn over in your mind, and every time you come back to it, you find that the lighting is different, and you see things in a way you never saw them before, so the same sentence can be turned and turned, carrying different imports each time.
"Book of the Entry"
I thought it would be fun to start a small list of books I have read/am reading, which I think worth suggesting. This always happens to me: Someone says something along the lines of, "What is a good book you would suggest?" or, "What do you like to read?" I instantly draw a blank (I didn't think it was possible for someone to become an idiot so fast without a massive blow to the head, but it happens every time), and I stand there with that "deer-in-the-headlights" look. I have started telling people who ask this at work that I am actually illiterate; the only reason they hired me was because I used to be a greeter at Wal-Mart, so I have the people skills required (I'm not, I wasn't, and I don't, but I suppose if you're going to hell for lying, you might as well do it in style). I couldn't call it "Book of the Week" or "Book of the Month," because who knows when I'll post each entry, and above all, we must be truthful; after all, it is wrong to lie. Ergo, it must be "Book of the Entry." I'll try to write a short description of each, to give a little more detail to flesh out the suggestion. I'll post the first one next time. (Great, now I'm a liar and a procrastinator.)
Friends and Family
Followers
About Me
- Kelly
- It is a bit superfluous to write an "About Me" section for a pseudo-journal, I suppose. Driver's license description: 5'2", brunette (sometimes 'blonde', though), blue-eyed, typical Irish type.
This is one, I have yet to see on the stage, live. I am dying for a chance.
ReplyDeleteThanks for the sparkly words to pique my interest even more!
Thanks for taking me there momentarily. "sparkly words". Oh. My. Gosh. Seriously, what is this world coming to? I don't know that I really want my son coming home in a few years telling me they learned about "sparkly words" in school that day. Tell the kids to suck in up & get over it. We had to. And did we have to walk uphill in the snow, barefoot, with the sun in our eyes (both ways) too, the memory is getting a little foggy. Oh, wait, that was our predecessors. But I guess since we didn't have to do that that's why our future generations are learning about "sparkly words".
ReplyDeleteI still vote on moving to SC so my children can be taught by Mr. O'Keefe!!!
Sparkly words, hmmm. Maybe that's a way to scaffold kids into the real deal. Can you imagine someone in a college lit class talking about the "sparkle words" Bronte used in Wuthering Heights? That's like a Saturday Night Live skit.
ReplyDeleteI loved your description of the opera. I am not at all experienced with such productions but I could imagine it. I especially liked the sparkly words you used to describe the conductor. There is your respiration for the whole thing. How wonderful that you got that voyeuristic glimpse of him (her?). Not the star from most patron's point of view, but truly essential. Very cool. Thanks.
I didn't catch it, what did you say your first book was going to be about?
I had to come back b/c I commented first.
ReplyDeleteYou so need to listen to Mr. O'Keefe! I've been tempted ever since you started to take a post & submit it to someone somewhere without your knowledge (of course you'd end up finding out when they called you about more!) :) Love you!