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Sunday, May 16th, 2010
I was born with a caul, which was advertised for sale, in the newspapers, at the low price of fifteen guineas. Whether sea-going people were short of money about that time, or were short of faith and preferred cork jackets, I don't know; all I know is, that there was but one solitary bidding, and that was from an attorney connected with the bill-broking business, who offered two pounds in cash, and the balance in sherry, but declined to be guaranteed from drowning on any higher bargain. Consequently the advertisement was withdrawn, at a dead loss—for as to sherry, my poor dear mother's own sherry was on the
market then—and ten years afterwards the caul was put up in a raffle down in our part of the country, to fifty members at half-a-crown a head, the winner to spend five shillings. I was present myself, and I remember to have felt quite uncomfortable and confused, at a part of myself being disposed of in that way. The caul was won, I recollect, by an old lady with a hand-basket, who, very reluctantly, produced from it the stipulated five shillings, all in halfpence, and twopence half penny short—as it took an immense time and a great waste of arithmetic, to endeavor without any effect to prove to her. It is a fact which will be long remembered as remarkable down there, that she was never drowned, but died triumphantly in bed, at ninety-two. I have understood that it was, to the last, her proudest boast, that she never had been on the water in her life, except upon a bridge; and that over her tea (to which she was extremely partial) she, to the last, expressed her indignation at the impiety of mariners and others, who had the presumption to go "meandering" about the world. It was in vain to represent to her that some conveniences, tea perhaps included, resulted from this objectionable practice. She always returned, with greater emphasis and with an instinctive knowledge of the strength of her objection, "Let us have no meandering."
Not to meander myself, at present, I will go back to my birth. -- David Copperfield What an amazing passage! I love the humor and the (positively Shandean) self-referentiality, I love the information about a superstition I knew nothing of, but most of all I just love the rhythm and flow of the text. I was reading this passage to Sylvia earlier (the reading Dickens with Sylvia plan is going into effect, she was pretty into it for a couple of pages and then lost interest -- dunno how far we will get) and thinking, out loud is the absolute best way to read this book. Listening to it is nice too, as I was finding with Bleak House, but listening to a person is way better than listening to a tape.
posted afternoon of May 16th, 2010: Respond
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Trying to do something with the violin by itself -- no voice, no guitar. Here's what I came up with:
It almost works, I think -- there are places where it is a little hard to follow the melody without lyrics but they are short in duration, the song comes back quickly.
posted afternoon of May 16th, 2010: 2 responses
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posted afternoon of May 16th, 2010: Respond
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posted afternoon of May 16th, 2010: Respond
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Saturday, May 15th, 2010
I wonder how much J.K. Rowling's diction actually resembles Charles Dickens', and how much that is a figment of my imagination inspired by their nationality and by the audio book format. I've been listening to Bleak House on tape for the last few days, and loving it (though to be honest, I don't think I would be digging it as much if I had not read the book already); my previous experience with audio books is mostly overhearing the Harry Potter books that Sylvia listens to from noon to night... but the expressions (and the characters' names) in Bleak House are definitely reminding me of Rowling! To be sure, Robert Whitfield (who is reading Bleak House) has a similar voice to Jim Dale's, and similar affectations -- I wonder if the creaky old-person's voice is a standard element of audiobook-reader training... Anyway, I got the idea that Sylvia might enjoy reading Dickens. So when we were at the bookstore today, I bought her a copy of David Copperfield, which neither of us has read, which I am hoping she will read and recommend to me... Virginia Woolf called it, in a pull-quote on the back cover, "the most perfect of all the Dickens novels."
posted afternoon of May 15th, 2010: Respond
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Friday, May 14th, 2010
For the past few weeks I've been reading Raul Galvez' book, From the Ashen Land of the Virgin: conversations with Bioy Casares, Borges, Denevi, Etchecopar, Ocampo, Orozco, Sabato -- this is certainly the proper way to read this book, a bit at a time rather than sitting down and plowing through it; so that one does not become frustrated and throw it down in disgust. There is much about the book that I would characterize as self-indulgent and silly; but there are also interesting, rewarding nuggets among the chaff. The most enlightening two conversations (and they are for better or worse "conversations", not "interviews") are the first, with Bioy Casares, and the last, with Ernesto Sabato. (I had never heard of Sabato before, but want to learn more about him -- in addition to his novels he was an anarchist and a nuclear physicist, and the director of CONADEP.) I'm also grateful to Galvez for hipping me to the name of Olga Orozco, who sounds like a wonderful poet; and for his conversation with Borges, which while it imparts very little in the way of information, is a charming impressionistic piece about the man's old age.
posted afternoon of May 14th, 2010: Respond
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Thursday, May 13th, 2010
Jorge posts a picture of his dog taking some well-earned rest:
 Update: or rather, not his dog, but one of a group of strays that were in the campsite where he spent the weekend outside Santiago. Another one, guarding the lake:
posted evening of May 13th, 2010: Respond
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Here is a song John and I recorded last night, a medley of "Drowsy Maggie" and "Dancing Barefoot" -- we've been working on this for a few weeks and played it last week at the Menzel Violins open mic. I'm pretty happy with the way we've integrated the vocal melody with the fiddle melody.
 Oh and here is another song I recorded recently that I'm pretty happy with:
This is a Leadbelly song also performed by Hazel Dickens (and many other artists), but the version I learned it from and which I always think of when I hear it, is my friends' band Other People's Children, Liam and Malcolm.
posted evening of May 13th, 2010: Respond
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Monday, May 10th, 2010
In an essay in Perpetual Motion (the second piece down on the linked page), Monterroso talks about first reading Borges and about becoming slowly immersed in his thinking and his puzzles. It is a very nice introduction to Borges; I was surprised to see that the work which opened Monterroso's eyes was Borges' foreword to his translation (1938) of The Metamorphosis:
When I first found Borges, in 1945, I didn't understand him; he was frankly puzzling for me. Delving into Kafka, I found Borges' foreword to The Metamorphosis; and for the first time I saw before me his world of metaphysical labyrinths, of infinities, of eternities, of tragic trivialities, of quotidian relationships comparable to the worst hell imaginable. A new universe, gleaming, ferociously attractive. Crossing from that foreword to all the rest of Borges' work has been for me (and for many others) an activity as important as breathing, and at the same time as dangerous as walking too close to the edge of a chasm. Following him has meant discovering and descending into new circles: Chesterton, Melville, Bloy, Swedenborg, Joyce, Faulkner, Woolf; taking up old friendships: Cervantes, Quevedo, Hernández; and at last returning to his illusory Paradise of the everyday: the barrio, the movie-house, the detective story.
I'm surprised because that foreword does not strike me as among Borges' finest work; it's principally just a capsule biography/chronology of Kafka and his work, and a cursory discussion of some themes in his work. (Obviously discovering Kafka in 1945 would be different from my experience of discovering Kafka in 1985 or thereabouts; but it would still be "discovering Kafka", not "discovering Borges".) There is one paragraph that seems to me to move to a different level:
Critics complain that in Kafka's three novels, there is a lack of linking material; but they recognize that this material is not essential. Myself, I maintain that this criticism indicates a fundamental unfamiliarity with the work of Kafka. The pathos of these "inconclusive" novels arises precisely from the infinite number of obstacles which block, again and again, the paths of his identical protagonists. Franz Kafka did not finish them: their basic property is that they are interminable. Do you remember the first, the most clear of Zeno's paradoxes? Motion is impossible, because before arriving at B we have to cross the intermediate point C, but before we arrive at C, we have to cross the intermediate point D, but before arriving at D... The Greek did not enumerate all of the points; Franz Kafka need not enumerate all the vicissitudes. It is enough for us to understand that they are infinite, like Hell.
(I hope I am understanding correctly how Borges is taking issue with critics of Kafka -- I don't really know whom or what arguments he is referring to.)
As he closes his piece, Monterroso talks about what your encounter with Borges can do to you:
The great problem of reading Borges: the temptation to imitate him is almost irresistable; to imitate him, impossible. Some writers you can get away with imitating -- Conrad, Greene, Durrel -- not Joyce; not Borges. It will sound facile and obvious.
The meeting with Borges never takes place without consequences. I've listed here a few of the things that can happen, for better and for the worse:
- Pass him by without noticing (for the worse).
- Pass him by; retrace one's steps and follow him for a little while to see what he's doing (for the better).
- Pass him by; retrace one's steps and follow him forever (for the worse).
- Find out that one is a simpleton, that until this moment one has never had an idea worth one's while (for the better).
- Find out that one is intelligent, because one enjoys reading Borges (for the better).
- Dazzle oneself with the fable of Achilles and the Tortoise; believe that one has figured it all out (for the worse).
- Discover the infinite and the eternal (for the better).
- Mull over the infinite and the eternal (for the better).
- Believe in the infinite and the eternal (for the worse).
- Leave off writing (for the better).
(Note on the translation: "for the better" is benéfica, "for the worse" is maléfica -- I think these are about right; it is too bad that the English phrases don't match up nicely to the title, as the Spanish words do -- the title is Beneficios y maleficios de Jorge Luis Borges, "Jorge Luis Borges: Blessings and Curses" -- I guess it could be translated as "Jorge Luis Borges for better or worse", but that would sound pretty hokey.)
posted evening of May 10th, 2010: Respond
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Stephanie Wells of The Great Whatsit took a trip recently to Brazil and Colombia -- she brought back some great pictures of the rainforest; and today she posts an absolutely phenomenal installation in Bogotá: Colombian artist Rafael Gómez Barros has covered the Capitol building in giant ants. Wow: I have a soft spot in general for large public installations, especially this type of trompe-l'oeuille-y reality modification thing... But this just seems amazing. Looking at the photos I feel a very visceral connection to the work. The statement Wells quotes from Gómez Barros -- the ants “represent immigration, globalization and displacement” -- isn't making a lot of sense to me outside of context -- I look at them and see decay and the collapse of the persistence of memory -- but I am fine with that. I'm very happy this installation exists, and I wish I were in Bogotá to look at it.
posted evening of May 10th, 2010: Respond
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